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Scrambling to get out from under her, away from the suffocating feeling that my mind has left me with, I tumble from the bed and stand.
The click of a switch echoes in the room as the lamp comes on, flooding the room with light.
I hear the gasp from behind me, and I know what caused it.
“Rick?”
“Don’t.” One word. Short, definitely not sweet, and said in a tone hard and gritted out between clenched teeth to cut her questions off instantly. My gut lurches at my harshness, but it’s for the best. I gather my clothes, throwing them on as quick as possible, avoiding her burning gaze the whole time.
The tightness in my body eases up once I have my t-shirt on, knowing she can no longer see the evidence of my failures.
“Hey, what the fuck is going on?” Jess demands, as she rises from the bed, coming toward me.
I try to step past her, but she moves in front of me again, stopping my escape.
“Move, Jessica.”
She shakes her head, and I see the determination in her eyes not to let me leave without giving her some sort of answer. Her hand stretches out to splay across my chest, and I bristle at her touch. Not because I don’t want it. That would be so much fucking easier. I wrap my fingers around her wrist, stopping any further exploration, and I take a deep breath to ease the tension strumming beneath my skin.
“This was a mistake. Again. It won’t be one I make a third time. Now, move out of my way.” I keep my focus on the wall over her shoulder afraid that if I so much as glance at her, I’ll falter.
“Liar,” she snaps back. “If you’re going to lie, to walk away, the least you can do is fucking look at me when you do it.”
I snap my eyes to hers. “This was a mistake,” I say, enunciating each word and keeping my eyes locked on hers so she’s knows I mean it. “I told you once before I’m not a gentleman and I should stay away.”
She snatches her hand from my grasp, the movement so fast and catching me off guard, that I don’t see the other hand coming up until it’s too late. A loudthwackrings out as her hand connects with my face, throwing my head to the side with the force.
Damn. My skin prickles from her slap, and I adjust my jaw trying to ease the discomfort. She steps away, and I feel the loss of her so close immediately. I can’t afford to be sentimental. I should never have come here, should never have let my fucking dick rule my head, and I should never have climbed into her bed.
I step past her, down the ladder and out the door before either of us can say anymore.
The cold night air stings my heated cheek where Jess slapped me. I swear to god a woman’s slap is like a secret weapon. Small, delicate, feminine hands that when needed can match the force of a fucking wrecking ball.
I make my way back to the caravan with bitterness biting at my flesh.
In five years, I’ve never allowed a woman to see my scars, share a bed, touch me the way Jess has, physically or emotionally. With the remnants of my dream swirling inside my head, I feel like an unexploded bomb, and Jess just lit the touch paper to my fuse.
Nineteen
Jess
It’s late Friday afternoon, and the traffic is bumper to fucking bumper. Another horn sounds behind me, and I flip my finger up to my rear-view mirror, cursing the twat who obviously doesn’t understand the concept of a traffic jam.
Since Tuesday evening, my week has gone from shit to shittier. After Rick up and left in the middle of the night, I’ve not seen or heard from him, not that I really expected to. I’m a big girl and can handle rejection, but what I can’t handle is the deep ache inside that his caustic words left me with.
Screw him.
Yeah, I did that and got the fucking t-shirt. And look where it got me? Stuck in a traffic jam on a Friday afternoon with a mood as grim as death himself and a need that can’t be sated no matter how many times I get myself off.
It probably didn’t help that Gaz, the mechanic working on my car, called yesterday with good and bad news. The good news was that the parts were in early, and my car would be ready Monday. The bad news, my brakes failed, and although he can’t be certain, it looks like someone tampered with them. I can’t say I’m all that surprised. I know that having to pump your damn brakes is usually a big sign they don’t fucking work. What I can’t get my head around is the idea that someone did it on purpose. The whole thing has left me with an uneasy feeling.
The traffic finally starts to move, and an hour later, I pull up in the only space available down my whole street. I haven’t missed this shit while I’ve been away.
Thankfully, I don’t have much to carry bar my overnight bag and a couple of bags of food. It’s just as well seeing as my car is almost a mile from my front door. Joys of living in the big city.
I have my head down as I approach the path to my flat and don’t see the guy leaning against the wall.
“Ms Fisher, can you tell us how you feel about Miss Harris’ death?” he demands, shoving a microphone in my face. “How do you feel about being sued by her father?”
