"Not here," he said. "We'll park out back."
I didn't see how that was possible, considering that the line went literally around the whole block. But soon, I saw what he meant.
He took a left and eventually drove into a parking garage three blocks over. Technically, yes, itwasbehind the book store, but it wasn'tsoclose that he'd be mobbed the moment he left the vehicle.
He pulled into the garage and claimed a spot on the lower level, parking between a long white van and a big red pickup. I watched as he backed into the spot rather than pulling in front-first.
When he finished, I looked to him and said, "Lemme guess. You're hiding outandplanning for a quick getaway. Is that it?"
In the driver's seat, he cut the engine and turned to look at me, almost as if the question was actually interesting, which of course it wasn't. After a long moment, he replied in a carefully neutral tone, "Something like that."
Confused by his reaction, I asked, "Is something wrong?"
"No." He glanced at the dashboard clock. "You ready?"
I nodded. "Oh yeah. Definitely."
But as it turned out, I was entirely unprepared for the commotion his appearance caused. Back in Atlanta, the whole convention center had been crowded with eager fans, but that was somehow different.
There, with thousands of attendees and a surprising number of celebrities, the mayhem had seemed almost normal. But here, on a regular everyday street, the excitement Jack generated was entirely surreal.
In spite of his efforts to keep a low profile, he barely made it into the store's back entrance without getting completely mobbed.
Still, I had to give him credit. He was a good sport – better than I might've expected, considering how private he was in general.
The signing was scheduled to last for three hours. But five hours later, there was still a line. Plus, two local news channels had turned up, desperate for interviews.
According to the publisher's instructions, part of my job was to act as a liaison between Jack and the people wanting his attention. This included all of the reporters who were eager for some of Jack's time.
All this to say, between the fans, the media, and even the owner of the book store, I was kept busy and then some – but notsobusy that I forgot Jack's promise.
After the signing, I wouldfinallybe getting some answers.
But the funny thing was, Jack was right.
In the end, I probablywasbetter off not knowing.
Chapter 39
Becka
By the time we pulled out of the parking garage, I was a hungry, exhausted mess.
I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and already it was past eight o'clock. Still, if given the choice between food or information, I knew exactly what I'd pick.
Information. I was starving for it.
As Jack turned onto the city street that would take us out of town, I said, "Time's up. You promised to tell me, remember?"
He kept his gaze on the road. "I remember."
"Well?" I said. "That's your cue, you know."
"I know." And yet, he still said nothing.
I remained silent, determined to wait him out. And for once, it actually paid off.
"All right," he finally said. "Here's the deal. You remember that fight you got into?"
