Bombshell, page 2
“Anytime, Mr. Harris. Anytime.” The cop shakes Jack’s hand with exuberance. “We at the Fulton Police Department are here to protect and serve.” After that little speech, I half expect the cop to salute and bow, but all he does is doff his cap before turning on his rubber-soled heel and collecting his partner.
But all this deference makes me wonder what in the hell is going on. The Jack Harris I knew barely had two dimes to rub together, let alone a black credit card tucked inside a wallet that probably cost more than my groceries for a month. He certainly didn’t have cops bowing and scraping to him. Nor did he wear a suit. In fact, the only nice thing he had was this shirt I’m wearing.
“You have some other stuff up there.” He gestures toward my hair.
“Perfect,” I say sarcastically.
He approaches again, cautiously, as if I’m a wild animal ready to pounce at the slightest movement. He’s not wrong. I feel on edge. Every nerve in my body is vibrating with emotion—mostly anger, I reassure myself. Those other twinges that are happening below the waistband and in my chest are echoes of the same sour fury. They are not—definitely, absolutely, positively not—desire or lust or arousal.
He stops when his chest is almost brushing my nose. He’s only de-lettucing you, I tell myself. He’s not going to run those long, elegant fingers through your hair. He's not going to deftly unbutton your top, cup your breasts, slide the digits between your legs. You don’t want that either.
My dumb, stupid pussy throbs in anticipation anyway.
This is what happens when you go long periods without sex and without toys. If I’d paid more attention to my body, I wouldn’t be shaking with need solely by his nearness, by the scent of the cologne on his wrist, by the warmth of his body next to mine.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the corded veins that run along his forearms—veins that I traced with my tongue and teeth. Those arms spent many hours planted by my head, the veins popping, lightly sheened with sweat as they supported the weight of Jack’s body as he drove inside of me.
“Are you feeling okay?” he murmurs quietly.
His words pierce the haze of arousal that had enveloped me. I push him away and stumble, nearly falling to the tiled floor.
He catches me. “You there,” he snaps at Mae, “call 9-1-1.”
“What? No. I don’t need an ambulance.” I struggle free of his grip. “I’m fine.”
He frowns. “You don’t look fine. You’re sweating. Your skin is clammy. You’re short of breath and you’re having trouble standing.”
That’s because I thought I tore my C-section stitches, but it’s just tomato residue, but also because you’re right in front of me and it’s been months since I last saw you. As much as I hate you, I also want to tear your clothes off and make love to you for as long as is humanly possible, I scream inwardly.
“I’m fine,” I repeat out loud.
“What do you expect?” Mae shouts. “You abandon your girlfriend and your daughter and then waltz back into town and expect her to be okay.”
Jack’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say a word in his own defense. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the crowd gathering again. Anna is restless, crying softly into her fist.
“Let’s go.”
“Alright.” He reaches for my arm but stops himself when he sees me flinch again. The muscle in his cheek jumps as it always did when he was irritated. It’s his annoyance that sets me off.
“What do you have to be upset about? I’m the one who got knocked up and abandoned. All you got was a little avocado on a suit!” I cuddle Anna close and run out of the grocery store, leaving behind Mae, my purse, the car carrier, and most of all, the man who broke my heart.
When I reach the car, I realize my idiocy. I can’t leave without the car carrier. Turning around, I see Mae approaching with Jack following close behind. So much for my grand exit.
Anna is full-on crying now, which ratchets up my own anxiety. I bounce lightly on my heels, wishing for this day to end.
Mae rushes up and stashes the car seat in the back.
I lower Anna in and secure her. “Sorry,” I tell Mae. “I didn’t mean to abandon you back there.”
“In these circumstances, I would’ve left, too. Come on, let’s get out of here. Want me to back over whatshisface?” She jerks her head toward Jack, who is standing just to the side, watching us take care of Anna.
“Have the cops left?” I ask.
Mae scans the parking lot. “I don’t see them.”
“You know I can hear your entire conversation,” declares the man in question.
“Did you hear something?” I say to Mae.
She holds up a hand to hear ear. “Nope. I didn’t hear a thing.”
We share a smirk before she climbs into the driver’s side. I hurry around to the passenger side, but Jack halts my progress.
“Where’s home?”
Where’s home? He moved in the day we met and didn’t leave for two months. That he’s so conveniently forgotten that is almost more hurtful than enraging.
“None of your business.” I give his solid chest a shove, but he doesn’t budge.
“I’m going to follow you regardless. It’ll be easier if you tell me.”
“Like I’m going to make anything easy for you.” I try to dart around him, but he’s too nimble and easily blocks my way. “Look.” I scowl and pin my eyes over his shoulder because I can’t handle looking straight into his beautiful face. “I want to go home. My daughter wants to go home.”
“Our daughter,” he interrupts.
I clench my teeth together. My hands curl into fists at my side. “I’m not telling you where I live because I don't want you to follow me. You gave up your right to know that information when you sent me a check and told me not to contact you again. You have no daughter.”
“Do you have a document severing my rights?” His tone is mild, but there’s steel behind his words that sends a shiver of concern down my spine.
“You’re not on any legal documents,” I reply testily.
“Are you going to make me get a paternity test?” Involuntarily, my eyes meet his. In those dark brown depths, I see serious resolve.
I think of the blank spot on Anna’s birth certificate where his name should be and then I bring up my small bank balance and wonder how long I could hold out in a protracted legal battle.
Before I can answer, Mae sticks her head out the window. “Anna’s dying in here. She really needs her mama.”
Jack grabs my elbow so I can’t escape. “We’re on our way.”
The grip is firm as iron. I’m not going anywhere without him.
Chapter Three
Since I only live five minutes away, the drive home is mercifully short. Jack sits in the back next to Anna, who miraculously stops crying the minute he joins her. His heated stare is stuck to the back of my neck, making all the hairs there stand up in alarm.
I want to fly out of the car as soon as Mae pulls into my driveway, but knowing my luck, I’d fall on my face and then they’d have to call the ambulance again. I manage to calmly unbuckle my seatbelt and get out without making a fool out of myself.
“Thank you for the ride,” I tell my friend as I bend over Anna’s car seat.
“You sure you don’t want me to come in?” she whispers in my ear.
I shoot a look across the car. From this viewpoint, I can only see Jack’s fine ass as he stares at my house I inherited from my grandmother. On my illustrator’s income, I’d never be able to afford my own home.
My house is small and I’m not embarrassed of it—or at least I wasn't until right this minute. There's something about his still manner that makes me slightly defensive about the peeling paint on my wood siding and the loose boards on my porch.
Angrily, I remember the times he’d said he’d fix those things after he got through the interior repair list he’d made when he first moved in. He’d finished half the things on that list before he disappeared. Maybe he’s recalling that right now.
Plastering a bright smile on my face, I straighten and face my worried friend. “It’s better that I talk to him myself.”
“Alright,” she concedes reluctantly. She leaves me to stomp over to Jack. Shaking her finger in his face, she threatens, “Do anything to hurt Kate and Anna again and I’ll cut off your balls!”
Jack slides down his dark sunglasses and peers at Mae over the rims. “So noted.”
Mae sputters a bit at this response while my stupid vagina tightens in excitement. Asshole Jack has always held more than a little sex appeal. He was a jerk when I first encountered him and stayed cold to everyone else but me.
When we were together, I secretly liked the idea that I was the only one who could defrost him. After I was abandoned, I realized I’d never thawed his heart—not one degree.
I pull Anna out of the car and join the two. “Thanks for taking me to the store.” I give Mae a kiss on the cheek.
She hugs me back and whispers, “Put some sleeping pills in a beer and when he’s knocked out, we’ll get his balls.”
“I’d rather not,” I murmur. “He’s not going to stay that long.”
After Mae leaves, I lead a silent Jack up the stairs to the front door.
“Anna falls asleep in the car,” I explain needlessly, but he nods as if this is vital information. He follows me into the nursery and watches as I lift the sleeping baby out of the carrier and lower her gently into the crib. Grabbing the monitor off the changing table, I gesture for him to leave, but he’s not paying attention. He’s focused on the mural that stretches along the wall behind the crib.
“The nursery is beautiful. This is your work?” he asks quietly as he runs a fingertip along a faerie peeking over a bush. It took me three tries to get exactly the right finish so the wings would look transparent. Plaster isn’t the easiest thing to paint over. Those fresco artists were talented.
“Yes. As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I started working on it.” I had to fit it in between commissions and the contracted book that Mae and I had to put out before the baby came, but it helped to pass the nine months, which were simultaneously too long and too short. "Mae put the varnish over to bring out the color.”
“You must be very successful.”
It’s weird how he acts as if he’s never been in this house before. Never touched a hammer here, fixed the back door, or seen this room. Sure, when he was here, the walls were covered with cherry blossoms and rice paper screens and sloped roofs of ancient Eastern temples, but it was still the same room.
“It’s been a long morning,” I tell him, frostily. “Maybe you should come back tomorrow.”
He pushes away from the wall and crosses the room until his feet are nearly touching mine. “If I leave today, I don’t think you’ll let me back into the house again. We have a lot to talk about.”
He gives me a small nudge out the door, tugs the baby monitor from my fist and shepherds me down the hall into my kitchen.
Without asking, he fills the kettle on the stove with water and starts to heat it. At least he remembers how to operate a sink. I sink into my chair and watch this whole performance with bemusement. The whole tea-making business takes less than a minute due to the very nice induction cooktop that Jack installed during the kitchen reno he undertook before he ghosted.
“This is quick,” he comments. “Nice.” He pats the unit before bringing over the teapot and mug for me.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Forgot this as well, did I?”
I tighten my fingers around the mug and contemplate throwing the hot water in his face. He wouldn’t miss that one. “I’m trying to be a rational adult here, but you’re not making it easy,” I reply tightly.
He laces his fingers behind his head, pressing the palms against the side of his skull in what appears to be very real frustration. “I have a feeling you aren’t going to believe me when I tell you this, but…” He pauses, and my body tenses as I wait for him to confess why he abandoned me and worse, why he’s pretending he’s never been in this house. “But I have amnesia.”
I nearly fall over in the chair. “You have what?”
“Amnesia,” he repeats. He rubs a hand over his jaw as if he’s not quite sure how to explain this. “About ten months ago, I was in a coffee shop meeting my family because I had something to tell them.” I open my mouth to ask what he was going to share, but he raises his hand. “They don’t know what I was going to tell them, only that I wanted to meet. As I was walking into the place, a chandelier fell and struck me on the head.”
He shoves aside the dark brown hair at his temple and I see a faint white mark at the temple that didn’t exist before. My stomach clenches. No. Do not fall for this bullshit, I order. I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him.
He continues anyway. “I suffered something called retrograde amnesia. I remember everything preceding a particular time period and then after, but nothing in between.”
“That’s super convenient,” I reply, but part of me wonders what is convenient about his story at all. Convenient would be never coming to Fulton again. Convenient would be not following me home. Creating this story seems like a lot of work.
“I’m sure it sounds fake as hell, which is why I’m having my doctor come over and explain it to you.”
“You're having your doctor come over to explain it to me?” I repeat incredulously
He gives me an abrupt nod. “I thought about it on the way over here. I could tell you, but, as you have shown, it’s not believable. Medical records could be faked, but not the thousands of them that exist, and really, if I’m trying to avoid paternity, why would I go to the trouble of having them recreated? It’s my best proof.”
My head is officially spinning. He has amnesia? That’s an actual thing and not a made-up diagnosis for soap operas. No. I don’t believe it. He’s lying, but for what reason? He could have just stayed gone and I wouldn’t have ever known. I’d already resigned myself to raising Anna by myself. Yes, I made a scene in the grocery store, but I was willing to let him go. Instead of retreating, though, he followed me. None of this makes sense.
“Why?” I demand. “Why are you trying to sell me on this ridiculous medical theory? Why not just stay gone?” The anger that I’ve kept pushing down rises. “I won’t fight you. Anna and I are perfectly fine without you in our lives.”
He flinches as if I’ve slapped him. Guilt tweaks my gut, but I ignore it. I’m right to be angry. This man abandoned me. I had to hunt him down, and when I found him, all I got was a snotty thug telling me that Jack knew and didn’t want me or my brat.
He looks at me straight and steady. “Because you're the answer I've been seeking for the last ten months.”
Does he really expect me to believe all this amnesia shit? And, if I do, what does that even mean? He doesn’t remember meeting me. He doesn’t remember loving me. He doesn’t remember creating Anna. He doesn’t remember me whereas I never forgot him. I had to repaint every room in this house so that I could erase the image of him in it. If I could’ve afforded to move, I would have.
Instead, I lived here and cried here and needed here…alone. I was scared he was dead for a while. I had to seek out the help of the scariest man in town to find Jack, and when I did, all I received was cold rejection.
I shake my head furiously. “I’m in a very emotional state right now so don’t fuck around with me. I don’t have the energy for it. I’m confused and hurt and frustrated and scared. You weren’t around during my pregnancy. You weren’t around for the birth, which was hard as shit. But suddenly you show up and you want to be Anna’s dad? I just can’t handle it all.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps. “I swear to you on everything I own and my mother’s life that if I hadn’t had that accident, I would’ve been with you this entire time. I’m not here to take Anna away from you. I’m here to rebuild what we’ve lost. I’m not leaving you or Anna ever again.”
Before I can respond, the doorbell rings. Jack rises to his feet and walks to the door as if he owns this house. On the doorstep, there’s a white-haired man with an impatient look on his face and a sheaf of papers under his arm.
Jack waves him in.
“Kate, this is Dr. Dixon. Dr. Dixon, my…” He trails off, revealing the first signs of uncertainty that I’ve seen him display all day.
“Kate Chandler.” I get out of my chair and go to shake the man’s hand. “I didn’t know doctors made house calls anymore.”
“We don’t, but Mr. Harris is a special client,” the doctor admits. He shakes my hand. The papers start to slip. I reach down to help him at the same time Jack does. Our fingers brush and a shock of electricity courses through my body. I jump back.
“You can put them over there.” I point to the kitchen table. “What do you mean he’s a special client?”
“He means I pay him a lot of money,” Jack answers for the doctor. “Dixon is here to answer any questions that you have.”
“How do I even know he’s a medical doctor?”
Jack looks to Dixon to explain this.
“Ah, I guess I have a card. No, wait, I have this.” Dixon fumbles in his pocket and then produces a badge with his picture on it. Under the picture are the words, “Dixon, Kenneth, M.D. Dept. of Neurology.”
I scratch my head. This is an elaborate ruse if Dixon is not an actual doctor, and as Jack pointed out before, why would he go to these lengths? I sink into the kitchen chair and flip through the records, not quite understanding what all I’m reading.
The doctor clears his throat. “On the third page is the diagnosis.”
I flip to the third page and scan the contents until I come to a part titled, “Assessment.” Retrograde amnesia is the first item.
“Mr. Harris suffers from a memory loss of events preceding an event—usually disease or illness.”
I jerk around to stare at Jack. “You’re diseased?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Just the hit on the head.”
Which made you forget everything important.
