Bombshell, page 3
“They didn’t know,” he declares. “If they’d known, they would have brought me here.”
But they did know. I wonder if I should tell Jack that. If this is all true…then his family has been lying to him for months. If being the operative word here.
Dr. Dixon clears his throat. “Mr. Harris suffered a blow to the head and this blow induced the memory loss. Because we do not know much about how amnesia works and there are no obvious cures, we do not encourage forced remembrances. Therefore, Mr. Harris and those around him were advised to approach any memory retrieval methods cautiously. At first, Mr. Harris did not listen to us and attempted various methods, which led to heart failure—”
“I think she gets it, Doc,” Jack murmurs. “Thank you for coming by.” He leads the doctor to the door.
A heart attack? I reach up and clutch my chest. Jack could’ve died? He is only thirty-five—seven years older than me. I’d actually wished for that in the past, but when faced with the reality of a world without Jack, I find my own heart seizing up in real pain.
“I’m glad I could help,” Dixon replies, his voice faint from the distance between the door and the kitchen.
I don’t hear Jack’s reply. I close my eyes. He doesn’t remember me. At all. There’s a pocket of memory loss and in that pocket, I lived, which means the night we met, the days we loved, the sweet smiles, the lusty nights were all gone for him. How he moved in and didn’t want to leave. How he said he loved me. Then he disappeared and I was pregnant and so lonely and scared.
I hate him.
But at one time I loved him.
I drop my head into my hand.
“This is a lot,” I tell him when his heavy footsteps stop behind my chair.
“I know it is. You have every right to hate me, but I’m hoping that you’ll get over that because I plan on being part of your life.”
“For how long?”
“Forever.”
Chapter Four
A braver woman would’ve challenged Jack, but I was too emotionally worn out. I get up. “I need to sleep. Anna only rests for a few hours at a time. She’ll be up soon and I’m exhausted.”
“All right. Take your nap. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It sounds more threat than promise. Keeping my eyes averted, I hurry down the hall to my own bedroom. I tear off the shirt Jack left behind and toss it into the dark recesses of my closet. I don my torn Hufflepuff T-shirt and climb into bed. The minute my back hits the mattress, I realize I’ve made a big mistake because in this bed, I remember how he touched me. How he held me. How he kissed me all over. How he loved me.
I squirm restlessly. We had sex the first time we met. It was the first time I’d ever had an orgasm. I breathlessly admitted that to Jack and he took this as a personal challenge to see how many times he could make me come in a night. Seven was our record. I couldn’t walk the next day and spent the entire time in bed. Jack waited on me with a smirk.
It was amazing, and I’m fairly sure that’s when Anna was created.
My hand creeps down to my stomach, my fingers halting at my waistband. Jack loved going down on me. He’d take any and every opportunity to flip my skirt up or pull my pants down and feast. My fingers slide under the elastic.
His appetite was voracious and his stamina that of an Olympic athlete. He seriously never seemed to get tired. And he was fun. We laughed in bed, something I didn’t even know was a thing before Jack came along. Sex was fun and playful and hot and erotic. It was everything that books said it could be.
And he loved me, or so he said. He’d slide his massive cock into me and rasp out in his sex voice that he “fucking loved me more than life” and that “fucking me was a miracle” and “if he died fucking me, his whole life would be worth it.”
I slip my fingers inside my wet channel.
He was tender when he needed to be and rough when I needed it.
One time I’d gotten home late from a client meeting. I’d been offered an opportunity to draw a mural for a startup company. When I arrived, I found out that I was competing with others and that I could present my idea for free. It made me angry that they were going to waste my time like that. I was pissed off when I came home and not in the mood for sex.
Jack made me tea, like he had earlier today. Then he’d run a bath and shoved me inside the bathroom with my Kindle. I was ordered to not come out until I had wrinkles on the soles of my feet.
When I finally emerged wrapped in two thick terry cloth towels, I found that my favorite pho had been delivered. We ate our soup and noodles, and Jack listened silently while I complained about the whole ordeal. After the bowls were washed and the trash was removed, Jack bent me over his knees and spanked me, driving the anger and irritation.
I turned red and wet. He hoisted me up on the table, spread my legs, and held me down with one powerful hand while he unbuckled his belt and drew his hard cock out.
“Those assholes don’t deserve you. They don’t deserve your talent. They don’t deserve your attention. No one deserves you. Not even me,” he’d declared. Then he proceeded to fuck me mindless.
I thrust my fingers inside of myself, imagining that it is Jack here. That he’s bracing his sweat-slicked body over mine. That his hand is between my legs and his fingers are holding me open for the invasion of the broad head of his cock.
He is telling me how hot I look, how sexy I am, how he can barely breathe when he’s near me because I turn him on so bad.
“Look at how hard you’ve made me,” he’s whispering in that guttural tone, the one that sounded like his throat had been scraped raw. “Look at this.”
I look down to see his enormous shaft, fully engorged and ready to pierce me. I slide my legs open wider while at the same time pursing my lips coquettishly. “I’m sorry. I did that?” I tease.
His lips stretch across his across his teeth. “Yeah, little girl, you did and now you’re going to have to pay for it.”
He drives into me so hard my skull hits the headboard. He slaps a hand against the top of my head and holds me in place. “Oh no, you can’t escape your punishment.”
I don’t know what I did wrong, but I hope I do it again and again and again. He fucks me relentlessly. The memory of his harsh breaths, my short, wispy ones, and the wet suck of my pussy as it stretches to accept his girth are the background music to my lonely orgasm.
“Jack. Jack. Jack,” I chant even though it’s only my fingers and not his and that the only voice in this room is mine. I come, swallowing a keening moan. I withdraw my fingers and lever myself off the bed to wash my hands.
The night is ending as disappointing as it began. I stumble back to bed, exhausted but not satisfied, and fall into a restless sleep.
I wake up to the sound of Anna crying. I bounce out of bed and stumble into the nursery only to find that Jack has beaten me there. Or maybe he was in there all along. His suit coat is gone and the white button-down shirt is draped over the back of the rocker. Clad in only a thin white V-neck T-shirt, Jack awkwardly cradles Anna in his arms.
He gives me a relieved smile when I appear in the doorway. “She wanted to eat, but I didn’t have anything and I wasn’t sure of the bottle system in the refrigerator. Can the milk in there be heated up?”
“On the stove,” I reach for the baby. “But she prefers it from the tap.”
“The tap?” he asks. Understanding dawns when I move to the side and pull down the collar of my shirt. “Oh-oh, the tap.”
Without turning around, I hold out my hand. “Do you mind passing me one of those blankets?”
He places a soft fabric into my hand and I arrange it over my shoulder so that my breast isn’t fully exposed. Feeling marginally better, I take a seat in the rocker with Anna serving as my shield. It’s easier with her between us.
Jack watches everything avidly from his position against the changing table. His long legs stretch out for what seems like days. I force myself to look away. Why hadn’t he changed into a frog in the last ten months? It would’ve been easier to fight this attraction then.
As if he reads my mind, he says, “You’re beautiful, Kate. You’re so fucking beautiful and sexy right now that it’s hard for me to stay over on this side of the room, but I’m trying to control myself because I don’t think you’re ready for us to make love yet.”
Red heat creeps up the back of my neck as I recall exactly what I was doing in the bedroom before I took my brief nap.
“You’re right,” I say, although it feels like a lie. “I’m not interested in climbing into bed with you. Even if I do buy your amnesia story, it doesn’t erase the fact that you were gone for ten months. And that you’re completely different now that you’re back.”
“How? The suit?” He brushes his hands down his chest, pulling the fabric tight across his defined pectorals and ridged abdomen.
My blood pressure spikes—at his incredulous tone, not because of lust. “Yeah, the suit.” Because his body is as fine as it always was.
One dark eyebrow rises. “What was I doing when we met?”
“Working at the quarry for Leka Moore. I had a flat tire on Highway 11. You pulled over and helped me out.” Then you followed me home, kissed me under the moonlight and told me that I was to delete every number in my contact list that wasn’t yours.
“I see.” He rubs the back of his neck and stares out the window for a long, quiet moment. Only a few cars pass by. Most everyone is at work, but Jack’s seeing something other than the landscape. His past, I suppose.
Anna finishes feeding on one side and I take the opportunity to switch sides. The movement draws his attention back to us.
“I’m a lawyer,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “My brother and I run a plastics company. He wanted to move the business into making military parts. I disagreed. The family voted on it and decided on profit over everything else, so I walked.”
“And ended up working at the quarry?” I ask. It’s my turn to be incredulous.
He lifts his hands up in the air. “I’m guessing it’s a job that requires only manual labor.”
His quick answer for everything leaves me disgruntled. “Why didn’t you tell me before then?”
“I have a feeling that my life with you was too perfect and I didn’t want to ruin that. I’m sure I would’ve told you eventually, once I was sure that you wouldn’t run from me. You know why I’m here in this town?”
“No.” That’s one thing that had been bothering me. Why this place? Why now after all these months of absence?
“Because for the last ten months, ever since I woke up in that hospital bed, something has been wrong with my heart.” He taps his chest. “I’ve undergone EKGs and CTs and MRIs and every other test in the alphabet to figure out why my heart would just stop beating, why my chest would be in so much pain I thought I was going to die. My family forced me to take a leave of absence. I got in my car and ended up here.” He stares at me, daring me to look away.
I thought I was going to die.
The wall around my chest tightens until my own heart stalls. A world without Jack? That seems wrong and unjust. I never wished for him to die—only to come back to me. To live with me. To be my love.
Something was wrong with my heart.
I search his face, looking for the slightest sign of a lie. A facial twitch. A redness. An irregular heartbeat. Sweat. Anything.
But I only see sincerity in those dark pools and seriousness in the set of his jaw. Every particle in my body wants to believe this is a true story. That even if his mind didn’t remember me, his heart did. That his longing for me was so deep and true that his physical body shut down.
I blink back tears. Anna mewls against my breast. I lift her off, this time not worrying if Jack sees my bare nipple. I clutch her against me. The labor was hard and I had to undergo an emergency C-section. The wound in my stomach still aches, but all the pain and sadness I’d experienced before she was born disappeared the first time I held her. She was a miracle with her ten toes and her ten fingers and her eyes, nose and mouth all in the right place.
He’d missed her birth. He’d missed her first sounds. He missed feeling her kick against my belly. He’d missed all of that. Perhaps I’d endured the better end of this terrible deal. I’d gotten Anna. Jack had nothing but ten months of pain that he couldn’t find a cure for.
“How is your heart now?” I ask softly.
“It’s healing.” His voice is equally soft but still so earnest.
“I looked for you,” I say, my throat hoarse. “I even went to talk to Leka Moore at the quarry and he’s a scary man.” Once I’d explained I was pregnant, Moore gave me the address of an office building in the city, an hour and a half away where Jack’s checks were sent every two weeks before he disappeared. “I went to your office. I tried to find you, but I was told to get lost.”
“Who? Not my family. They would’ve welcomed you.”
I shrug helplessly. “I don’t know who he was, but he told me that you didn’t want me or my ‘brat.’”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Jack’s voice is hushed, but the coldness in his tone sweeps over me. I clutch Anna closer. “Was he about five ten and a little thick around the waist? Blond hair shaved close to the head?”
“No.” I don’t know anyone like that. “He was tall and slender. He had brownish blond hair that looked like he had it styled at some fancy salon. And his hands. He had a perfect manicure.” I remember those hands well, thinking how different they were from Jack’s work-roughened hands.
“Clay?” Jack stands up.
Involuntarily, my gaze travels up his long legs, past his trim waist, over his broad shoulders to meet a furious set of brown eyes.
“Clay,” he repeats. “You’re sure.”
I think back to that windy day in March, marching up to that fancy office building dressed in a pair of jeans I’d bought at H&M and a shirt from Uniqlo with Anna percolating in my tummy. Around me were women dressed in Tory Burch, wearing Jimmy Choo shoes and carrying Dior bags. I’d never felt so unimpressive my entire life. It was bad enough to be blocked from going up to the floor where Jack supposedly worked, but it was worse when that trim, disdainful man came down and announced in a loud voice that I wasn’t wanted.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
There’s a cracking noise and I realize it’s from Jack squeezing the wood top so hard that it’s broken off at the edges.
“Sorry,” he says, but I don’t think that’s what he’s actually apologizing for.
“There’s a letter, too.” I want it all out. If we’re going to forgive and forget, then he needs to explain all of it.
His face turns to stone. “What do you mean?”
I lick my lips, feeling a little frightened even though I know rationally I’m not the target. “You sent me a letter and a check. It’s in my bedroom. I’ll get it,” I add in a hurry when I see him start toward the door. It’s in my underwear drawer and I don’t want him pawing around there.
“Here. Anna needs burping.” I drop the sleepy baby into Jack’s arms and throw the cloth diaper I use as a burping bib over his shoulder. I hustle out of the room before Jack can stop me. It takes only seconds to pull out the letter and the bank check. I never cashed it. Maybe that was stupid of me, but the number was insulting. Like, wasn’t Anna worth more than ten grand?
I present it to Jack with a scowl. “Here. See, I’m not lying.”
“Ms. Chandler.” He stops reading and looks down at me. “He knew your last name?”
“Yeah.” I reach for Anna, who Jack has cradled in one arm. The man side steps me easily and my hands fall to my side.
He holds the letter up and keeps reading. “Ms. Chandler, I regret to inform you that Mr. Harris does not wish to have further contact with you. Please accept this sum as recompense for any past grievances you may have. Very truly yours, Clayton Davis.” He crushes the letter in his hand. “I’m going to kill him.”
With that very real threat, Jack stalks out.
Chapter Five
I look at the clock. Jack said he’d be back by dinner. Hopefully, his words were hyperbole and he isn’t in jail for actually murdering someone. A small smile twitches my lips. I hope whoever that guy was got his ass beat. Jack’s anger was real and immediate, and it went a long way in convincing me that the whole story of his amnesia was true.
It didn’t erase my past feelings of hurt and rejection, but there’s a Band-Aid there. Like Jack said, my heart’s healing now. I don’t know what that means for us in the future, though. We still have a lot of issues to work out.
I head for the kitchen and get out the makings for a grilled cheese sandwich. As I look at the bread and cheese spread out on the counter, I wonder if I should make him a sandwich. No, I decide, that’s not my job. But a few minutes later, I find myself in the kitchen anyway.
“I’m not making him a sandwich,” I declare to my daughter, who is enjoying tummy time on her play mat. She just ate and she’s now busy gnawing on her book of textures. The crackling of the plastic is her only answer, but it sounds vaguely judgmental. “I’m making you and me two sandwiches because we need the extra energy.”
She continues her silence.
“Okay, maybe I am making him a sandwich, but only because it would be rude to eat mine in front of him and I can’t be teaching you bad manners at this age, right?”
She might’ve responded, but the doorbell rings. With her in my arms, I open the door and find a delivery man standing in front of two giant suitcases.
Frowning, I say, “I didn’t order anything.”
“This is for Jack Harris.”
A large figure appears over the man’s shoulder. Jack reaches out and plucks the clipboard from the delivery person. “I’ll sign for that.”
He scribbles his name and hands it back. Before I know it, I’m back inside my house staring at the luggage.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m moving in.” He throws his wool coat over the back of the living room chair, revealing a black sweater that clings to his perfect frame. He sticks his hands on his hips and asks, “Where should these go?”
