“Vera, I’m fine. Go on, go home.” Badger waves a hand at me. I stand by the door to his bedroom, watching him take a seat on his bed.
“Don’t forget your—”
He shakes the pill bottle at me with a smile. “I won’t; I’m not willing to face your wrath again.” He winks. “Go; I’ll be fine.”
I hesitate, as I always do at the end of each day I’m here. He needed bypass surgery to clear a blocked artery and was in the hospital for over a week. I’ve since taken over the running of the store and discovered that he does indeed live upstairs. I’d always wondered but never had the courage to ask.
Walking into the room, I bend down and place a kiss on his forehead. He closes his eyes, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “I’ll be in first thing in the morning; call me if you need me.” I point at the cell phone I bought him on the nightstand.
He waves me off, and I head back down the rickety, winding metal staircase. My phone rings in my purse just as I’m reaching the front of the store. I grab my purse from behind the counter and dig it out, sighing when I see the number.
“Vera Bramston?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s me. I’ll have the bill taken care of within the week. I just sold my car, and I’m waiting for the check to clear.” I lock the door and grumble into the phone, “So back off, it’s coming.” I promptly hang up and dump my phone back into my purse.
Daylight is turning into night at rapid speed. The days since Badger’s heart attack have passed quickly, but the nights, they’re long, haunting in both time and the memories they bring with it. Being at the bookstore makes it easier to ignore the crushing pressure that still sits on my heart, squashing it and squeezing the life from it. But at night, nothing stops it from dragging me under all over again. I thought time would make it better, not worse. But I’ve learned the hard way that time can be your worst enemy. And I’ve played the willing victim by allowing it to take so much from me in this life of mine already.
Despite his threats, Dexter never did call. I can only hope, even if it’s mixed with a bit of naïvety, that my father got my voicemail and took me seriously for once. Even though the silence from them makes me a little nervous, I’m not silly enough to go looking for answers I might not like.
Christmas lights flicker on in storefronts and restaurants along the street while I walk down the sidewalk to my car. I curse quietly, trying to locate my keys that’ve fallen somewhere to the bottom of my purse. Then I hear it … the same voice that fills my dreams and nightmares every night without fail.
“Well, hey. What’s up, Frost? Run out of hundred-dollar bills to wipe your ass with?”
Air. I’m outside, yet there’s suddenly not enough air. I don’t answer him. I’m frozen, keys in hand and simply just trying to breathe.
“What, too good to talk to me now? Or does your boyfriend forbid you to speak to anyone who can make you come multiple times in one night?”
My eyes squeeze closed. The temptation to turn around and look at him becomes too much. It becomes all I can think about. I can almost see that devious smile behind my closed eyelids.
Do it. Just look at him and be done with it.
I open them and spin around, wiping all expression from my face. He looks exactly the same. Same leather jacket, same amazing hair, and the very same green eyes that I’ll probably see behind my closed lids for the rest of my life. How is that fair? That he should get to walk around as if nothing affects him. Like I didn’t affect him the same way he’s affected me. Crushed me. Ruined me. Poisoned me for life.
“Where is he anyway?” He feigns interest, glancing around. “Though I guess the douchebag did leave you behind on a busy highway. I’m guessing that sweet as pie personality of yours doesn’t leave a lot of room for actually giving a shit about you.” He snorts. “I should know.”
My eyes sting with the threat of looming tears. “Are you done?”
He cocks his head to the side, hands buried in his jean pockets as he stares at me. He straightens from the wall he was leaning against, and his eyes seem to take on a foreign shade of green. It doesn’t take long to realize why. They’re full of hate.
“Yeah, I was done weeks ago. You know that.” His clenched jaw tightens.
Fuck this. I keep walking to my car—a five-year-old Volkswagen Golf—and open the door. I need away from him before I can allow myself to crumble. Every step hurts; every step that I feel him take behind me is another crack in my heart. I open the door and throw my purse in. “Aw, don’t go yet; it’s been …” He stops then asks from behind me, “Where’s your car?”
I lean against the doorframe, heaving out a forced, disinterested sigh. “Sold it.”
His beautiful face contorts with confusion. “Why?”
Laughing, I decide, fuck it, why the hell not? I’ve still got my pride, but being too proud is something I can’t afford to be anymore. Literally. So I tell him. “I needed the money. Have a nice life, Jared.” I fold myself into the seat and close the door.
I’ve just started the engine when the passenger door opens, and he climbs in.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
He looks straight at me. “Explain.”
“Get out.”
“Not until you explain.”
“Get. Out. Now.” The words are a growl. It’s getting hard to even look at him without bile steadily crawling up the bottom of my throat.
“I’m not moving until you tell me.”
Our eyes stay glued in silent battle, and of course, I lose. A given when it comes to Jared Williams. I’ll always lose.
“My father.” I turn away to look out the front windshield. “He threatened me and cut me off.”
He scoffs. “And what, you being the good little girl you are, did exactly what he said?”
“When it concerns you, yes.” I close my eyes as soon as the words escape, not meaning for them to, not intending to tell him that much.
“Bullshit,” he seethes.
I shrug. “Believe what you want, I don’t particularly give a shit. Now get out.” He doesn’t move. “Jared, please …” My voice breaks. I glance over at him in time to see realization dawn on his face.
“No.” He breathes the word out, more of a whisper to himself, a quiet last-ditch effort at denial than a response.
I answer anyway. “Yes.”
“When?” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows over the word.
“Does it matter?” Christ, nothing matters anymore. I’ve ignored my coffee shop cravings, bringing my machine in from home to make some at the store in hopes that I wouldn’t have to subject myself to this. That I wouldn’t have to see him again.
“It does. When?”
I put my hand on the stick shift. “You know when. After we returned from camping.”
He curses, and I think he’s about to punch my dashboard, but thankfully, he doesn’t. He opens the door and gets out, walking up and down the side of my car with his hands in his hair.
I don’t wait for him to get his shit together. Nope, I reach over to close the passenger door before stepping on the accelerator and getting the hell away from him.