Cross Fire, page 9
“Since you’re not one for slumber parties, I assume something happened. What’s going on?” he asked. “Does this have something to do with the guy I saw lurking around your apartment this morning?”
Silence descended over the room.
“What guy?” Marx finally asked.
Jordan shrugged. “Didn’t get a name. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, about my height. Called me Wyatt Earp. Either he knows I’m a sheriff and thinks he’s funny, or he’s had a serious break from reality. I’m banking on the latter. I told him to leave when I saw him loitering.”
Marx pulled a picture from his wallet on the side table and handed it to Jordan. “Is this him?”
Jordan only needed to glance at the picture before confirming, “Yep, that’s the guy.”
When he offered the picture back, Marx said, “Keep it. I have more.”
Jordan’s forehead creased as he studied the picture more closely. “Who is he?”
Marx and Sam shared a look, seeming to come to some kind of silent agreement, before Marx turned to me.
He drew in a deep breath, as if to physically brace himself for an argument. “Holly, I think—”
“No,” I cut him off, anticipating the suggestion he was about to make.
Sam’s eyebrows drew together, and though he didn’t say it, I could see his disapproval of my illogical response—as he would call it—etched into the frown lines of his face. “Collin isn’t going anywhere, Holly. If he shows up while you’re with Jordan, and you haven’t filled him in, he's gonna be blindsided. You need to . . .”
I glared at him until he snapped his mouth shut. I didn’t want him knowing about Collin either, but that hadn’t been my choice. This was my choice.
“Why don’t you give us a minute, Sam,” Marx suggested.
“Sure. I’ll just get started on finding out who vandalized your car.” He packed up his things, then let himself out.
Marx walked over to the couch and crouched down behind it, folding his arms over the back of it as he met my eyes. “Sweetheart—”
“I don’t want him to know.”
“Why?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Because you’re afraid of what he’ll think of you?”
Unexpected tears stung my eyes, and I averted my gaze. I didn’t want Jordan to look at me with that knowledge in his eyes. “Please don’t make this decision for me.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you. But for your sake and for the sake of everybody determined to keep you safe, I’m askin’ you to at least consider tellin’ him.”
Jordan knew very little about Collin because he was a subject I actively avoided. All he knew was that Collin was the name of the man who called and upset me on my birthday.
I looked at Jordan and felt the words tangle up in my throat. I shook my head and jerked my eyes back to Marx. “I can’t.”
I expected to see disappointment in his face, but there was only understanding. “That’s okay.” He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek so unexpectedly that I barely had time to register what he was doing before his hand was gone. “Do you mind if I tell him what I know?”
I tightened my arms around the pillow tucked against my stomach. Marx knew only a little of my past, but it was probably enough for a detective to put the pieces together.
He waited patiently while I wrestled with the decision. Jordan would find out my history eventually, either from Marx or from Collin’s cruel taunting, and maybe it was better just to get it over with.
I nodded in agreement.
“You don’t have to be here while we talk,” he said. “You can wait in your bedroom if you want.”
He was probably worried I would throw up all over his nice leather couch if I overheard their conversation. That was a very good possibility; I felt nauseous already, and all they had said was Collin’s name.
The pillow tumbled back to the couch as I stood. I wrapped my arms around my stomach and tried to keep my shoulders straight as I retreated into the spare bedroom, closing the door behind me.
I heard Marx sigh as I started to pace the length of the small room. “How much do you know about Holly’s life after she disappeared from Stony Brooke?”
“Only what she’s told me,” Jordan replied.
“So not much, then.”
“No, she doesn’t really talk about it. I get an insight here and there about her younger years, but if I try to ask her for details about anything later, she just shuts down and stops talking.”
“Well, there’s a good reason for that. And his name is Collin Wells. When Holly was fourteen . . .”
I pressed my hands over my ears to muffle his voice. Maybe someday the pain wouldn’t be so raw that talking about my past, even thinking about it, made me lose my stomach.
I tried to focus my mind on something other than the conversation going on in the living room as I paced the too-small room.
What month was it?
February. What was good about February? Discounted chocolates after Valentine’s Day, the smell of flower bouquets in almost every store. Spring was just around the corner, and there would be fresh flowers everywhere in a beautiful rainbow of colors.
Beautiful.
My mind snagged on that word and took me back to the bookstore in my hometown where a sheriff with sparkling blue eyes peered at me between the books and called me beautiful.
That illusion was about to be shattered, and whatever beauty Jordan had once seen when he looked at me would be gone. Something deep inside of me cracked a little under the weight of that heartbreaking realization.
I released a trembling breath. Focus. Spring. Flowers.
Spring was my favorite time of year. The air was cool and fresh, and there was something peaceful and invigorating about the rebirth of nature.
A memory of hunting Easter eggs in the woods with Gin and Jordan swept over me. It had been a day of laughter and joy, and no small amount of sugary sweets. Peeps—sugar-covered marshmallows in those cute little shapes.
Amazing.
Gin and I used to split the bunny Peeps. Literally. We would each grab an end and pull until the sticky deliciousness split in two. The memory brought a smile to my lips, swiftly followed by a sense of longing.
I missed her so much.
Raised voices pulled my attention to the door. It sounded like they were arguing. I felt rather than heard the violent thump that sent vibrations through the floorboards beneath me.
What were they doing?
Marx’s voice snapped through the apartment loudly enough for me to hear it through my hands. “Jordan!” A door slammed a minute later, sending another wave of vibrations through my slippers and into my toes.
I uncovered my ears and watched the door warily, half expecting something or someone to come crashing through it. I blinked at the quiet tap on the outside of it a moment later.
I hesitated before pulling it inward a few inches. Marx stood alone in the hall. His carefully vague expression made my heart twist painfully in my chest.
“He left, didn’t he?” I asked.
That was the door I heard slam. I exhaled a slow, steady breath; I wouldn’t cry. Jordan’s reaction was nothing more than I had expected. I’d had a feeling he would leave when he realized I could never offer him anything more than strained friendship.
I tucked my hair behind my ears and straightened my spine. “That’s okay,” I forced out. “I didn’t really expect him to wanna stay after you told him.”
“Holly—” Marx began, stepping aside to let me through the doorway.
“Don’t worry about it.” My voice was raw despite my effort to hide it. Although I had expected Jordan to leave, it still left an ache of disappointment in my chest.
“He didn’t leave because of you, sweetheart. I told him to take a walk and cool off,” Marx explained.
“What do you mean cool . . .” I trailed off at the end of the hall when I noticed the shards of wood that had once been a side table littered across the floor. “What happened to your table?”
He came to survey the mess with me and let out a sigh. “Jordan happened to my table.”
“And the wall?” I asked, my gaze sliding to the hole in the plaster.
“That was the table.”
My eyebrows lifted in surprise. “He threw the table into the wall?”
“Mmm hmm. Apparently my car bein’ vandalized wasn’t bad enough for one day. He had to assassinate my side table.”
“Why would he . . .”
“Why do you think?” When I just stared at the hole in the wall, at a loss for an explanation, he said, “Because he cares about you whether you think it’s possible for somebody to care about you or not.”
I lifted startled eyes to his.
I had never told anyone I felt that way, but he had an irritating habit of reading me. He offered me a sad, knowing smile before continuing his explanation.
“All this time he’s been wonderin’ why you’re so on edge around him, why his touch can send you into a panic. Of all the possibilities he imagined, none of them even came close to the truth. When I told him you were tortured by your foster brother, and that the man he ran into outside of your apartment is that foster brother, he . . . didn’t take it well.”
I swallowed and looked at the remnants of his anger lying in pieces on the floor. Okay, maybe he had reacted a little more strongly than I expected.
“But . . . that doesn’t make sense. He barely knows me.” And I knew that was my fault. I deliberately kept him at arm’s length because it made me feel safer.
“You were his best friend, Holly, and he’s spent the past several months gettin’ to know you. Don’t begrudge him his anger for the childhood friend he loved and the young woman he cares about.”
I chewed on that as I stepped carefully around the bits of strewn table and knelt down to clean up the mess. Jordan and I had loved each other as children; we had been practically inseparable.
But things were different now.
I was different now.
The front door crept inward, and Jordan filled the opening. My fingers stilled on a sliver of tabletop, and I straightened apprehensively.
He cleared his throat and said quietly, “I’m sorry about the mess.” Although the apology was directed at Marx, his gaze lingered on me.
“It’s fine,” Marx said, but his tone clearly suggested it wasn’t. “I’ll give you two a minute.” He walked into the kitchen and started rummaging through the refrigerator.
Jordan closed the door behind him and leaned back against it. Silence hung between us, and I searched his face, taking in his tightly pressed lips and the tears that shimmered in his eyes.
He drew in a breath. “Holly, I—”
“You made this mess. You should help clean it up.”
There really wasn’t all that much to clean up, but I pretended to be very busy when he sat down on the floor across from me.
For a moment, he remained motionless, and then he scooped some of the small pieces of plaster into a pile. “In all fairness, no single man’s apartment should be this neat. It goes against some sort of man code.”
A quiet, indignant snort issued from the kitchen. Apparently Marx disagreed.
“So you were just adding character to the space?” I asked.
He gave a subdued shrug. “The hole in the wall gives it a masculine air.”
“Actually, it just looks like he has rage issues and punches holes in the wall when he’s grouchy.”
“I wouldn’t say rage. Anger, maybe. Hurt, shock,” he corrected, and I knew we were no longer talking about Marx.
I had expected the news to catch him off guard, disgust him, maybe even upset him—not to the point of throwing a table—but I had never expected it to hurt him.
He rested his hand on the opposite end of the table leg I had a hold of, and my heartbeat quickened.
“I’m sorry, Holly,” he said, his voice heavy with pain and regret.
I snatched my hand back and scooted away from him, barely managing to squeeze out a response. “You don’t have to apologize to me. It wasn’t my table.”
“I’m not talking about the table. I don’t care about the table.”
I tucked my hands between my thighs and stared at the floor. “I don’t wanna talk about the other things.”
The noises of breakfast being prepared in the kitchen abruptly quieted, and I knew Marx was listening to make sure Jordan didn’t press me for details.
“Okay,” Jordan agreed reluctantly. He shifted, drawing up a knee and draping an arm over it as he toyed with a piece of wood. “But can we talk about something related to the other things?”
I hesitated, wary. “Like what?”
“Like why you were so afraid for me to know. Marx knows, Sam knows, but you didn’t want me to. Why?”
I hadn’t wanted anyone to know. I had done my best to forget, but the truth never truly went away. “I thought, if you knew, you might leave and not come back.”
And I hadn’t wanted him to leave. Maybe that was selfish. But he reminded me of home, of another life, and of Gin.
“Why would you think that?”
I pointedly avoided looking at him as I tried to explain. “Because . . . because now you know I’m . . .” Irreparably damaged? Tainted? “That I can’t . . .” Shame choked my voice, and I felt the pressure of tears building behind my eyes again. I bit down on my trembling lower lip and looked out the far window.
“Holly, what happened, what was . . . done to you doesn’t make you any less beautiful of a person. That’s on him, not on you. And it doesn’t affect the way I see you.”
I blinked fiercely. I was not going to cry.
How could it not affect the way he saw me? I wasn’t whole anymore. My spirit was scarred and fractured, and each time Collin hurt me, I felt another little piece of it crumble away like dried clay.
Clay can be remolded.
The thought came out of nowhere, and I was still pondering it when Jordan said, “Knowing the truth gives me a better understanding of why you guard yourself the way you do.”
I rubbed at my damp nose with my sleeve and dragged my eyes back to his.
“And I want you to understand that just because I think you’re beautiful, it doesn’t mean I’m gonna pressure you or,”—he paused, seeming to struggle with his words—“Force you into a relationship or situation you don’t want. You don’t have to be afraid to be alone with me.”
I lifted my chin. “I’m not afraid.”
The right side of his mouth quirked up in amusement. “Well, even if you were, hypothetically, you wouldn’t have to worry. We both know Marx would shoot me if I did anything to hurt you or make you uncomfortable.”
“Yes, I would,” came from the kitchen.
“So why are you still here? I mean, if not for . . .” I drew my knees into my chest and wrapped my arms around them. “You know, a relationship.”
“I’m here because I want a chance to know you, to spend time with you.”
That answer didn’t really allay my fears, so I waited to see if he had anything more to add.
“I promise I’m not asking for intimacy,” he continued. “And I’m not asking to be your boyfriend. Just . . . let me be your friend who happens to be a guy.”
I wanted to believe him, but in my experience, men didn’t do just friends. They inevitably wanted something more than I wanted to give.
Jordan had told me once before that he was only interested in being my friend, but sometimes I caught him looking at me in a way that set off sparklers of anxiety in my stomach. It felt too similar to the way other men had looked at me before, and I didn’t like it.
My doubt must have been visible on my face, because he said, “I swear, Holly. Just friends. The only way it would ever go further than friendship is if you want it to.”
I missed the innocent, trusting bond we had shared as children, that unbreakable friendship, and I wanted to believe we could have it back.
“How does that work exactly?” I asked, and then added for clarification, “Friendship with you, I mean. What is that supposed to look like?”
I couldn’t see us tearing through leaf piles and playing catch like we did when we were children.
“Whatever you want it to look like.”
What I wanted it to look like? The only true friend I’d had in the past eighteen years was Jace, so I had a pretty limited knowledge when it came to types of friendships. “So . . . you’re offering to be one of the girls?”
“If that’s what it takes to spend time with you, yes.”
“What about shopping?”
I caught the flicker of male dismay before he could conceal it from his face. “If you wanna go shopping, then . . . we’ll . . . go shopping.”
I loathed shopping, but I might drag him to a few stores just to see how long he could hold out under the pressure.
“How about baking? Can you bake?”
He gave me a crooked smile. “I’m better at the eating part, but I’m sure I can follow a recipe.”
Ha! Following a recipe wasn’t as easy as it sounded. I had tried.
I tugged at my lower lip with my teeth, considering the friendship he was offering. I wanted it so badly, which meant I needed to take the chance despite the insecurities and doubts gnawing at me.
“What if . . .” I hesitated before letting the rest of the words tumble out awkwardly. “If I wanna go for a run?”
He shrugged. “I’m always up for a run.”
“Good. I wanna go for a run,” I announced before I could chicken out. I stood and brushed the drywall dust from my hands.
He rose slowly, one eyebrow cocked in surprise. “Just the two of us?”
Apart from that brief time in Kansas when I needed his help to find Marx, we hadn’t been alone together since we were kids.
I straightened my shoulders and said, “If that’s okay with you.”
Jordan grinned. “I have no objections.”
Well, that made one of us.
My mind was firing out objections so quickly that I barely had time to consider one before the next one slammed into me.
I decided it would be a good idea to remind him of the ground rules. “Just because I’m tentatively agreeing to spend time with you . . . alone . . . doesn’t mean you get to cross the border whenever you want.”
