Jagged
Page 34
“All the way back, darlin’.”
He slid in and stayed there but lifted his face out of my neck so I tipped mine to catch his eyes and saw his brows raised.
“Bruiser?”
“You run on nothing but coffee,” I explained.
His raised brows lowered but drew together in confusion as he asked, “What?”
“Only a bruiser who could kick the ass of a cage fighter named Butch Razor can run five miles on nothin’ but a cup of coffee,” I expanded my explanation.
Ham stared at me.
Then he threw back his handsome, dark head with messy hair I’d delightfully made messy and he burst out laughing.
I saw it, heard it, and felt it, the last in very, very good places.
And I loved every bit of it.
We both had the day off, as Ham always arranged, and we spent nearly all of it in bed, taking a long, happy trip down memory lane.
Seeing as we woke up after noon, we had to make up for lost time before dinner at The Rooster. Ham made us some eggs and toast. We had the annoying errand of taking a trip to Carnal Hotel to get my stuff (my fault). Ham helped me drag my stuff from my room into his and then we showered together before Ham left me to get ready.
The trip to The Rooster was long, an hour, but we didn’t talk about anything important on the way there. I was too busy being happy that first, Ham held my hand while he drove; second, he always looked hot but in dark denims and a black untucked, straight-hemmed tailored shirt that he left open at the collar, he looked hot; and last, I was going to The Rooster at all.
I’d been there seven times, all of them with other guys, four of those times with Greg pre- and during marriage. It had fabulous décor, with Cotton prints hanging on the walls, so many windows you could see through it, it was high up on a mountainside, you didn’t go there unless you dressed up, and its menu was pricey. Mostly steaks. Everything good.
It was the perfect place for the celebration of Ham and me being back, all the way back, so far back that we were at a place we’d never been, and for us to lay it bare so we could understand each other and move on with no surprises.
I was riding a happy wave the likes I’d never felt in my life.
Ham had bought a TV.
Ham had talked about settling.
Ham had talked about having a family.
Ham had come back to Gnaw Bone for me.
Thus I wandered into The Rooster in the curve of Ham’s arm around my shoulders, mine around his waist, my head tipped to the side and resting on his shoulder, my face, I was sure, wearing a goofy but gleeful smile, thinking that nothing could pierce this happiness.
At the same time I marveled that, not a year ago, I had been at what I thought was my lowest, only to sink lower.
And now I was here.
Ham muttered, “Graham Reece,” to the hostess. She murmured, “Right this way,” back, I came out of my bubble of happiness, focused on the room, and my bubble burst.
I also tripped over my feet.
This was because, in the far back corner, sat Greg, his eyes on Ham, his face pale, his company clearly business associates.
And in the front corner was Kami Maxwell, Max’s sister, a woman I’d known years who had always been slightly bitchy and constantly in a foul mood but had mellowed a bit when her brother’s girlfriend had faced imminent death and bested it. Still, she was unpredictable, and right then, her eyes were sharp on me in a way I didn’t like. In a way I worried Cotton or Arlene had got her ear. And if Kami Maxwell had something to say, whether you wanted to hear it or not, she said it.
And last, at the back wall sat my aunt, my father’s sister, a woman I hadn’t spoken to in nine years, a woman I detested, a woman I never wanted to see again in my life. Which was an impossible feat since we both lived in the same town. She was also sending a venomous stare my way.
“Cookie, you good?” Ham asked, his arm giving me a squeeze and I tipped my head to look at him.
“This is a disaster,” I whispered.
His brows shot together and the hostess announced, “Here we are.”
I looked at her, motioning to a booth and declared, “We have to go.”
She blinked.
“What the f**k’re you talkin’ about?” Ham asked under his breath.
“Greg’s here,” I told him.
His head jerked, his eyes scanned, they narrowed when he caught sight of Greg, and he muttered, “Fuck.”
“And Kami Maxwell,” I went on.
He looked down at me and asked, “Who?”
I didn’t answer. I continued.
“And my aunt. Dad’s sister.”
His arm tightened reflexively, curling me into his front, and his head shot up, his eyes scanning again. He’d seen her but never met her and I knew when he caught sight of her because his jaw got hard.
“Mr. Reece?” the hostess called.
A muscle jumped in his cheek and he looked back down at me.
“Fuck ’em, this is our night.”
“Ham—”
His arm tightened further. “Fuck ’em, cookie, this is our night. I want this, a nice place, good food, you lookin’ fuckin’ amazing sittin’ across from me, me sharin’ important shit you gotta understand. They don’t exist. The room is meltin’ away. It’s just you and me, good food, and me givin’ you all of me. This is our night. You with me?”
Ham giving me all of him.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“There she is,” he whispered back. “Easy.”
He dipped his head to touch his mouth to mine and I tried not to think of Greg, seeing that only seven months after our divorce was final and my aunt seeing it, since my father hated Ham nearly as much as Ham hated my father. Dad had thought Ham was too rough, too old, too coarse and he shared that with me, Ham, and, undoubtedly, my aunt.
Ham curled me away from his body, nodded to the hostess, guided me to one side of our booth, and, when I’d settled, slid into the other one.
The hostess waited until I’d stowed my purse and shrugged off my coat before she handed us menus and swept away.
A waitress wearing a white shirt, black trousers, long slim black tie, and a long white apron hit our table approximately half a second after our hostess left.
“Two Coors, draft,” Ham ordered before she opened her mouth to speak.
“Certainly, would you like to hear the specials?” she asked.
“Later,” he answered. “Beer first.”
She nodded and floated away.
I only half heard this. Mostly, I was trying to make the room melt away and praying our waitress didn’t dillydally with the beers.
He slid in and stayed there but lifted his face out of my neck so I tipped mine to catch his eyes and saw his brows raised.
“Bruiser?”
“You run on nothing but coffee,” I explained.
His raised brows lowered but drew together in confusion as he asked, “What?”
“Only a bruiser who could kick the ass of a cage fighter named Butch Razor can run five miles on nothin’ but a cup of coffee,” I expanded my explanation.
Ham stared at me.
Then he threw back his handsome, dark head with messy hair I’d delightfully made messy and he burst out laughing.
I saw it, heard it, and felt it, the last in very, very good places.
And I loved every bit of it.
We both had the day off, as Ham always arranged, and we spent nearly all of it in bed, taking a long, happy trip down memory lane.
Seeing as we woke up after noon, we had to make up for lost time before dinner at The Rooster. Ham made us some eggs and toast. We had the annoying errand of taking a trip to Carnal Hotel to get my stuff (my fault). Ham helped me drag my stuff from my room into his and then we showered together before Ham left me to get ready.
The trip to The Rooster was long, an hour, but we didn’t talk about anything important on the way there. I was too busy being happy that first, Ham held my hand while he drove; second, he always looked hot but in dark denims and a black untucked, straight-hemmed tailored shirt that he left open at the collar, he looked hot; and last, I was going to The Rooster at all.
I’d been there seven times, all of them with other guys, four of those times with Greg pre- and during marriage. It had fabulous décor, with Cotton prints hanging on the walls, so many windows you could see through it, it was high up on a mountainside, you didn’t go there unless you dressed up, and its menu was pricey. Mostly steaks. Everything good.
It was the perfect place for the celebration of Ham and me being back, all the way back, so far back that we were at a place we’d never been, and for us to lay it bare so we could understand each other and move on with no surprises.
I was riding a happy wave the likes I’d never felt in my life.
Ham had bought a TV.
Ham had talked about settling.
Ham had talked about having a family.
Ham had come back to Gnaw Bone for me.
Thus I wandered into The Rooster in the curve of Ham’s arm around my shoulders, mine around his waist, my head tipped to the side and resting on his shoulder, my face, I was sure, wearing a goofy but gleeful smile, thinking that nothing could pierce this happiness.
At the same time I marveled that, not a year ago, I had been at what I thought was my lowest, only to sink lower.
And now I was here.
Ham muttered, “Graham Reece,” to the hostess. She murmured, “Right this way,” back, I came out of my bubble of happiness, focused on the room, and my bubble burst.
I also tripped over my feet.
This was because, in the far back corner, sat Greg, his eyes on Ham, his face pale, his company clearly business associates.
And in the front corner was Kami Maxwell, Max’s sister, a woman I’d known years who had always been slightly bitchy and constantly in a foul mood but had mellowed a bit when her brother’s girlfriend had faced imminent death and bested it. Still, she was unpredictable, and right then, her eyes were sharp on me in a way I didn’t like. In a way I worried Cotton or Arlene had got her ear. And if Kami Maxwell had something to say, whether you wanted to hear it or not, she said it.
And last, at the back wall sat my aunt, my father’s sister, a woman I hadn’t spoken to in nine years, a woman I detested, a woman I never wanted to see again in my life. Which was an impossible feat since we both lived in the same town. She was also sending a venomous stare my way.
“Cookie, you good?” Ham asked, his arm giving me a squeeze and I tipped my head to look at him.
“This is a disaster,” I whispered.
His brows shot together and the hostess announced, “Here we are.”
I looked at her, motioning to a booth and declared, “We have to go.”
She blinked.
“What the f**k’re you talkin’ about?” Ham asked under his breath.
“Greg’s here,” I told him.
His head jerked, his eyes scanned, they narrowed when he caught sight of Greg, and he muttered, “Fuck.”
“And Kami Maxwell,” I went on.
He looked down at me and asked, “Who?”
I didn’t answer. I continued.
“And my aunt. Dad’s sister.”
His arm tightened reflexively, curling me into his front, and his head shot up, his eyes scanning again. He’d seen her but never met her and I knew when he caught sight of her because his jaw got hard.
“Mr. Reece?” the hostess called.
A muscle jumped in his cheek and he looked back down at me.
“Fuck ’em, this is our night.”
“Ham—”
His arm tightened further. “Fuck ’em, cookie, this is our night. I want this, a nice place, good food, you lookin’ fuckin’ amazing sittin’ across from me, me sharin’ important shit you gotta understand. They don’t exist. The room is meltin’ away. It’s just you and me, good food, and me givin’ you all of me. This is our night. You with me?”
Ham giving me all of him.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“There she is,” he whispered back. “Easy.”
He dipped his head to touch his mouth to mine and I tried not to think of Greg, seeing that only seven months after our divorce was final and my aunt seeing it, since my father hated Ham nearly as much as Ham hated my father. Dad had thought Ham was too rough, too old, too coarse and he shared that with me, Ham, and, undoubtedly, my aunt.
Ham curled me away from his body, nodded to the hostess, guided me to one side of our booth, and, when I’d settled, slid into the other one.
The hostess waited until I’d stowed my purse and shrugged off my coat before she handed us menus and swept away.
A waitress wearing a white shirt, black trousers, long slim black tie, and a long white apron hit our table approximately half a second after our hostess left.
“Two Coors, draft,” Ham ordered before she opened her mouth to speak.
“Certainly, would you like to hear the specials?” she asked.
“Later,” he answered. “Beer first.”
She nodded and floated away.
I only half heard this. Mostly, I was trying to make the room melt away and praying our waitress didn’t dillydally with the beers.
