Miss Adventure (5 page)

Who am I kidding?

I’m a size eight, thirty-four year-old millionaire with all my own teeth and I can’t even think of anything to do with my Saturday night.

And I live in Los Angeles!

Shouldn’t I be going to a movie premiere or checking out the latest club or taking part in a fiery protest, or, at the very least, getting laid?

But no.

And I think I’m going to do something important with my money? When I can’t even make plans for Saturday night?

But I’ve
got
to come up with something to do with my life. I no longer have any choice. Jesus. What made me rush across the country just to tell off my parents? I accomplished exactly nothing.

As usual.

I am an expert at doing nothing constructive. On Tuesday, Jack Hawkins noticed it right away, demanding to know what I’ve been doing with my life since the hospital set me free. Thank God he’s not here to witness my pathetic Saturdays.

And what about Sunday?

Tomorrow, Mags is jetting off to Paris with Rick, my parents will probably be lawyering up in case I want my money back, and Jack, I’m sure, will be scaling something huge.

But what will I be doing tomorrow? What
can
I do? The Giants play on Monday night this week. And anyway, watching football is hardly
significant
.

Sorry. Scratch that. Of course it’s significant. But still, the game would consume only four hours of my life, tops.

I look again at all the sheets of paper scattered across the table. I’ve been looking stuff up and making lists about what I can do to make my life count.

But what do I do next? Take action? Me? Now?

I get up from the table and head to the freezer.

An hour later, I’m curled in front of the TV watching Jane and Lizzy leave Netherfield. I pop the last bite of red pepper pizza into my mouth and wonder what to eat next. I get up to look for olives and—

Dong.

I jump about a foot into the air. The doorbell? After midnight on a Saturday?

It’s the criminals! They're back!

I pause the DVD but this does nothing to ease my thumping heart. New security door, new double locks on the front door, new reinforced windows and patio doors—nothing to worry about. Right?

But what if whoever is at my door at 12:30 on a Saturday night (!!!!!!) has a gun? Or a hostage he can threaten in order to force me to do stuff, like give him all my money?

I have neither a gun nor a hostage, putting me at a serious disadvantage.

On my way to the door I pick up the fireplace poker. I know it’s only a gas fireplace, but the tools make the set up so much cozier. Plus, they are very handy once you know you suck at head butting. I sidle up to the door, too afraid to even peek through the spyhole.

“What do you want?” I yell. Then I brandish the poker above my head.

“Lisa?”

My pounding heart kicks up a notch. It’s Jack Hawkins.

“Who is this?” I demand, as I suck in breath through my nose, trying to calm down.

“It’s Jack,” he says.

I lower the poker and massage my breastbone. “Uh…Jack who?”

“Jack Hawkins. Can I come in?”

“Hold on.” I scoot across the living room and put the poker back on its stand. Then I turn off the TV. Then I put my pizza plate in the dishwasher. Then I dash into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

“Lisa?” he calls through the door. “Are you okay?”

I spit. “Hold on!” Once I rinse, I jog lightly back to the front door. By the time I get there, I can hear metallic thumping. Jack sounds like he’s trying to kick in my security door. Wow. But I can't be giggly about this. I have to play it cool.

I undo both locks to the front door and jerk it open. “What do you think you’re doing to my door?”

Jack gives the door a sharp nod. “Hey, Lisa. Just checking out how secure you are. Good choice.”

“Thanks. Is that all you wanted?”

“Can I come in?”

I open the security door and let him in.

“Did I get you out of bed?” he asks.

My hand flies to my hair, which I’ve been dragging my fingers through all day. “Why would you say that?” I put my hand at my side and stand up taller. “I’m awake.”

He looks me up and down. “You’re wearing pajamas.”

“It’s the weekend.”

“I know,” he says. “Where’ve you been the past few days?”

I catch my breath. Jack was checking up on me? Maybe he doesn’t think I’m a total loser.

I gulp and narrow my eyes at him. “Were you checking up on me?” My chin tilts up a fraction. “I can take care of myself.” I’ve got to be sophisticated, penguin pajama pants and Zac Efron T-shirt notwithstanding.

“Hope so,” Jack says, looking around the apartment. “What are you? Thirty-two? Thirty-four?”

Hey!!!!

“Do you mind if I check things out?” And without waiting for me to answer, he heads to the balcony doors and slides one open. When he closes himself outside, I fight the urge to lock him out there.

“Jack,” I demand, when he comes back into the living room. “How do you know I wasn’t here the past few days?”

“I stopped by.” He heads for the bedroom. My fantasy bedroom. When he doesn’t even
like
me.

Not fair.

I follow him as he heads straight for the window. It’s as if he doesn’t even NOTICE the big, beautiful bed. “Why didn’t you just call? I could have saved you a trip.”

“Two trips,” he corrects. “But I don’t have your number. And I’m happy to report that it’s unlisted.”

But he doesn’t ask for my number, or even coyly wait for me to offer it. He just pulls back from the bedroom window and heads for the bathroom.

“So where were you?” he asks, all distracted as he checks out the small window above the tub.

“I had to talk to my parents.” That’s right. Jack Hawkins is standing in my shower and I’m talking about my parents.

“Did you have to go into hiding to do it? What are they, CIA?”

“They live in Connecticut.” I walk out of the bathroom, leaving him standing in an empty shower. I’m waiting for him when he comes back into the living room. “Thanks for the seal of approval, Jack. Really. And for everything else you did. Especially cleaning up my paltry attempt at a head butt and saving me a trip to the DMV to get a new license. But as you can see, I’m good.” I walk to the front door and open it.

Jack heads toward me, but pauses at the threshold. My heart stutters, but I just raise my eyebrows and purse my lips.

“Lisa—” Jack’s voice is quiet, hesitant.

Shivers snake down my back. “What?” I demand, all Loretta Castorini.

“Can we take a walk?”

I never take my eyes off his. I have to be chill. “Let me get my shoes.”

* * * * *

We’re two blocks from my house before he finally speaks. “I’ve been looking for you because I want to discuss a business proposition with you.”

I want to say something snarky about the hour and locale being odd ones for discussing business, but my curiosity allows me to curb my sarcasm. If Mr. Anti-Corporate-Money is about to ask me for
my
corporate money, I want to hear it, loud and clear. “Okay.” I shrug affably.

“I don’t know how much you know about Into the Wild….”

“Your company? Not much.” Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. “But I’m a quick learner. But not sloppy. Careful, you know? But efficient.” I should go on the offensive. “Why did you start it? When? Do you like the USC classes?”

He stops walking and turns to face me. “Because I wanted to design things I could really use out in the wild, about five years ago, and yes, very much.”

Holy baloney, he’s answering my questions. I have to stop to remember what they were.

While I’m thinking, he continues speaking. “My team and I design and sell highly specialized gear for extreme outdoor adventures. But we don't take short cuts. Especially in the manufacturing phase.”

“So your profits aren't exactly through the roof,” I guess.

“We're surviving. Not thriving.”

“Okay.” My stomach clenches as I wait for him to fall from grace and ask me for my money.

“I've come up with an idea for a new line,” he continues. “An untapped market. It could make all the difference to every one who works for Into the Wild.”

I just keep listening, feeling numb.

He takes a deep breath. “More and more people are getting out there these days, trying to be adventurous. I think reality shows have a lot to do with it. And the internet.”

“I never watch reality shows.”

“Okay.”

“But I have a computer.”

“Right.” He gives his head a little shake. “Okay.” He continues. “I want to design a new line of gear for the absolute beginner. Gear that’s so easy to use that it’ll be helpful to a person who knows nothing about outdoor equipment or safety.”

“You want to protect the fledglings,” I coo.

“Not just them,” he says, practically jumping on my words. “Beginners don’t realize how many people they endanger when they don’t know what they’re doing.”

I feel my face and neck grow red-hot, remembering how I ripped off his pants on the mountain.

Jack tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket and continues walking. “The people they’re with, the people who have to come rescue them. It can be a real mess, and I can design stuff that’ll help.”

“Cool.”

“That’s where you come in.”

“Me?” I stop, and so does he, but he doesn’t turn to face me. He wants me to bankroll a new line he’s designing and he can’t even look me in the eye to ask me?

“I test all the gear myself,” he explains. “Everything, before we’ll sell it. Testing is half the design process.” Now he turns and zeroes in on me, like he’s trying to kill me with his laser eyes or something. “But I’m not an absolute beginner.”

A chill ices through me so fast I’m scarcely able to breathe. “And I am.”

The tension in his jaw relaxes, almost into a smile. “Yes. And this way, if you come with me to test the gear, you’ll get the adventures you want.”

Jack Hawkins doesn’t want my money. He wants ME. Not sexually or anything—he made
that
clear enough a few days ago—but he wants me, Lisa Flyte.

Me.

Even Keith and I just kind of ended up together after our dates hooked up at a party and ditched us. It's not like he ever
chose
me. Or specifically wanted
me
.

But Jack does. He needs me to test his gear. Me.

“Sounds like a fair trade.” I make my voice as even as I can. I’m trying to be calm and professional, when what I want to do is scream and jump like Fran does when Scott tells her he wants to dance with her at the Pan Pacifics. “How would it work?” I ask. “Would I have to go into the Into the Wild offices every day?” I crinkle my brow. “Do you even have offices?”

“No!” he shouts. Then he says, “Yes. We have offices, but you wouldn’t have to come in every day. The way I work, I work on a design, and test it as I go. So, I figured I could just call you when I need something tested.”

Like I can just sit around all day with nothing better to do than to wait for The Amazing Jack Hawkins to call. “I may not be as available as you think,” I say.

“That’s okay,” he says, pretty much shrugging it off. “I have a company to run, so if you can’t test something the second I design it, there are about a million things to keep me busy until you’re free.”

“How convenient.”

“I like to eliminate complication.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he's already penciled me in.

“So when do I come in?”

“When I call you. And I’ll be picking you up.”

“Yeah, but, don’t I have to sign a contract or something?” I can actually feel my life getting more important as we talk. “And I’m interested in getting to know the lay of the land. I want to know who and what I’m working for.”

And maybe, just maybe, after some adventures, I'll have the courage I need to actually end a conversation with my parents without flouncing out or slamming a door. I peer at him. “Jack?”

Crickets chirp and traffic hums a few streets away.

“Don't worry, Jack, I'll never tell a soul. Your competition will never know.” I pause under a street lamp. “Jack?”

“I thought we’d keep things less formal.”

I can feel myself blush hotly all over, even though I’ve got goose bumps from the September night air. “I don’t mean I expect a salary or anything.”

“It’s not that,” he quickly assures me. He kind of smiles. “By the way, did you get a new car? What did you name it?”

My Spidey-senses tingle. “What did I
name
it?” Aragorn-With-a-Bungee-Cord wants to know what I’ve
named
my car? “Jack, what’s going on?”

He stares at me hard, as if daring me to look away. “Nobody can know.
Nobody.
”

“About
me
?” I squawk. “Are you so embarrassed that—”

“About the gear.”

Nobody can know about the gear? “But Jack,” I point out, “isn’t designing gear what Into the Wild does? As a company?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Jack. Why don’t you just admit that you don’t want to be associated with—”

“Lisa, it’s not you.” His nostrils flare for just a sec. “It’s Into the Wild.”

“You’re ashamed of Into the Wild?”

“I’m not ashamed of anyone.” He faces me squarely. “Lisa, I made sure that everyone I hired at Into the Wild is good at some sport or some outdoor activity. I want a staff that’s invested in the company. They understand everything we make and sell, and they help me test the designs.”

“Sounds good,” I offer cautiously.

“It was a sound idea,” he agrees, “but then something happened that I didn’t expect.”

He says it as though it was something world-altering, like Bilbo finding the ring in Gollum’s cave. I stay quiet, wondering if he knocked someone up or caught someone embezzling, and what it has to do with me.

“My company became…” He pauses, barely able to say whatever it is.

My mind races. Became
what
? “Jack?”

“Elitist,” he finally says.

“Huh?”

“Elitist,” he repeats. “A crack team of super-adventuring snobs.”

“Yeah, but—”