To her credit, Dylan didn't try to play dumb, but she did sigh heavily, as though she'd been dreading this conversation. Which told him everything he needed to know.
"I thought you said you hadn't heard from him," he said.
"I didn't for a couple of days after the break-in, but he started again. I called Detective Cullen and he's doing what he can to trace the original phone number."
"I'm glad you told him, but what I want to know is why in the hell you didn't tell me?" Clay asked.
"I knew it would upset you," she answered. "And there's nothing either of us can do. It was pointless."
"He's calling you a bitch now," Clay said, trying to keep his tone calm. He held the phone up. "He's no longer just obsessed with you, he'sangry. This is shit I need to know!"
"I didn't want you to get worked up like you are right now. You look like you want to pound on something, but there's nothing you can do right now."
"It doesn't fucking matter!" Clay argued. "I still need to know."
For the first time since he'd met her, Clay saw Dylan lose her temper.
"I'm tired of thinking of this bullshit!" she yelled, throwing the dishtowel in her hands against the cabinets. "I can't concentrate on anything at work, I'm barely sleeping because I'm worried he's going to come back, and I can't even go to the grocery store alone! And now you're fucking yelling at me like it's my fault when I did nothing to deserve this!"
Tears sparkled in her eyes as she stared up at him, her chest heaving with her heavy breaths.
"I'm yelling because I fucking love you and I need to know if he's escalating so I can protect you," he roared back. "I never would have left you alone in this house with the back door unlocked if I'd known he was texting you again."
Dylan's face lost all its color and her entire body seemed to deflate. "I can't have this conversation with you right now." When he opened his mouth, she lifted a hand. "You're turning green and my plants are a split second away from wrapping you up like a mummy. If you're so worried about what he said, have a look through the messages. I've saved screenshots of them all before I blocked him."
"Dylan—" he said.
"No. I need a little time to myself," she said, lifting her hand. "We can talk in an hour or two when we're both calmer."
With that, Dylan turned and walked out of the kitchen. He heard her light footsteps in the hallway and then a door shut. Clay looked around the kitchen, wondering how in the hell the situation had gone so far off the rails so fast.
Then he remembered that he'd yelled that he fucking loved her and she looked as though he'd slapped her across the face.
He felt like a complete and utter shitheel.
He wanted to talk to her, but she'd made it clear she needed some time to herself. She was also right. He needed to calm down. He'd been screaming at her like this entire situation was her fault and she'd done nothing to deserve it. She was already stressed and scared and he'd just come in and dumped a big pile of his own worries and concerns on top of her.
But he was going to read the messages. She'd given him permission and he wanted to know what that asshole said to her.
When he looked down at the phone, he saw that his fingers were still tinged green. She had done the right thing in walking away because when he got this way there was no talking to him.
His fingers weren't quite steady as he swiped a thumb up the screen on her cell phone. In a few clicks, he was looking through her photos at the screenshots of the texts. At first, they seemed a little hurt and confused, as though he didn't understand why she'd been so upset to find him in her house. Within a twenty-four-hour period, they'd become angry and spiteful. He was calling her a bitch, a whore, and even a cunt. Telling her that cheating on him was a stupid thing to do and that he would punish her for it.
It was very clear that this man thought they had some sort of relationship. What was really scary was that Dylan had no idea who he was. Granted she hadn't gotten a good look at him, but she should have recognized him if she'd met him before.
After reading all the texts, Clay was so angry he was shaking. He forced himself to be gentle as he laid her phone to the side. She was right when she said he looked like he wanted to destroy something because he did.
He walked down the hall, pausing for a moment by the closed door to the guest room. He could hear the murmur of the TV in there, but he didn't knock or try to go inside. She asked for space and he would give it to her.
Instead, Clay went into the master bedroom and changed into his workout gear. Then, he went into the garage. His truck and Dylan's car were parked in the first two bays, but in the third, he had his gym equipment set up. It was a few free weights, a bench, and his heavy punching bag, but it served his purposes.
Clay wrapped his hands in swift, economical motions and did a quick warm-up. Once his muscles were loose and ready to go, he squared up with the bag and started working his way through some easy combinations. His body heated up and sweat broke out on his skin even though the garage was chilly.
After a while, his breathing grew heavy. Clay paused long enough to strip his shirt off before he went back to the bag. Jab. Cross. Hook.
With each impact of his fist, the bag jumped violently, the chains rattling. His knuckles started to sting, but he kept at it, trying to work through all the anger and aggression bubbling inside him.
He wasn't angry at Dylan. He shouldn't have taken his frustration over the situation out on her. Unfortunately, she'd been the handiest target.
