She's Got It Bad (9 page)

She lay in bed, four bourbons gone, once again tracing the neat line of her scar. Over and over, as if she could erase it, wish it gone, remove it from her life.

The biggest if only of all.

One high-school party. That was all it had taken to change the course of her life.

She’d cried herself to sleep every night for a month after Liam left, hoping against hope that he’d ride up the driveway on his motorbike or at least call or drop a postcard in the mail. But there’d been nothing. It didn’t take long for her grief to turn inward. She’d blamed herself for his leaving, for pushing him away with her demands and her declaration of love.

Two months after he’d driven off into the night, Zoe had climbed out her bedroom window and gate-crashed a party she’d heard her brother talking about. She’d gotten drunk—her first time—

and done everything she could to attract the attention of one of the boys at the party. Any boy would do, it hadn’t mattered to her. She’d been desperate to prove to herself that she was attractive, that what had happened with Liam didn’t mean anything, that other boys would want her even if he hadn’t.

Marty Johannsen had wanted her. He’d grabbed her around the waist and pulled her onto his knee when she stumbled past him in the backyard. Before she’d known it, she’d been kissing him, his tongue in her mouth, his hands up her top. Nothing like with Liam, any of it. She hadn’t felt anything. But Marty hadn’t pushed her away—that was the only thing that counted.

She’d kept drinking until she could barely walk. Marty had offered to see her home. On the way, he’d led her into the local park. She didn’t object when he pushed her to the ground. She didn’t care. She didn’t stop him from pulling down her jeans. She simply lay there and bit her lip and tried not to cry out as he pushed himself inside her.

It had hurt, but not much. Afterward he’d waited for her to dress then walked her to the end of her street. She’d told herself she’d exorcised Liam forever as she climbed back in her bedroom window.

Ten weeks later she’d been walking home from school when a crippling pain in her belly had sent her to her knees. She’d felt the warmth of blood between her legs and lost consciousness.

When she woke she was attached to tubes and machines in hospital, and her parents were by her bed.

She’d suffered an ectopic pregnancy from her one night of unprotected sex. The fetus had ruptured her right fallopian tube and so badly damaged her uterus that there had been no option but for the surgeon to give her a hysterectomy. At fifteen years and seven months, she had been made sterile.

It had shaped her life. There was no point pretending any different. It had driven her parents apart as they dealt with the aftermath of her pregnancy. It had made her an object of curiosity and fascination at school. And, as she grew into adulthood, her inability to have children had been a stumbling block for every man she met who she could have loved. No one wanted an empty shell.

Zoe reached for the bourbon bottle and poured herself another drink. She told herself it didn’t matter. It was what she always told herself and it wasn’t strictly true, but it had gotten her through the past twelve years and it would see her through another twelve. She had the band and her art. She had sex whenever she wanted it. She was her own person, in charge of her own destiny. It was enough.

It would have to be.

Dulled by bourbon, she finally drifted to sleep at around midnight.

She was woken at three by Lucky panting and mewling in distress. Zoe scrambled from bed to find the cat sprawled half in, half out of the cardboard box, her eyes full of pain. Zoe knew nothing about cats and kittens, but her gut told her that something was not going according to plan.

She grabbed the phone book and flicked urgently through the listings for veterinary clinics until she found one that offered twenty-four-hour emergency care. She tore the page out, then called a cab. After half a bottle of bourbon, she was in no state to drive. She dragged on the nearest clothes and squatted by Lucky, trying to work out how to move her without causing more pain.

Gently she tried lifting the cat back into the box, but Lucky hissed and struck out at her. Zoe bit her lip and persisted, finally easing the cat onto its side on the shredded paper. The low sound of a car outside told her the taxi had arrived. She grabbed her purse and keys and lifted Lucky’s box into her arms.

The cat had gone disturbingly quiet by the time they pulled up outside the clinic. Zoe threw money at the cab driver and ran into the clinic, the box pressed to her belly.

“I need help for my cat,” she said. “I think she’s in trouble.”

A bleary-eyed nurse looked up at her, her expression becoming more alert when she saw the distressed cat.

“Come right through,” she said, ushering Zoe toward a door.

Two hours later, Zoe sat staring into space in the waiting room. The vet—Dr. Kent—had been very concerned when he examined Lucky. She was in labor, but her kittens weren’t coming. He had warned Zoe that it was possible that neither Lucky nor the kittens would survive the night.

Zoe told herself over and over that it was just a cat. Not even her cat—some stupid stray that someone else hadn’t loved enough to look after.

It didn’t stop her from wanting to cry, or from wanting to make deals with God or whoever oversaw these kinds of small, everyday tragedies.

Lucky had to be okay. Her kittens had to survive, and Lucky had to live to help them grow up into big, dumb, ugly cats like herself.

It was eight o’clock before Dr. Kent came out to talk to her again. Lucky was the proud mother of four kittens, all of whom were small and undernourished, not unlike Lucky herself. Two boys and two girls. At the moment the kittens were as healthy as could be expected and Lucky was holding her own, but nothing was certain. He advised Zoe to go home, get some rest and call again around lunchtime.

Zoe caught a cab home and crashed almost instantly. When she woke, it was nearly midday. Her first thought was for Lucky, the second for Jake. Late two days in a row. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

She was right. He’d had to cancel two appointments for her, one a lucrative full-chest tattoo that would have netted the parlor good money by the time Zoe had outlined and colored it over several sessions. She explained about the cat, but he didn’t care.

“A freaking stray? Are you kidding me? You just cost me two grand today,” he said, his face red.

“Don’t start pissing me around again, Zoe. I won’t put up with it.”

Zoe stared at him, resenting his reference to the bad old days when she’d first started with him when she’d been drinking heavily and was often late and unreliable.

“I’m not pissing with you. My cat is sick. I’m worried about her.”

Jake gave her a searching look. “What is going on with you? You’re the last person I’d ever imagine taking in a stray, let alone getting clucky over it.”

She stilled. “What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m some kind of defective or something?”

“No. Don’t be so defensive. I only meant you’re hardly the maternal type, are you? No one’s ever going to catch you wiping baby snot and changing diapers.”

Zoe sucked in a hurt breath. She felt as though he’d hit her, just walked up and punched her in the stomach. She stared at him, a torrent of rage and grief churning inside her. Without a word she started gathering her kit together—her tattoo gun, her design book, her shaving gear—her movements jerky.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“You’re quitting? Why?”

“Maybe that’s just the kind of woman I am,” she said, striding for the door, her arms full.

Jake followed her out to the parking lot.

“Zoe. Whatever I said, I’m sorry.”

He kept talking the whole time she packed her car. She ignored him, nearly stalling when she reversed too quickly out of her parking spot.

You’re hardly the maternal type, are you?

She couldn’t get his words out of her head. She drove straight to the vet clinic, only to be told that Lucky’s condition had deteriorated. It was all she could do not to scream and punch something.

She went home because there was nowhere else to go. She paced up and down the small space between her bed and the kitchenette, arms wrapped around her torso. If Lucky died…

She was aware that it wouldn’t take Dr. Freud to work out why she felt so connected to a pregnant cat she’d only known for a handful of days, but she honestly didn’t know what she was going to do. The thought of losing Lucky felt like one shitty blow too many.

She deserved a break, didn’t she? Just one decent roll of the dice in her lifetime.

A knock sounded on her front door. It was probably Jake. She owed him an apology. He’d had no way of knowing that his words would hit home harder than he’d ever intended. She’d never told him about what had happened when she was fifteen.

She pulled her hair back off her forehead, bunching it tightly in one hand as she stared at the door. She really didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

Another knock sounded and she reluctantly moved to open the door.

It wasn’t Jake, it was Liam. Filling the doorway with his broad shoulders.

She tried to shut him out but he blocked the door with his foot. She threw her hands in the air and crossed to sit on the end of the bed. She’d let him say his piece. What could it hurt?

He closed the door and leaned against it. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see him taking stock of her apartment, no doubt noting the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, the bourbon bottle on her bedside table next to the stack of books.

“Jake tells me you quit this afternoon.”

“That’s right.”

“Can I ask why?”

“No.”

“He said your cat was sick, too.”

Zoe shrugged, not looking at him. “Probably going to die.”

Heat burned at the back of her eyes. For a heartbeat she wondered how it would feel to lay her head on Liam’s shoulder and simply let go, releasing some of the hurt inside her. His arms would be so strong and sure….

She blinked and sniffed the tears back, clenching her hands against her thighs.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

The bed sagged as he sat beside her.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

“You got a degree in vet science?”

“No.”

“Then there’s nothing you can do.”

He reached for her hand and she let him take it, even though she kept her fingers stiff and unresponsive when he curled his hand around hers.

“I came here to offer you a job,” he said.

She turned her head to look at him. A mistake. He was sitting so close she could see the amber flecks in his brown eyes.

How she’d loved him, once. With all her foolish teenage heart.

“Before you tell me to stick my offer where the sun doesn’t shine, hear me out,” he said. “We’ve got a big biker build-off comp coming up. Me and my team have got four weeks to design, build and detail a chopper that will blow the competition out of the water.”

She tugged her hand free. “So? What’s that got to do with me?”

“I saw Tom last night. I saw the paintings you did in his office.”

She was on her feet in no seconds flat.

“You are unbelievable. Which part of ‘stay the hell out of my life’ don’t you understand?”

“I want you to paint our chopper,” he said, ignoring her outburst.

He stood and collected something he’d left leaning against the wall near the door—a large black artist’s folio. He opened it on her bed, spreading out a series of sketches and computer-generated design specs.

“It’s a big competition, lots of makers who want to win. But I really like the style of your work. I think you could give us an edge, bring something different to the table,” he said.

Zoe hung back, arms crossed over her chest, refusing to so much as glance at the drawings.

“Let me guess. I’m supposed to be drawn in by the challenge and so intrigued by the drawings I’ll say yes.”

“Something like that,” he agreed easily. “It’s a great opportunity. I’m a good boss. The money is nice. I think you’d like working with my team.”

He sounded so…reasonable, it infuriated her.

“I don’t take charity.”

“It’s not charity. If I just wanted to give you money, I’d find some other way to do it.”

Despite herself she glanced at the drawings, taking in the sweeping curves and angles of the design.

“What makes you think I’d have a clue where to start? I’m a tattoo artist, not a spray painter.”

“You’re an artist, and you know how to use an airbrush. Most important of all, you’re talented,”

he said.

“No.”

“No, you’re not talented? Or, no, you’re not interested?”

“No, it’s not going to work,” she said.

He made an impatient gesture with his hand. “You’ve got something better to do, have you?

Some other big plan now that you’ve quit your job?”

She stared at him.

“Didn’t think so,” he said.

“Don’t you dare judge my life.”

He made a rude noise and started gathering up his drawings. “This isn’t a life, Zoe, this is an existence. A bloody miserable one, from what I can see. But don’t let me stop you from wallowing in your misery. God forbid that anyone try to be a friend and offer you a helping hand.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be just a friend.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Searing heat rushed into her face. Would she never learn her lesson with this man?

She turned away as Liam took a step toward her. His fingers caught her chin and he forced her to meet his eyes.

“Zoe, I am not what you need right now, trust me. But I am someone who can get your art noticed. Take the job. Win the comp for us. Say yes.”

They stood looking into each other’s eyes for long, long seconds. She thought about how much he’d rocked her world off its axis in the past few days. She remembered what it had felt like to have his hands and mouth on her. And she relived the moment yesterday when he’d rejected her for the second humiliating time.

Finally she nodded.

“Yes. Okay, I’ll do it.”