“Can’t or won’t?”
Mike shakes his head.
“Did you sleep with her?” I ask, wondering where this need to know is coming from.
His head snaps up in alarm. “Who? Amelia? Fuck, Jordan, I would never do that to you, and it’s insulting that you would think I’d ever be like Chase.”
I’m reminded of the night I caught Amelia and Chase together and drop-kick that fucker back into the garbage pail of things I will never think about again. Avoid and forget. That may be easier said than done. Seeing that damn photograph of Amelia and then Douglass showing up has those old memories and older regrets resurfacing. And something else. Something lingering like a ghost in the periphery, poking my conscience with a metaphorical stick, taunting me.
“Not Amelia. Douglass.”
“Douglass?” he parrots. I see that shroud of guilt I’d glimpsed earlier fall over him like a shadow.
“Yes, Douglass.”
I don’t know why I keep pushing for an answer. It’s not like I have or ever had any claim to Douglass Donnelly, other than she was the younger sister of the girl I thought I’d been in love with. Mike and Douglass could screw like rabbits, and it would be none of my business. But I didn’t like the way his face blanched when I told him the sexy auburn was her or the way Douglass stiffened when he hugged her. I didn’t like the way she threw death daggers at me the entire time we were at the table and acted like she wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire. I want to know why, therefore I keep pushing.
“Did you fuck Douglass?”
Mike spins around away from me, grabs his hair and pulls. He turns back. “You need to drop this. Trust me. Nothing good will come of it.”
What the hell? His cryptic warning doesn’t stop me though. I’m like a dog with a juicy T-bone.
“Just answer my damn question. Did you fuck Douglass?”
“No, you relentless asshole!” he barks.
I’m knocked on my ass with relief, but it quickly vanishes when he says, “I didn’t sleep with her. You did.”
Chapter 5
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My hands shake as I grip the lip of the sink, trying to pull myself together. Deep breath in, slow exhale out. When that doesn’t work, I turn the faucet on, push up the bangles and link chain bracelets I wear on my left wrist, and let the cool water run over the delicate skin. Skin that is marred by serrated, red lines that I use the bracelets to hide.
“You are a stupid, foolish woman,” I tell myself, refusing to look at my reflection in the mirror.
Stupid and foolish to think I could handle even a second, let alone two hours, sitting in Jordan Hammond’s presence. The bastard is even more handsome than I remember. His voice deeper. His pale blue eyes brighter. His chest broader. His arms that pinned me to the wall of the storage closet while he fucked me, thicker and with more muscular definition. And I hate myself for noticing all those things. Despise myself for reacting to them. For allowing his nearness to force me to remember the best night of my life, which also happens to be one of the worst.
“Don’t fucking touch me. Get away from me. You disgust me. I hate the sight of you.”
Shame hits me hard. For the past four and a half years, I’ve struggled to rebuild myself into a strong, resilient woman. A woman I could wake up to every morning and be proud of. Damn Jordan Hammond and damn my weak, hole-riddled heart for still yearning for him after what he did. Time to reinforce the barbed wire around that traitorous organ.
Turning off the faucet, I shake my hands out before placing them under the hand dryer, then take out my phone.
Me: Tell me a joke.
Three dots immediately bounce, and I wait.
Mason: Sex is like math. Add the bed. Subtract the clothes. Divide the legs. And pray you don’t multiply. Your turn.
I smile and roll my eyes as my fingers type my reply.
Me: When 3 people have sex, it’s called a threesome. When 2 people have sex, it’s called a twosome. Now I understand why they call you HANDsome.
Mason: Feeling the burn with that one.
Me: Are you sure that’s not from the bar bunny you took home last night?
