"Of course it is."
"No. It’s not. Our marriage is over."
I tug my hands free. "Do not be ridiculous. Of course it is not over. I have done precisely what you said I should do: I got rid of my Hayley things. Now you have to do your part. Come home."
"Patsy, I've seen a lawyer. I want a divorce."
"No!" I surge to my feet. “That is wrong. What will people say?"
Joe's expression hardened. "Who gives a shit what people say?"
"I do. Oh, my God, I should have seen this coming. It is all HER fault, you know."
"What? Whose fault? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Hayley! If it were not for her, we would still be together. We would still be happy." I snatch up my handbag.
"This has nothing to do with Hayley."
"Like hell it doesn’t! Well, she is not going to get away with it. She has to pay."
"Dammit, Patsy, this is not about any friggin' third party." Gripping my arms, he holds me in place while staring into my eyes. "This is about you and me, and I won't let you put the blame onto someone who has absolutely nothing to do with us."
I peer up at him. Is that true? Does this awful decision he made truly have nothing to do with Hayley? It seems as if she is involved in every facet of my life these days, but maybe I am mistaken. "Then why can't you come home?" I demand. "I got rid of the closet."
"Jesus! Will you forget the fucking closet? You are not a stupid woman, Patsy, so why do you insist on talking like an idiot? Listen to me. This. Is. Not. About—Shit!"
Barely hearing anything beyond “stupid” and “idiot”, I see no reason to stick around to listen to the rest of his harangue. I stalk on stiff legs out of room 203 and slam its door closed behind me.
"Where the hell have you been all day?"
Hayley closed the little-used rear door to Bluey’s and leaned back against it. Adrenaline surged through her system from running the gauntlet of journalists outside, and she looked up at Jon-Michael, her smile probably coming across like defective neon as it flashed on and flickered out.
"Hey," she said breathlessly. "Didn't expect to see you here this early." Exhaling noisily, she blotted perspiration from her brow with her forearm. "Holy shit. Can you believe there are even more reporters out there tonight? Where do they all come from, you suppose—I wouldn’t have thought there were enough rocks for them to crawl out from under." She pushed away from the door, too wired to stand still. "Did you see the six o'clock news this evening? I was the Top Story...except it wasn't a story, exactly, since there wasn’t an ounce of factual-type, um, facts reported." Her brow pleated, then she laughed low in her throat. "Oh. I guess that's what a story is, huh, something made up? What I meant was, it wasn’t news. It was more Top Speculation." A little chortle of laughter purled up from her throat.
Jon-Michael bent over her until they stood nose to nose and gripped her upper arms. Pulling her up onto her tiptoes, he demanded through gritted teeth, "Where. The. Hell. Have you. Been?"
"Out mending fences with your sister just like you said I should," she replied, straightening up smartly as it belatedly sank in he was angry. Furiously, icily, angry. Dandy. Just what I need. She thrust her chin up at him. "What?" she demanded of the unspoken accusation in his chocolate brown eyes.
"What, she says. It never occurred to you to leave me a note? To take one minute to leave a lousy message on my cell?"
"My messages are never lousy. I—"
His grip tightened. "Don’t get cute with me. I'm in no mood. You have been the next best thing to catatonic for the past two days, then you just up and disappear on me without a word, but I'm not supposed to worry? I oughtta shake you 'til your damn teeth rattle."
She had seen him angry more times than she could count, but thinking back she realized that in all the years they had known each other, she had never seen his rage directed at her. It shook her to realize how badly she wanted to placate him.
That, in turn, made her defensive. She didn’t owe him an explanation and she fiercely resented the quickness with which her adrenaline high had drained away, leaving her limp and weary beyond belief.
All the same…"I'm sorry," she heard herself whisper and strained forward to press up against him. His hands immediately released her to clasp her in his arms. He held her with a tightness that compressed her bones, but she simply stroked her cheek against his collarbone and wound her arms around his waist to hold him tightly in return. "I am sorry," she reiterated. "It never occurred to me you would worry. I didn't think."
"I didn't know where you were, when you’d be back."
"I got to thinking about what you said and went out to talk to Kurstin."
"So you’ve forgiven her?"
"Yes." She released him and pulled back. Reaching up, she smoothed a strand of dirty-blond hair away from his forehead. "I need to get to work. Bluey’s expecting me in the office."
"I know. Who do you think told me you called in to say you’d be late?" He started to tense up all over again.
"Don't be mad at me. I told you I wasn’t thinking straight." She raised up on her toes to give him a quick peck on the lips. Then she settled back on her heels. "I have to get to work, Johnny. Bluey’s been so great about my being gone and I want to give him a full night’s work."
"Okay. But you and I are gonna talk when we get home tonight."
Hayley bit back a grimace. Oh, goody, another heart-to-heart. Because there hasn’t been enough emotion packed into this day already. "Ummm," she managed noncommittally, knowing darn well he would take it as an agreement when she didn’t mean it as anything of the kind. Still, she didn’t want him all riled up again.
At least not right now. She could not deal with his temper right now.
Maybe later.
The evening was every bit as draining as she’d anticipated, and then some. At least Bluey had trained the journalists to know they would be expelled from the bar if they bothered her while she worked. Unfortunately, there was no controlling the patrons.
"So, hey," one of them asked after ordering a drink, "Is it true what I heard on TV? You really against the death penalty?"
Hayley could practically see the ears of every journalist within hearing distance perk up. She set the drink she’d prepared in front of the inquisitive patron. "That will be eight-fifty, please."
The man forked over the money. "I figured they musta got it wrong, cuz that don't make no sense. Why would anyone be against the death penalty when it'd take care of the guy who did her old man?"
"Would you care for a basket of pretzels to go with that?"
And so it went.
"You feeling like the head exhibit at the zoo yet?" Lucy asked when she overheard a similar line of questioning. Two-tone hair belling out, she swung around to deflect the most recent contender attempting a debate on capital punishment with Hayley.
Hayley was wrung out by the end of her shift. The last thing she wanted was to embroil herself in a serious conversation with Jon-Michael.
Mindless sex was what she needed tonight, something to take her mind off her problems and leave her limp and relaxed instead of tied up in knots.
She set out to seduce Jon-Michael the moment they cleared the door to his loft, hoping not only to fulfill her own needs but to postpone the inevitable discussion. Turning, she raised onto her toes and kissed him, threading her fingers through his hair to hold him in place, stroking her breasts against his chest. Her lips were avid as they coaxed his apart, and she kissed him hotly.
Jon-Michael wasn’t averse to being seduced and fell in with the program immediately. He kissed her back with matching heat and enthusiasm. Then he tried to pull back. "Wait. Hayley, honey. Wait a minute."
She didn't slow down and he groaned deep in his throat. His hands slid down the curve of her butt, where he sank his fingers in to pull her nearer. His mouth on hers turned fierce, hungry.
Then, summoning all the willpower at his disposal, he pulled away. Trans
ferring his hands to her upper arms, he shoved her back and held her at arm's length. He vaguely registered the sound of his own breathing as he stared down at her. "Wait," he panted. "We can't do this—we've gotta talk."
"I don't want to talk. Love me, Jon-Michael."
"I will. I will, darlin'. In a minute. But first we need to talk."
She jerked herself away. Ramming her fingers through her hair, she glared up at him. "Why, because you say we should? Why can't we talk later? What's the point in busting the mood right when things are getting good?"
"For crissake, Hayley!" He, too, thrust his fingers through his hair as he stared at her in frustration. When she merely glowered back at him, he exerted enough pressure to put severe strain on his roots. "Do we even have a relationship beyond sex?" When she remained stubbornly silent, he continued grimly, "I would really like to know what you consider my role in your life, Hayley. For instance, if we subtracted the sex, where, in your estimation, would that leave us?" It was imperative, suddenly, that he know.
She looked startled, then conciliatory. "Oh, Jon--"
"If I weren't the owner of the cock scratching your itch," he implacably overrode her, "would you still be here, living with me?"
"How the hell do I know?" Hayley’s urge to appease sank without a trace, belligerence rising to take its place. Clenching her hands into fists at her sides, she angled her chin up at him.
"What's not to know? It’s a simple enough question."
"It’s a pointless question. I mean, you do have the equipment, Jon-Michael, and we do have a sexual relationship. One, I would like to add, you seem to want every bit as much as I. So I don’t understand the—"
"Do I mean anything to you beyond my ability to provide you with a good, hard fuck?"
She glared at him. "Of course you do!"
"She said in such loving tones," he mocked bitterly. Watching her begin to shake, he nodded in comprehension. "Ah. I get it. The dreaded 'L' word rears its ugly head. Well, let's make this real interesting, then, darlin'. Here is the million-dollar question. Do you love me?"
"Do I...?" Her voice faltered.
"Love me. Jesus, you can't even look at me, let alone say the word. I’ll take that as a no then. I love you, you know."
Hayley stilled. Then she did meet his gaze. "You love me," she finally repeated flatly. "Yes, so I have heard you say." Her spine stiffened, her posture growing erect. "But, tell me, Jon-Michael, what does that mean, exactly? You said you loved me when I was seventeen, too—but then you broadcast the most private evening of my life to the entire school and left me to face the snickers and sneers all by myself while you skipped town."
She hugged herself to ward off the sudden chill settling in her bones. Given her sudden light-headedness, she deduced her face likely had drained of color, and her shakes increased. "Dad said he loved me, but it sure didn't stop him from taking off. And Dennis?" A bitter laugh escaped her. "Well, good ole Dennis was supposed to love me until death did us part. But his idea of love was screwing around with anyone sufficiently impressed with his newfound fame to have him."
She saw shock cross Jon-Michael's face and hated him in that moment for not allowing her to keep at least that part of her life a secret. "You will just have to excuse me," she said stiffly, "if the word doesn’t mean much to me anymore."
Except...it did. Deep down, it still did. As he had so rudely pointed out this morning, she could not even have an orgasm these days unless he first professed his love. She could only pray he wouldn’t throw that in her face again because she didn’t think she could bear it tonight. Too many emotions had stormed her senses in the past few days.
He didn’t say a word.
Eyeing him warily, she said, "I'm tired. I think I’ll go up now."
"Yeah, okay," he agreed quietly. "I'm going to lock up. I'll be up in a bit."
She could have sworn the earth’s gravity had multiplied a hundredfold as she dragged herself up the stairs to the loft.
Twenty
Hayley was vaguely aware of the alarm going off. Hampered by the black wave of fatigue threatening to pull her under, she kicked toward consciousness. Jon-Michael's arm slid away from the dip of her waist and she felt the loss of his body heat along every inch of the skin he had spooned.
He rolled away and the clock's alarm went silent.
Turning over, she blinked at him through foggy layers of exhaustion. His back was to her as he sat at the side of the bed, his long spine angled over hard, widespread thighs. He scrubbed his hands over his face, the only sound in the dim loft the sandpaper rasp of calloused fingers meeting morning stubble.
She reached to scratch her nails down his back. It took every scrap of energy she possessed and her hand dropped to the mattress in the wake of a single pass, her fingertips barely grazing his naked buttock. It got his attention, however, for he turned to look at her.
"Hey," she murmured in a froggy voice.
"Hey, yourself, baby."
She gave him a drowsy, contented smile and heard him rumble a non-word deep in his throat.
"Ah, damn, Hayley," he whispered. "What am I going to do with you?" Dropping onto his forearm over her, he sifted his long-fingered free hand through her hair. "Just when I’m on the verge of thinking maybe I should give up the damn dream, you go and turn sweet on me."
Too exhausted to make sense of his words, she simply gave him another smile.
Jon-Michael returned a crooked one of his own and traced a fingertip along her lips. "I love the way you wake up. I wish you’d forget to worry more often." Then he kissed her softly and adjusted the blanket over her shoulders. "It's early. Go back to sleep."
"'Kay." Her heavy-lidded eyes slid closed. Deep, drugging fatigue immediately sucked her back into the depths.
The next time she forced her eyes open, he was standing in front of the dresser mirror, his head cocked to one side as he watched his hands' reflection adjust the knot of his tie. His hair, still damp from the shower, looked almost as dark as her own. Even more uncharacteristic, his cheeks and jaw shone with the smooth sheen of a newly applied razor.
The blankets pooled around her hips as she pushed herself upright. Yawning, she knuckled her hair from her eyes, and meeting his gaze in the mirror, felt a grin tug the corners of her mouth. "Who died, Olivet? I haven't seen you shave or voluntarily put on a tie since I came back." He did not respond and the reason for it struck her. "Oh. Duh." She smacked herself on the temple. "Sure I have. Bluey's bow tie on the Fourth, right? Forgot about that."
Still he didn't speak, and her eyebrows furrowed. His dark-eyed gaze in the mirror was steady on her, but why was it so wary and his mouth so unsmiling? Her warm fuzzies dissipated as memories of last night's argument and its tense aftermath suddenly resurfaced. The smile wobbled off her face.
They had been painfully polite to each other when Jon-Michael joined her in bed after securing the apartment. Conversation had been nearly nonexistent and what there was of it had been stilted and carefully polite. Not at all in keeping with their usual verbal skirmishes.
They had also maintained a physical distance between them. Failing to pick up where their lovemaking had left off downstairs, they had eventually fallen asleep, each hugging their own side of the bed. As if they were strangers forced to share the last hotel room in town. The only thing missing was a meridian of pillows down the middle of the mattress.
Awakening to the knowledge he’d gravitated to spoon with her during the night had temporarily stolen the memory.
She cleared her throat. "Um, where are you going so early?" Glancing at the clock on the dresser, she saw it was eleven-thirty, which wasn’t early at all if one kept regular business hours.
"Olivet's." He jerked the knot of his tie into place and smoothed down the points of his collar. "I have a one o'clock presentation to make to the board."
She sat up straighter. "A presentation? You’re going to present your ideas to the board of directors after all?" Hello! Did he not ju
st say so? Her heart commenced pounding with brutal force.
He scrutinized her via the mirror. "Yes. I was going to tell you about it last night but other stuff got in the way."
She should have been happy about it. It was precisely what she had been urging him to do. Instead it scared her.
Her gaze on him faltered.
As if he had anticipated that exact reaction, Jon-Michael nodded. Picking an old-fashioned watch fob off the dresser, he attached it across his vest as he turned to face her. After studying her a moment, he shook his head as if in commiseration. "Poor Hayley. I’m about to eliminate your favorite excuse for holding me at arm's length. Ain't life a bitch?"
Fierce heat scalded her chest and throat, climbed her face to the hairline. Surging up onto her knees, her chin thrust out to a belligerent angle, she once again locked her gaze unflinchingly on his.
"How dare you mock me?" she demanded with low-voiced fury. "You don't have any idea what it's like to live without a vestige of privacy. Until I came back to Gravers Bend I might have been notorious, but at least I had a thought or two I could call my own. Not now, by God. Every time I turn around some ratty new detail of my life is revealed. It never ends. Just when I think there can’t possibly be anything left to publicly humiliate me, something turns up. I feel like I’ve been stripped naked so the world can critique my body." A bitter smile twisted her lips. "Knowing damn well it will be found wanting."
"And just what the hell does that have to do with us?" Jon-Michael demanded furiously, stalking to the bed to loom over her. "With you and me? I'm not the one stealing your secrets."
"Yes, yes you are! You won't let me keep anything to myself!"
He sat on the side of the bed and reached to stroke the rigid fist nearest him. "Does this have to do with what you let slip last night?" he asked gently. "About Dennis cheating on you?"
She went very still. Then she batted furiously at the long fingers fondling the back of her hand. "No!"
Notorious Page 25
