Page 27 of Bad Blood Panther

Her face grew incredulous. “I did!” she said. “I did, and you didn’t care. You just left and you—”

What the hell? “What are you talking about?”

Her mouth dropped open. “You know what I’m talking about. When I found out what Cindi had done, I came to that motel. That last one you were in.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t.”

“Yes I did! It was called the Shady Acres and it had horrible mustard-yellow carpet, which I could barely see because the stuffing from the chair you destroyed was scattered all over it. I got your cat calmed down. I got you to take a shower, and eat. And then we—”

He had no idea what the fuck she was talking about, and she obviously saw it on his face. She stared at him, looking stricken. “Oh, God,” she said, taking a step back. “You don’t even remember.”

“Jenny, I was drunk for two weeks straight. My cat was taking over my brain like twelve times a day, and yammering at me the rest of the time like a demented Rain Man. All I remember is rage and destruction and wanting to kill people and thanking God I hadn’t. Except for Cindi. Really don’t think I would have regretted killing her.”

“How can you not remember?” she whispered. “You made love to me, Alex. Right there in that ugly motel room—”

Oh, fuck. Her words, the look on her face, ripped open the door to one of those places in his head he’d never planned to go again. Bits and pieces started coming back to him. A tiny interlude of sweetness and hope in the midst of his despair.

“And then Cindi showed up,” he said slowly. “The two of you got into a fight…”

And his cat went berserk. All those emotions, all that rage—he couldn’t handle it.

“And you forgot about me,” she said bitterly. “Like you always did when she was around. I was just good old Jenny. Good enough to tell all your secrets to, but not good enough to date. Or fall in love with. You just tossed me aside when somebody with bigger boobs and more bleach in her hair and a perfect face came along. ‘Yes, Alex. No, Alex. Ooh, you’re so awesome, Alex.’”

“Stop that,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me what a fucking idiot I was.”

“Maybe I do,” she snapped. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe I’ve waited all this time to tell you what a fucking idiot you were! And maybe I want to tell you more than once.”

“Like I haven’t been punished enough?” he yelled. “My whole damn life down the toilet? Getting captured by Alexander Fucking Grant and being put through hell? I was twenty-five, and I fell for flattery and a pair of tits, and I paid a price you can’t even imagine. So now you get to call me an idiot. I hope you’re fucking happy.”

He ripped off his clothes and let his cat take him. Leaving Jenny behind, he took off like a bat out of hell, heading for home.