Just Between Us.... Tori Carrington

hung up.

      Jack stared at the receiver. True to form, Mallory was acting like last night had never happened.

      He shut off the phone then laid it on the table.

      He picked the paper back up and shook it out, this time intent on getting something out of it.

      He was well into his tenth story when the phone rang again twelve minutes later.

      “Are you on the road?” was Mallory’s hello.

      “Nope.”

      “Jack!” she said. “What’s the matter with you? Get over here, pronto. I don’t have coffee and I’m an inch away from dead.”

      “So I’ll call the engraver for your tombstone.”

      “Ha, ha. Funny man. It’s too early for funny.”

      “It’s ten-thirty.”

      “Way too early for funny.”

      Jack moved the receiver to his other ear and closed the paper again. Despite what Mallory thought, he did have things he needed to be doing. He’d already spent more than enough time screwing around trying to read the newspaper. But in order to see to the other items on his agenda he had to be reasonably sure he could function properly without thoughts of Mallory intruding on his thoughts every five minutes.

      “Jack?”

      “Hmm.”

      “Oh. For a minute there I thought you’d hung up.”

      “Nope.”

      “But you’re filling the travel cup and getting your car keys now, right?”

      “Nope.”

      “But Layla needs us.”

      He lifted his brows. “How, exactly, does Layla need us?”

      “She needs immediate TLC. She’s waiting at Reilly’s as we speak.”

      Jack rubbed his hand over his forehead and eyes and absently thought that he needed a shave.

      “It’s going to look suspicious if we don’t show.”

      “Take the subway.”

      A heartbeat of a pause. “And you?”

      “I’ll go on my own.”

      “Then that’ll look doubly suspicious because you always drive me.”

      He thought of the wreck that sat parked at the curb outside her apartment. “So get your car fixed.”

      “You know I can’t.”

      What sucked was that he did know.

      Jack picked up his coffee cup only to find he’d already drained the contents, then looked down at Boomer who’d lifted his head and seemed to be following Jack’s end of the conversation.

      “Give me ten.”

      Mallory hung up instantly.

      THE NEXT HOUR SEEMED like a lifetime to Mallory, despite the endless supply of lifesaving, strong, hot coffee (the one cup she managed to brew at home had looked like a grease slick was floating on top) and sticky buns. Jack hadn’t spoken to her during the drive over—which was really bad because it meant he was serious about his ultimatum and she didn’t have any idea what to do about that. Layla looked like she’d spent the whole of last night crying and her face was a splotchy mess. And Reilly wasn’t faring much better with her unsmiling expressions and long silences.

      Mallory sat up, hating to admit that three sticky buns was at least a half a sticky bun too many. At least the way Reilly made them, which was really big and really sticky.

      Then again, it might be the whole relationship thing. She’d spent her entire life watching her mother go from husband to boyfriend to husband again, unable to spend five solitary moments alone. Mallory had always told herself she would never do that. Would never put herself into a position where she was emotionally and financially dependent on a man, or anyone else for that matter.

      She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what you two are so down about. I mean, the way I see it you just dodged the ultimate bullet, Layla.” Her friend cringed. She switched her attention to Reilly. “And, well, you pretty much know I’ve had my doubts about Ben all along, Rei.”

      Another cringe.

      She looked at Jack who was glaring at her.

      “What?” she barked. “What is it about the three of you this morning? I swear, you’re enough to make a corpse be sorry for dying.”

      Layla sighed heavily for what seemed like the umpteenth time. “You don’t understand, Mallory.”

      “What’s there to understand? I may not be Mensa material, but I’ve been known to rub two thoughts together.”

      “You don’t get it,” Reilly said, gesturing with her hands. “Because you’re…single.”

      Mallory’s spine snapped upright.

      Jack pushed from the table. “I’m going to get some more napkins.”

      Coward, Mallory wanted to say.

      Instead she sniffed and said, “I’m not single, I’m busy.”

      Layla and Reilly looked at her pitifully.

      “At least I’m not crying into my coffee like you two,” she said quietly. “God, you guys know how I hate whining. And right now you two are walking, talking poster children for whiners the world over.”

      Reilly snapped to. “For someone who claims to be a liberal, you’re awfully opinionated and judgmental.”

      Layla agreed. “Is there a single person, group or entity that you haven’t insulted at one point or another?”

      Mallory honestly didn’t know what to say.

      Layla pushed from the table. “God, you can be so damn cynical.”

      “Bitter,” Reilly said. “She’s bitter.”

      Jack picked that moment to return to the table. “I’d go with cynical. To be bitter you have to have something to be bitter about. And Mallory’s too scared to live.”

      All three women stared at him, shocked.

      Making Mallory want to die.

      She glanced at her two female friends, wondering what Jack had revealed with his little piece of personal insight. Was what he’d said something a friend would offer up? Of course, it probably was, but when coupled with the fact that he, as a rule, disappeared whenever one of these discussions surfaced, and never contributed anything, his change in protocol was sure to raise some brows.

      Interestingly enough, however, neither Layla nor Reilly seemed to catch on.

      Reilly pointed at him. “You know something? You’re right.”

      Mallory made a face and gathered her backpack. It was chock full of everything a working producer needed.

      Now, if only she could find some work.

      Actually, not so much work, but capital to work with. Her current subject, The Red Gardenia, was waiting.

      The Red Gardenia who haunted her at times when she’d be better off thinking about something else. But there was just something about the subject, about Jenny Fuller, that intrigued her. The similarities in their ambitions, maybe. Whatever it was, this documentary, more than the others, was one she was driven to make.

      “Jack, I think it’s time for us to go,” she said.

      He leisurely drank his coffee. “Go where? I’m not going anywhere.”

      Mallory glared at him, resisting the urge to point out that Layla was watching