Page 29 of Jasmine Street Blues

“I don’t want to slip away,” she whispered.

Mac walked toward her, and her heart stopped. She didn’t breathe. When he leaned down and in and kissed her, everything else went away. It had been a very long time since she’d been held, forever since a kiss made the world stop spinning. He took his lips from hers then moved in again — as if he couldn’t stop himself. She didn’t want him to stop. One hand rested at the small of her back. He pulled her closer, pressed his body to hers. His tongue slipped into her mouth; her knees went weak.

It was more than a simple kiss. Every time Mac’s lips touched hers, she wanted more. He was warm, strong, and those arms around her held tight, but not tight enough. Their bodies were close, but not close enough. Her hand rested against his side; the touch grounded her.

“Chief Maxwell!” a woman’s strident voice called. “How unprofessional of you!”

Mac released Loran, stepped back, and turned. She instinctively retreated and bumped into the checkout desk.

The older woman who’d surprised them grinned widely.

“Helen,” Mac grumbled, then he looked back and down at Loran. “I told you there needs to be a bell over the door.”

No early warning system could’ve prepared her for him.

“Anna asked me to stop by and show you the article,” Helen said, waving her cell phone.

“What article?” Loran asked.

“Diane and Norris were in the other day and bought a painting, and while they were here they took a few pictures. They live in Pascagoula and often write articles for a local online magazine. They really love your work and I guess they needed a quick turnaround on a piece, so here you are. What great advertising!”

Loran had a cell, but she didn’t do social media. Too many people were looking for her. She didn’t dare put herself out there, in any way.

“Can I see?”

Mac looked over her shoulder as she took Helen’s phone and scanned the article, which came complete with her name, the address of her shop, and a few pictures of her work. He must’ve felt her tense, because he placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

“Umm, is this a popular site?” she asked.

“Locally, sure, and sometimes tourists who are headed this way will subscribe to get a few vacation ideas,” Helen said. “I’m betting business will pick up this weekend. Why do you look scared? This is great news. Free publicity!”

Loran’s heart climbed into her throat. If only locals and a few tourists saw the piece, it wouldn’t be a problem. But if Henry was still looking for her, if he spent his time online searching for artists named Loran and accusations about pictures of dead people…

At least the journalists hadn’t included a picture of her.

Was it already time to run? Dammit, it was too soon. She liked the town, her new friends, Mac. Forever wasn’t for her, but they hadn’t had enough time.

It wasn’t fair, but then life wasn’t fair. She was a grown woman and she knew that too well.

After a couple of minutes her heart rate returned to normal, thanks to deep breaths and forced, calming thoughts. This was a local publication. It was unlikely Henry or anyone else looking for her would see the piece.

Unlikely, but not impossible.

She’d be extra cautious for a few days, maybe a couple of weeks. If no one showed up looking for her, she’d allow herself to relax. It was unlike her to take a chance like this, but for the first time in a very long time, she had a reason to stay.

9

Loran’s suggestion to give the boys some responsibility was working out, so far. They’d managed to get through half a day, at least. Would it last? Mac wasn’t sure. His spies had updated him a few times, and the reports were positive. After the morning walk, Bubbles had been returned to the back porch. Marian Vernon, the edging-toward-elderly widow who lived next door, had even walked around the house to peek onto the screened back porch and make sure the mutt was doing okay. Bubbles had been sound asleep on his new doggie bed. The walk had worn him out, as intended.

Maybe it had worn out the Three Bs, too. He could hope. A little exhaustion never hurt anyone.

Early afternoon, after Ms. Vernon had texted him yet another positive report, Mac headed to the depot. He spent so much time there, especially lately, that he really should break down and buy a turntable and a few records.

To hear Colt tell it, Maude had loved Frank Sinatra. She’d moved on, he said, but for some reason Sinatra could be heard here on a regular basis. So much so that Mac recognized the voice coming over the speakers as he walked through the depot door. Shit, he was beginning to like the old stuff. He grabbed a cup of coffee from Benny — Anna was nowhere to be seen — and headed toward the back room. Colt spent a lot of time back there. Didn’t he find it as spooky as Mac did?

To be honest, he hadn’t found the space spooky at all until he’d found out about the ghosts.

Colt was organizing and pricing a new shipment of t-shirts. Honestly, did people still buy KISS merchandise? AC-DC? Apparently they did. Here, at least. Colt seemed happy enough to take a break. He grabbed a bottle of water and they moved to a small area that might be called a break room. A sad little break room with an ancient table and a couple of uncomfortable chairs, as well as a small fridge and a tiny microwave. The room was more well lit than the rest of the storage area; somehow the bright light made it feel less creepy.