Jagged (29 page)

Luckily, I knew he’d never hurt me so I ignored that, too.

“Now, explain that shit,” he ordered.

“I’m not exactly going to do cartwheels, knowing you care about another woman,” I stated the obvious.

“Then why the fuck did you ask about her?” he asked.

“We still have more of your shit to talk through and I figured she was part of that.”

“Well, she’s not part of any shit I gotta talk through. But, advice, babe, you wanna have a deep conversation, don’t start it when you’re tired and in a bitchy mood.”

I felt my temper spiking as I informed him, “I wasn’t in a bitchy mood until you switched back to ask-no-questions, tell-no-lies Ham.”

Ham lost patience and I knew this when he clipped, “Fuckin’ hell, Zara, I don’t know this shit you got goin’ on in your head but there’s only one me.”

“That’s bad news,” I fired back, “seein’ as the Ham I know cuts ties and takes off when the spirit moves him.”

His brows drew together over narrowed eyes and he asked low, “Is that what this shit is about?”

“Actually, this shit is about me wanting to go to sleep, you not letting me do it, picking a fight, and me being so fucking tired I could fall asleep right now, sitting up, and you not letting this shit go.”

“Zara, you started it by bringin’ up Feb,” he reminded me.

“Then point taken, big guy,” I retorted, shoving the covers aside and jumping off the bed. Standing beside it, glaring at him, I went on. “I’ll know next time not to bring up February. In fact, never to bring her up, seein’ as you care about her so much, thinkin’ about her puts you in a shit mood.”

Ham angled out of bed and faced off with me across it, contradicting me. “I’m in a shit mood because you’re pullin’ this shit.”

“Right then, your mood will get a whole lot better when I leave,” I announced, then stomped to the door.

I was halted with a hand curled firm around my elbow when I was three feet away.

I looked up at Ham.

“Where the fuck you goin’?” he asked.

“My bed,” I answered.

“Zara, you just rolled out of your bed,” he told me.

“Ham, I just rolled out of
your
bed.”

His brows shot up and that was a scary look, too.

“Jesus, seriously?” he asked.

“Let go,” I demanded.

“Babe, get in bed.”

“Let go.”

“Fuckin’ get in bed,” he bit out.

“Fuckin’
let go,
” I snapped. Not giving him the chance to comply, I twisted my arm from his hold and bolted out the door.

Once in my old bedroom, I slammed the door.

Then I stood staring at it, breathing heavily and waiting.

It didn’t open.

I didn’t hear Ham come down the hall. I didn’t hear him knock.

I got nothing.

So be it.

I crawled into my own bed and curled under the covers.

He cared about me.

He also cared about February.

That’s all he gave me.

Just that he cared about me.

But he also cared about February.

I lay in the dark knowing that was far from enough.

And, incidentally, I didn’t sleep that night either.

The next morning, I was in the kitchen rinsing out my cereal bowl, dressed, and ready to roll, when Ham walked in wearing loose track pants, running shoes, and a tight Under Armour crewneck that made his already massive chest seem colossal.

He gave me a scowl, which meant he, like me, wasn’t over it, and he headed to the coffee.

I headed to my purse sitting on the countertop.

I almost had a hand on it when I heard Ham state, “I’m runnin’. When I get back and showered, we’ll sort out our shit.”

I nabbed my purse, pulled the strap over my shoulder, and, not looking at him, returned, “Sorry, we won’t be doin’ that, seein’ as I’m takin’ off right about now and I’m not comin’ back. I’ll see you at work. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Not comin’ back?” he asked my back.

“Not until after work,” I answered, pulling my hair out from under the strap. “Then, I’m sleepin’.”

“Where the fuck you goin’?”

“Away from you,” I replied, moving toward the door.

“Zara, you are not leavin’. I’m runnin’ then we’re workin’ this shit out.”

I turned at the door and glared at him. “Another thing to learn about me is no one tells me what I can and cannot do. I got away from that shit when I was eighteen and I’m never goin’ back. So we’ll talk tomorrow when I’ve had time alone to think things through. I haven’t had much of that, us workin’ together and livin’ together, and I need it.”

He had an empty mug in his hand and his eyes on me were narrowed as he asked, “Think what through?”

“This.” I threw a hand in the air. “You and me.”

His scowl got darker. In fact, it was midnight dark and scary to boot.

But he rested a hand on the countertop before he said, “Babe, tell me. What…
exactly
… is there to think through?”

As scary as his scowl was, the prospect of making the wrong decisions now that could possibly eventually affect three lives was far scarier.

So I explained. “The fact that it seems you want a commitment. To commit to me but, also, me to commit to you. And you want me to do that knowin’ you care about another woman.”

“February is not standin’ in my kitchen with me,” he pointed out and it was the
wrong
thing to say.

“Yeah, and when I asked you about an ex-lover, Ham, you gave it to me straight,” I shot back, my heart starting to race, my head beginning to hurt, not wanting to do this now but caught up in it anyway, which was
not
making me happy. “I have no qualms with that. It’s you. The problem is, after that, you gave me nothing. No woman in her right mind, especially with our history, knowin’ you had others besides me, is gonna hook her star to a guy who’s maybe hooked to someone else.”

At my words, his scowl instantly went dark as pitch and I fancied the lights in the kitchen dimmed from the force of his glower.

“Are you fuckin’
shittin’
me?” His voice was also lower, rumbling, and pissed way the hell off, matching his expression precisely.

But I threw up my hands in exasperation because, again, he did not contradict me. He did not assure me. He didn’t do anything but get
more
pissed at me.

“Do I look like I’m shitting you?” I asked, then locked eyes with him. “You can’t possibly think this isn’t hard on me, Ham.”

“No, you’re absolutely right. I can’t think that. What I don’t get is, why you’re
makin’
this so fuckin’ hard, Zara. And just sayin’, you’re doin’ all this shit to yourself,” he retorted.

Man, oh man, now I wasn’t just exasperated. I was getting angry.

Therefore, I snapped, “How’s that?”

“Feb is not an issue,” he fired back but again gave me no more.

“Right, well, I’m still in love with Greg. Is that an issue for you?” I returned nastily and dishonestly.

“Jesus, fuck, now you’re makin’ shit up and, worse, actin’ in a way that I feel like I’ve been hurtled back to fuckin’ high school,” he bit out. “You need to grow up, Zara. We got issues, we talk ’em out. You don’t get nasty just for the sake of scorin’ a blow.”

I couldn’t believe he just said that. But he did, and because he did, I was no longer getting angry. I was there.

Therefore, I slammed my hands on my hips, leaned into him, and shouted, “My God, Ham! I’m not throwing an adolescent hissy fit. You say you want to start a life with me at the same time you care about another woman.”

“I care about a lot of people, babe, but I’m not fuckin’ any of them,” he clipped.

“Yes, well, call me stupid, seein’ as my life has been how it’s been, havin’ hope that one day, one fuckin’ day somewhere in decades of them, I’ll get what I want, but I’d kinda hoped, starting my life out with the love of my life, it wouldn’t happen with my man carin’ about another woman
and
carin’ about me.”

“Jesus, there’s a difference,” he replied.

“And that would be?” I pushed.

“Clue in, Zara, I’m standin’ right in front of you. I’m here. And, like I said, I’m fuckin’
you.
” And on the “you” he lifted a finger and jabbed it my way.

Heart racing, skin prickling, I retorted, “So, tell me, Ham, February Owens wasn’t pregnant somewhere in Indiana, livin’ with her high school boyfriend reunited, would you be standin’ here with me?”

From the change that instantly came about him, something about that struck him. It appeared it was deep and that absolutely did not bode well.

Not at all.

“You can’t be serious,” he whispered.

“Explain why you think that,” I returned. “’Cause, see, where I’m standin’, I see how I’m bein’
very
serious. I’m also
hearin’
that you haven’t answered my fucking question.”

“Fuck me, you’re still so far up your own goddamned ass, you aren’t payin’ a lick of attention,” he ground out.

“Explain that too, Ham, seein’ as I feel I’m payin’ so much goddamned attention, my head’s about to explode.”

“I suggest you pay more,” he advised caustically.

“Actually, I was thinking of suggesting the same thing to you,” I shot back.

“Zara, I have been so in your space, in your business, in your life, takin’ your back and sortin’ your shit, consumed by all that, I feel like it’s been months I haven’t breathed just for me.”

“Then today’s your lucky day, Ham. Breathe easy ’cause you’re off the fuckin’ job,” I hurled at him, my tone ice cold but the blood in my veins was boiling even as my throat constricted.

I gave him no chance to say more. When we fought, we didn’t do it fair and we went for the kill and I didn’t have the energy to take more.

And I definitely didn’t have the energy to come to the realization, again, the way Ham danced around the subject, that he was not in love with me. He might not be in love with February Owens, either. But he was honest enough to say it right out, share how he felt about me, and he didn’t.

So he wasn’t.

And I could not cope with that.

Not then.

I was too freaking tired.

I’d cope with it later and I’d figure it out, like everything I’d figured out in my life. I’d find my way past it, like I did with every blow I took. And I’d move the fuck on.

So I turned and marched to the front door, yanked it open, and stopped dead when I saw a woman standing at it, hand raised to the doorbell. She jerked in surprise, went solid, and stared at me.

I stared at her right back.

She was pretty, very pretty but in a way that it looked like she’d once been beautiful. In fact, a raving beauty. But she was older than me, if not by much, and the years had not been kind. There was a sadness to her face that even seeing her just then for the first time was easy to read. And it was so immense, that sadness had worn the beauty she once held clean away leaving her a dimmer vision of what was once glorious.

She was also blonde, her hair long and thick and cared for. She had hazel eyes. Her makeup was carefully applied to try to hide the wear of sadness, but it failed. She was dressed well, taller than me, and even more so in the high-heeled boots she was wearing. And she was very slim. Too slim, seeing as her breasts were large enough that they were either fake or her frame had endured more dieting than it needed, which made her seem top heavy and her shape unnatural.

“I, uh… gosh, um… I’m sorry. I thought Graham Reece lived here,” she stated.

“Rachel?”

It was at hearing Ham’s incredulous, displeased growl that I went solid.

This was Rachel? Sneaky aborter of babies, ex-wife
Rachel
?

As I stared in shock (and maybe a bit of abhorrence), her eyes went beyond me.

Her face changed in a way that another chill slid over my skin and she said, “Reece?”

“What the fuck?” he asked from closer and I felt his heat hit my back.

“I… well.” Her eyes darted from Ham to me to Ham again. “I know this is a surprise—”

Ham cut her off. “Fuck yeah, seein’ as I haven’t seen your face or heard from your ass for twenty years, you show up out of the blue at my front door, it’s a big fuckin’ surprise.”

He was most assuredly not being welcoming and she didn’t miss it, not that she could. In fact, she barely hid her wince but she still managed to power through it.

“I saw you on the news,” she told him.

“So did a million other Americans,” he returned.

“And I… a few days ago, a man came to me, asking about you,” she went on and I felt Ham tense at my back even as my body strung tight.

Dad’s investigator.

“I thought you should know. I was worried and”—she shook her head—“I thought you should know.”

“How’d you find me?” Ham asked what I thought was a very pertinent question, one of many, seeing as Ham grew up in Nebraska and he hadn’t said it, but since they married young, my guess was that she was there, too.

“I have, well”—she hesitated—“my husband has a friend. He’s a police officer. He… I’m sorry if you find this intrusive but he looked you up for me.”

“And he couldn’t look up my phone number?” Ham clipped and he was being kind of funny but it was far from amusing.

Her eyes went to me, then Ham again, and she said quietly, “You were injured by a serial killer, Reece. I’ve obviously upset you but after that… after that man visited, I wanted to see if you were all right. Not hear it.
See
it.” Her eyes finally came to me and she whispered, “I’m sorry. It was—”

Ham interrupted her again, “What’d you tell this guy?”

Her gaze shot back to him. “Sorry?”

“What’d you tell the PI who came callin’?” Ham clarified.

“Well… the truth,” she told him.

“There’s your truth and my truth, Rachel, and back in the day, those two didn’t sync,” Ham returned.

She held Ham’s eyes and requested softly, “Can I not do this out in the breezeway?”

Ham hesitated a second before he moved. Curling an arm tight around my shoulders, he tucked me deep into his side and backed us up three steps.

It wasn’t much and wasn’t intended to be much. She had just enough space to move into the apartment and close the door. That was all he was giving her.