Jake was a Gnaw Bone native, like me. And, in his position of working at the bar in town where the locals frequented, Jake knew more of what was going down in Gnaw Bone than the police did.
So that meant, if Jake talked to Ham, Ham knew about me and Greg.
“Ham—”
“Says you split up with your man.”
Okay, totally certain this was a bad idea.
And totally certain that, when I could next afford to buy a drink at The Dog, I was going to drink it and then throw my glass at big-mouth Jake.
“Yeah,” I confirmed.
“First stop,” he declared.
“What?” I asked.
“Comin’ to see you. First stop.”
Oh God.
Not only was calling Ham a bad idea, it was a catastrophic one.
“Ham—”
“Babe, you shot of him?”
“Yes, Ham. Though I wouldn’t refer to it as ‘shot of him,’ but—”
“First stop.”
I wanted that. I so very much wanted that.
But not now. Not after what I did to Greg. Not with all that was going on.
And probably not ever.
Because seeing Ham might destroy me.
I’d walked away from him once and that was hard enough.
I didn’t think I could endure watching him walk away from me.
“Darlin’, I think—” I began.
“Care about you, cookie, you know I do. Been years, sucked, not knowin’ what’s up with you but, babe, I just got an ax embedded in my shoulder. You think shit through when that kind of thing happens, trust me. And, Zara, you matter. I can give respect to you and him. You’re together, hitched, you both deserve that. You shot of him, this disconnect we got goin’ ends.”
“I—”
“First stop. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
I lost my cool and exclaimed, “Ham!”
He didn’t care that I lost my cool.
“Tomorrow, babe,” he replied.
Then I had dead air.
I stared at my phone for several beats before I told it, “Yep, that was not a good idea.”
The phone just sat in my hand.
The news anchor droned from the TV.
I got up and headed to the kitchen.
I came back with a glass of ice, a two-liter of ginger ale, and a bottle of vodka. The last of my vodka that I’d been saving for the right time, seeing as I couldn’t afford to replace it and I couldn’t see on the horizon a day soon when I would.
This was definitely that time.
Ham’s voice slid through my head.
Tomorrow, babe.
I decided not to bother with the ginger ale.
Or the glass.
Chapter Two
Tatters
I heard the growl of a big truck’s engine.
My eyes shot open.
That growl was coming from my driveway.
Then it stopped.
That was when my body flew into motion. I threw the covers back and jumped out of bed.
It was dark. I didn’t care. I rushed through my bedroom into the hall and straight to the front door.
I unlocked it, yanked it open, and Ham was standing there, one arm in a sling, the other hand lifted toward the doorbell.
I threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around him.
He grunted, part in surprise but mostly in pain.
I jumped back.
“God, sorry!” I cried.
He stared at me through the shadows. The only illumination we had was dim and coming from the muted streetlamps of my development. I felt his eyes move over my face as I drank him in.
Then his hand shot out, hooking me at the back of the head. He yanked me to him, planting my face in his chest.
Cautiously this time, I rounded him with my arms.
“Cookie,” he whispered into the top of my hair.
Warmth washed through me and I closed my eyes.
“Ham,” I whispered back.
“Missed you, baby,” he said softly.
I closed my eyes harder and pressed my face into his chest.
He let me, and we stayed that way a long time.
Finally, he broke the moment by lifting his lips from my hair and saying, “Let’s continue this reunion inside with a beer.”
Shit, I didn’t have beer.
And shit again, I forgot in the thrill of hearing his truck in my drive that I’d spent that entire day alternately freaking out about the state of my life and freaking out about the fact that Ham was coming back and what I was going to do when he did, with Ham winning most of my freak-out time. Though, even with all the time I gave it, obviously, I didn’t come up with a plan, nor did I steel myself against the thrill of hearing his truck in my drive.
And shit a-freaking-gain. In the thrill of hearing his truck in my drive, I forgot to throw on at least a robe so I was standing there in a clingy, sexy rose-pink, spaghetti-strapped nightgown that showed cleavage, exposed some skin through strategically placed lace, and had been purchased in a time when life was a whole lot better.
I tilted my head back, leaving my arms where they were, and he curled his hand around the back of my neck.
“I don’t have beer,” I informed him and watched his brows shoot up.
“Did hell freeze over and I missed it?” he asked and I wanted to keep distant. I wanted to control this “reunion.” I wanted to guard my heart and my time.
I just couldn’t.
So I smiled.
“Don’t have a line to the devil, Ham.”
“Bullshit, babe. Somewhere along the line, you made a deal with him. No woman who gives head the way you do hasn’t sold her soul for that ability.”
I blinked at this quick, explicit reminder of our bygone intimacy.
Then again, Ham was an honest guy. He didn’t hide anything, even when he kept things from you. I knew that didn’t make sense. I couldn’t explain it. But I knew he was good at it.
He also didn’t pull any punches. If he liked something, he liked it and said he did. Same with the opposite. Same with anything. If he had something to say, he said it. That didn’t mean he didn’t have a filter. That just meant he was who he was, he did what he did, he said what he said, you liked it or you didn’t, and he didn’t give a fuck.
I, unfortunately, liked it.
Ham let me go, moved back so my arms were forced to drop away. He bent and carefully picked up a big black duffel that I hadn’t noticed was sitting on the concrete beside him.
This, I didn’t think was good. This meant Ham thought he was staying with me.
And Ham couldn’t stay with me.
“Uh… Ham—”
“Move back, babe.”
“But, your bag—”
“Babe, back.”
I moved back.
Ham moved in.
I shut the door and hustled in behind him.
“Got lights?” he asked.
I held my breath and flipped a switch.
Ham’s ability to notice pretty much everything all at once honed by years of working bars had not dulled and I knew this the instant he muttered, “Jesus. What the fuck?”
Of course, the state of my house was hard to miss.
On the whole, my house was awesome. The best of the five floor plans offered by far, even if it wasn’t the biggest. I loved it. It was perfect. The development was perfect, pretty, friendly people in it, well taken care of.
After growing up in a home that was not all that great, and living a life that had its serious down times, this house was all I ever wanted.
The narrow, cool, covered walkway outside was flanked on one side by the garage and the on the other by the recessed portion of the kitchen. The front door opened to a short entryway that led to an open-plan area, the living room straight ahead, dining area to the left back. The kitchen was also to the left, part of it recessed toward the front of the house with a wide, curved bar that fed into the overall
space.
The living room was sunken two steps, which gave a vague sense of breaking up the space and a not-so-vague ratcheting up of the awesome factor.
The colors on the walls and ceiling were sand and cream, the carpeting a thick, cream wool, so the feel was warm but serene.
I’d gone with a variety of upgrades, something I was paying for now in a number of ways, all of them literal. I’d gone for premium cabinets, granite countertops, Whirlpool appliances, and a built-in unit in the living room, with glass doors and recessed lighting. It was the shit.
I’d also upgraded the doors, so instead of sliding glass, there were French doors leading from the living room, dining room, and the master bedroom to my backyard.
Most of the wall space was taken up by windows covered with custom-built Roman shades that I’d splurged on back in the day when things in Gnaw Bone were golden.
When Greg lived here with me, we’d decided to get rid of my old stuff, which wasn’t that great, and he’d bought furniture and decorations that made an awesome space spectacular.
That was all gone.
Now I had a couch, and beside it a standing lamp, and in front of it, a nicked, scratched, not-altogether-stable coffee table that I’d actually picked up on the side of the road. The coffee table was the worst of the lot, seeing as I purloined it from a Goodwill pickup. The lamp and couch were only slightly better and that slightly was by a small margin.
My friend Maybelline had donated the lamp and couch to the cause when Greg moved out. She hadn’t been thrilled to do it, knowing it was crap that had been sitting in her garage waiting for her husband to get the lead out and sell it on Craigslist, but she also knew something was better than nothing.
Except for a huge box television that saw the launch of MTV (donated by another friend, Wanda), the rest of the large space was empty.
“Greg got the furniture in the divorce,” I explained.
Ham dropped his duffel and slowly turned to me.
I pressed my lips together when I saw the look on his face.
“You’re tellin’ me your ex left you in a home that’s in this state,” Ham sought further details about the situation.
During one of my many freak-outs that day, I really should have figured out a way to keep Ham away from my house. Unfortunately, I was only thinking about seeing Ham, not about my house. In fact, I thought distractedly, I didn’t even know how he knew where I lived since he’d never been here.
I didn’t question this.
I thought, considering the look on his face, it was more pertinent to share. “I told him to take the stuff, Ham. It was his anyway.”
“You’re tellin’ me your ex left you in a home that’s in this state,” Ham repeated.
I decided not to reiterate my answer.
His eyes moved toward the kitchen then back to me, and when I got them again, I braced.
“Why don’t you have beer?” he asked.
Again, Ham noticed everything, and along with noticing everything, he was capable of making scary-accurate deductions about things he noticed. And Ham’s deductive powers, which could rival Sherlock Holmes’, made things very uncomfortable for me at that moment.
I should have called and told him I’d meet him the next day at The Mark.
I should not have answered the door.
And the idea of cutting and running from everything was getting more and more attractive by the second.
The problem was I didn’t have money for gas.
I took two steps forward, peered around the wall into the kitchen, saw my microwave clock said it was twelve thirty, and I looked back at Ham.
“You’ve been drivin’ awhile and doin’ it in that sling. Why don’t you crash and we’ll talk tomorrow?”
“Why don’t you have beer, Zara?” Ham asked again.
“You’ve got to want to relax, unwind, and get some shut-eye,” I said.
“What I want is to know why a woman who I’ve known eight years, five of ’em she never was without beer, and even once she dragged my ass out of bed to drive her two towns over to hit an all-night liquor store when we ran out, doesn’t have beer.”
That had been a good night.
I didn’t want an interrogation and I really didn’t want a trip down memory lane.
“Okay, how’s this?” I began. “I’m happy you’re here. I’m happy to see you safe and sound. I didn’t expect it but it’s cool if you want to crash here. But I have to open the shop tomorrow so I need some shut-eye. We’ll talk tomorrow night when I get home from the shop.”
“I don’t like you avoiding this conversation, babe, but I mostly don’t like why that might be,” Ham returned.
“And I don’t care, Ham,” I snapped, losing it and watching his eyes narrow. “In case you haven’t gotten it, I’ll say it straight. The answers to your questions are none of your fuckin’ business.”
I’d never spoken to him like that. In fact, we never fought. Ever. Not in all the time we were together, not in all the years we’d known each other.
Ham was mellow, funny, and fun to be around. He’d seen it all, done it all, and had an air about him that he knew that there were things worth getting riled up about, but not many, and life was precious enough not to spend it pissed and shouting at someone. I went with that flow. We had always been easy. I couldn’t remember once, not even once, when things had even gotten mildly heated. Ham made it that way. He just didn’t go there, kept you snug in his laid-back aura, and it felt so good you didn’t want to go there either.
Ham being laid-back, taking me along with him for that ride, and hearing me snap for the first time since I knew him had to be why he whispered a surprised, irritated, “What the fuck?”
“Three years have passed, Ham. Shit has happened. And none of it is your business,” I carried on.
“Zara—”
I shook my head and lifted a hand. “No. We’re not having this conversation now. I fucked up, callin’ you. But I care. I never stopped caring. You matter to me, too, Ham, and it isn’t every day someone I know gets attacked by a serial ax murderer. I had to know you were okay. I wasn’t sure I wanted it but I’m glad actually to get to see for my own eyes you’re okay. But we’re not doin’ this now. I’m tired. You have to be tired. We need sleep. But I’ll warn you, I might not do this tomorrow either. You made a decision three years ago and we’re stickin’ with that.”
His eyes narrowed further and his face got hard. “I made a decision?”
“Yeah, you did,” I confirmed.
“You found a man, babe. You walked away from me.”
“You let me.”
He flinched and his torso swung back an inch.
I watched him in shock.
His flinch was not minor. My words cut him. Deep. So deep, his torso moved through the laceration.
What was that?
“Ham?” I called.
He recovered, wiping his face blank, or I should say wiping the pain away so it was back to hard.
“I told you to find a good man, not settle,” he stated.
“You told me that three years ago. That’s over and done. Now is now. And I’m tellin’ you now we’re not talkin’ about this shit.”
“You didn’t find a good man, babe. You settled.”
God, when had he become so stubborn?
I was already angry but I was getting angrier.
“Ham, this is none of your business.”
Ham ignored me. “I know this because no man who’s a good man cleans out his wife like this fucked-up shit.” He used an arm to indicate the space and turned back to me.
“We’re not talkin’ about this.”
“I also told you, he fucks you over, he did you wrong, you call me. You did not call me, Zara.”
What the hell?
“Are you serious?” I whispered.
“Fuck yeah, I’m serious,” he shot back.
“Rethink that answer, Ham,” I returned.
“No, babe, you
think back to that shit your parents pulled, how that shit meant you landed in my bed and I kept you there and took your back through that nightmare.”
Again, memory lane, but this time, not such good memories.
“That was more than eight years ago, Ham.”
“Yeah, it was. And my point is, over eight years, I’ve always been there for you.”
“Only when you weren’t gone.”
His face turned to stone. “Bullshit, Zara, and you know it.”
I threw up my hands. “Jesus, Ham, I’m seeing you for the first time”—I leaned toward him and yelled—“in three years!”
He leaned right back. “And it was fuckin’ me”—he jerked a thumb at his chest—“who told you to keep that connection, babe, and you kept it. You dialed that line that connected us just last night.”
“A fuckup I knew was a fuckup last night but has now been elevated in status to a major fucking fuckup,” I fired back.
“Jesus Christ!” he exploded, shocking me. As I explained, we never fought so this meant I never saw him lose it like that. It was freaking scary but it also weirdly made me angrier, especially when he scowled and went on to inform me, “This is precisely why I don’t do this shit.”
“What shit?” I clipped.
“You find a woman you think is a good woman, you make the big fuckin’ mistake of lettin’ her in an inch, she tears her way through, leavin’ you bloody in her wake,” he answered.
“Oh my God!” I shouted, raking a hand through my hair. “Are you insane?”
“You walked away from me,” he bit out, jerking a finger at me. “And I see that took a bite outta you, Zara. I can fuckin’ see the hole it left behind right in your goddamned eyes.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I scoffed on a snap.
That was when he threw my words of three years ago right in my face, using them to tear through me, leaving me bloody in their wake.
“It was always me.”
Standing there in tatters, unable to take more, I whispered, “Get out.”
“Gladly,” he returned, bent, and snatched up the handles of his duffel.
He stalked past me and I followed.
He used the only hand he had, the one carrying the duffel, to yank open the door and I watched him move through.
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