Ghosted

  “Sounds good,” I mumble, giving him a smile, but I know that’s a lost cause. Forgetting this is out of the question. I can feel my blood simmering. I want to follow that man right into the darkness and give him a piece of my mind.

  Chapter 14

  JONATHAN

  One step forward, fifty steps back.

  That’s how it feels, like getting knocked on my ass the second I find the strength to stand up.

  My phone lays beside where I sit, on top of the old wooden picnic table, under the veil of darkness that earlier settled over the park. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. No, worse than that—I’m weak. My contacts are open on the phone, the screen lit up, but I don’t have it in me to press any buttons.

  The glass bottle feels heavy in my hands. A fifth of whiskey. I don’t recognize the brand. I grabbed the first thing I came upon in the corner store on my way here, something cheap and rough.

  I can almost feel the burn.

  I stare at it.

  And stare at it.

  And fucking stare at it.

  The bottle’s still sealed.

  Would be so easy to crack it open and take a drink, dull the pain—the anger, the anguish.

  Grasping the lid, I unscrew it, breaking the seal and getting a whiff of the strong, stringent liquor, when my phone vibrates against the picnic table. Jack’s name flashes on the screen. Sighing, I ignore it, but he calls back.

  Again.

  And again.

  “Goddamn it,” I mutter, answering his fourth call, hitting the button to put it straight on speaker. “Always knew you’d be a pain in the ass, Jack. Didn’t realize you were also psychic.”

  Jack laughs. “What can I say? I sensed a disturbance in the force. Figured I’d spit some Yoda-isms at you for a bit. A fuck up, you are.”

  “Funny,” I mutter.

  “Truthfully, I was calling to congratulate you.”

  “For what?”

  “For going a week without gracing the front of a single tabloid,” he says. “Went to the grocery store earlier and didn’t see your ugly mug anywhere. Made my day.”

  “I’m glad I could do that for you,” I say.

  “I appreciate it more than you know,” he says. “Now tell me what I can do for you.”

  I hesitate, staring at the bottle. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit,” he says. “Try again.”

  “You know, you’re supposed to be supportive and follow my lead.”

  “Again, bullshit. If you wanted to be coddled, you would’ve picked someone else as your sponsor. That’s not me. I’m not babying a grown ass man when he’s whining for a bottle.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck you.”

  “Spill it, Cunning,” he says with a laugh. “Tell me how the big bad world hurt you.”

  I’m not in the mood to talk, but I know he’s not going to drop the subject, so fuck it—I ramble, telling him all about the shitty day I’ve had.

  He listens quietly, waiting until I’m done before he says, “Well, that sucks.”

  I laugh bitterly, because yeah, it does. It sucks.

  “Your own fault, though,” he adds.

  “I know,” I mutter.

  “Do you? Because I’m guessing, and correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re probably sitting alone somewhere, moping, about to drown your sorrows like you’re the victim.”

  I glance around the park. It’s like he’s watching me. “Seriously, are you psychic?”

  “Nah, I just know you,” he says. “You’re a self-sabotaging piece of shit some days.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “But you know, most days, you’re pretty okay.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “Too bad your movies suck.”

  That makes me laugh. “Yeah, too bad.”

  “But anyway, if you’re done bitching about the poor pitiful life of a Hollywood heartthrob, I’m gonna get back to my glamorous existence of trolling online and talking shit about your kind in the comments section.”

  “You do that,” I say. “Thanks, Jack.”

  “Anytime, Cunning. Just call me next time. Sensing the force doesn’t always work. I’m going to be pissed if you get drunk and I don’t have the chance to yell at you about it first.”

  “I’ll call,” I tell him. “Next time.”

  Noise startles me awake, drawing me from a restless sleep, the sound of footsteps stomping up the creaky wooden stairs. I stare at the ceiling, trying to blink the grogginess away, as the sound grows louder, closer, shadows shifting outside the bedroom door.

  No hesitation, the door flings open so hard it slams into the wall. Light streams into the room from the hallway, disrupting the darkness. I wince, sitting straight up, trying to get my wits about me as I shield my eyes. “What the hell?”

  “You’ve got some nerve,” a voice says, a sharp edge of anger to those words—so angry, in fact, that it takes a second for me to recognize it.

  “Kennedy?” Caught off guard, I blink at her as she steps into the bedroom. Shadows mask her features, but it’s her, all right… she’s here, a few feet from the bed. I rub my eyes, trying to wake up. “Jesus, am I dreaming or something?”

  “I can’t believe you,” she says, stepping closer. “That’s what you said to me. I can’t believe you. But I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing.”

  I blink at her, trying to make sense of that. “What?”

  “What? Seriously? What?” She throws her hands up, coming even closer. “You act like I’m this horrible person, like I’ve done some horrible thing that you can’t understand, but I didn’t. I’m not. This isn’t my fault! You left me, Jonathan.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did!”

  She’s standing right in front of me, so close that I can see her hands shaking as she clenches them into fists, tears swimming in her eyes. I glance around, trying to get some sense of the time, but I’m not sure where my phone is and there’s not a clock nearby. It’s dark, though—pitch black—so I’m guessing it’s past midnight.

  “You left me, Kennedy,” I say, looking back at her, “not the other way around.”

  “You’re wrong,” she says. “I walked away. There’s a difference. You left me long before that. I was pregnant, and you left me.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did!”

  I stall a moment when she cuts me off before saying, “I didn’t know.”

  “That doesn’t make it any better!”

  I want to argue, wanting to defend myself, but there’s no defending this shit. “Look, I was wrong, and I’m sorry for that.”

  “So you keep saying, but sorry doesn’t change anything, Jonathan, not when you keeping acting like, ugh… that.”

  She waves toward me, and I glance down at myself. “What are you talking about?”

  “You show up here, and have the nerve to try to weasel your way into my life, into my mind, like you have any right to be there after all this time. You have the nerve to judge me for who I hang around… you have the nerve to question my parenting, like I don’t know what’s best for my daughter!”

  Something clicks with me when she says that, some of the fog lifting. “Jesus… is this about him? Hastings?”

  “No, this is about you.” She points at me. “You and your innocent act… and your money, and your things. The words you say—the jokes, the laughs, the smiles you give her that she eats right up, and ugh, your face.”

  “My face?”

  “Your stupid fucking face,” she says, running her hands through her hair as she groans, those words startling me. Kennedy doesn’t curse. “Your face is everywhere. I’m sick of it!”

  “You’re sick of my face.”

  “Yes!”

  “There’s not much I can do about that.”

  “You can get out of my head,” she says. “Stop being there all the time!”

  I laugh at that, because it’s so damn absurd, but that’s the wrong th
ing to do. Her eyes narrow as she stares me down, looking like she wants to hit me right now.

  “I hate you,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’ve never hated someone as much as I hate you, Jonathan.”

  Those words, they wake me right up. I’m no longer laughing. There’s nothing funny about it. I got under her skin, and with the two of us already on shaky ground, I know that’s dangerous.

  She turns to leave, like she’s going to walk away, but I grab her arm to stop her. “Come on, don’t be like that…”

  “Don’t touch me,” she says, ripping from my grasp.

  I let go as I stand up, stepping toward her. “Just… wait a minute… talk to me.”

  “There’s nothing left to say.”

  “I’ll be goddamned.” I grab her arm again before she can walk out. “You can’t tell me you hate me and then leave. That’s bullshit. You bust up in here while I’m asleep to yell at me…”

  “You deserve it!”

  “Maybe so, but still…”

  “Still nothing,” she says, turning to me again, getting right in my face. “I hate you. That’s it. There’s nothing else to say. I hate everything about you. Your voice, your face… I hate it. Why aren’t you going away?”

  “Because I can’t,” I tell her, “and I’m pretty sure you don’t really want me to.”

  She scoffs.

  “You’re upset,” I say, “but you’re lying to yourself if you think you want me gone.”

  “I do.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Leave.”

  “No.”

  “Go away.”

  “I’m not.”

  As soon as that last word leaves my lips, she’s on me, slamming into me, her lips pressing against mine. She’s kissing me, and I’m so fucking stunned that it takes me a moment to react, a moment to consider kissing her back. She moans and wraps her arms around my neck, clinging to me damn near aggressively as she kicks the door closed.

  There’s a bitter tang on her tongue.

  In a daze, it doesn’t register right away, but the second that it does the world seems to stop.

  I push away from her, breaking the kiss with a groan. “You’ve been drinking.”

  She’s breathing heavily. Even in the darkness, I can tell her cheeks are flushed. Wide eyes regard me as she says, “It was just some wine.”

  She doesn’t seem drunk, but well, there’s no way in hell she’s thinking clearly, not if what she’s thinking about right now is kissing.

  But before I can say anything, she’s on me again, kissing, pressing against me and pushing me toward the bed. Whoa. She's not gentle about it. My ribs fucking ache. Her hands are all over, tugging at my clothes, a chill shooting down my spine when her warm fingertips reach bare skin.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say. “We shouldn’t—”

  “Just shut up,” she growls against my lips, hands winding through my hair, gripping it.

  The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fall back on it, dragging her down with me. Pain rips through my skull, damn near blinding, rivaling the burning happening in my chest.

  I hiss. “Fuck.”

  Her kiss grows harder, frenzied, desperation in her touch. She’s not slowing down, showing no signs of stopping. Every stab of pain strikes deep, getting me all worked up. My heart is beating a million miles an hour.

  “You sure you wanna do this?” I ask when she straddles me.

  Her voice is a breathy whisper when she says, “No.”

  “Maybe we should stop.”

  “Shut up.”

  I laugh at that, shutting up, because I’m not going to argue. Maybe this moment is all wrong, and maybe it shouldn’t be happening, but there’s very little I want in this world more than I want this woman, so I'm not turning her down.

  I drag her further onto the bed, struggling to keep a grip on her with one hand. Damn cast. Her hand slips down my pants, grasping my cock, and she strokes me, over and over.

  “Fuck,” I groan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

  If she doesn’t stop that, I’m going to bust. Right here, right now, just like this.

  I flip her over, climbing on top, fumbling with her pants as I try to pull them off. She doesn’t hesitate, stripping out of her clothes, flinging them across the room. I don’t bother getting naked, just freeing myself from the confines of my pants as I settle between her legs, between her thighs, right there.

  Questions flow through my mind—so many questions, almost as many objections—until she whispers, “Make me feel good again, Jonathan.”

  I’m inside her then, not a moment of second-guessing, pushing in slowly with a deep groan.

  So tight. So wet. So goddamn beautiful.

  “Oh god,” she whimpers, clinging to me.

  I’m still dazed. Hell, maybe this is a dream. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not waking up from it. Slow, and deep, the way I know she always liked it, teasing to the point of agony.

  It’s torture.

  Ten minutes, maybe an hour—I don’t know. Pleasure rushes through me, my breathing haggard, parts of me brutally hurting, but I keep on going. Fucking her, making love—I’m not sure what this is, but her soft cries fill the room as her nails rake down my back, so I know she’s all in. Sweat forms along my brow, a sheen coating her body, her skin slick and glistening in the dim moonlight from the window. I taste it, as I kiss her neck, the salty tang on my tongue.

  I bite, and lick, and suck. I’m probably leaving marks, but the harder my mouth works, the more she squirms.

  When she comes, her back arches, her face contorting and mouth falling open in ecstasy. She lets out a strangled cry, almost like she’s choking, suffocating, before she dissolves into whimpers. Fuck, that sound does something to me…

  I come, grunting, before stilling on top of her, trying to catch my breath, trying to clear my head. What the hell is happening? She’s trembling beneath me, and I’m worried she’s panicking. But when I pull back to look down at her, she smashes her lips to mine again, sending me reeling.

  Five o’clock.

  That’s what my phone says when I slip out of bed much later, finding it shoved in the pocket of the jeans I’d been wearing, the battery hovering down at ten percent. Notifications take up the screen, most of them messages from Cliff.

  I can get those convention tickets. Why do you want them?

  You remember they invited you, right?

  You were supposed to be the headliner.

  I know. I remember. I declined. Not that I didn’t want to do it, but Cliff didn’t think it wouldn’t be wise considering when the invitation came, my sobriety was still on shaky ground.

  Still is, asshole.

  I sigh as I stroll to the door, glancing back at the bed at her.

  Kennedy.

  My eyes skim along her naked back, following the curve of her spine. She’s curled up, cuddling a pillow, a flimsy white sheet draped over parts of her. She’s sleeping, lightly snoring—in and out all night long.

  The world is lightening as sunrise nears. I leave the room, my bare feet quiet as I make my way downstairs, replying to Cliff. Forget about it.

  His response is instant, of course, because he doesn’t sleep. You sure?

  I type a quick ‘Yes’ before slipping the phone in the pocket of my sweats.

  Heading for the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and crack it open when a voice chimes in behind me. “Have you lost your gosh dang mind?”

  McKleski stands there in her nightgown and robe, clutching it closed and scowling at me.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Where are your clothes?”

  I glance down at my bare chest. No shirt. “Just haven’t gotten dressed yet.”

  “You should do that,” she grumbles, shuffling into the kitchen past me. “Might give an old lady a heart attack running around like that.”

  I laugh, taking a sip of the water while she sets about making a pot of coffee.
“I think, if I were to give you a heart attack, it would’ve happened that day at the park.”

  “Nearly did,” she says. “Why do you think I called the police? All that squawking going on in my backyard.”

  She cuts her eyes at me, giving me a knowing look. Yeah, she knew what we were up to that night, and I’m pretty sure she also knows what was happening in the wee hours of this morning.

  “Figured you were just a cranky old bat,” I say. “Didn’t realize you had the hots for me.”

  “Oh, don’t push it, Cunningham,” she says. “I’ll throw you out on your ass.”

  “I know you will,” I say as I stroll back out of the kitchen.

  “Put on some clothes!” she shouts at me. “Make sure your guest does the same. No hanky-panky in public areas!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I mumble, even though she can’t hear me, making my way back upstairs to the bedroom. I reach for the door to go in when it flings open on its own, Kennedy appearing. She looks frenzied, hair a mess, clothes halfway on, and she loses her balance as she tries to slip on her shoes. “Oh, whoa… whoa… careful.”

  I grab her arm to steady her, but she pulls away, cheeks flushing like she’s embarrassed. She gives me the briefest glance before averting her eyes, refusing to meet my gaze. “Sorry, I, uh… ugh.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “No reason to apologize.”

  But there is. That’s what her expression says, and I can guess why. She was trying to sneak out during my absence, to avoid seeing me, but I caught her.

  My chest tightens at that. Fuck. Regret is written all over her, like she bathed in shame and can’t get the stench off this morning. She straightens her clothes, and my stomach bottoms out when I realize a bottle of whiskey is tucked under her arm.

  “I have to go,” she says, ducking past me, out of the room.

  “I didn't drink any of that,” I say right away. “I know it looks bad, fuck, but I didn't—”

  “And you won't," she says, "because I'm taking it.”

  “Okay.”

  “I'm pouring it out,” she says. “You shouldn't even have it. It's stupid. You're stupid.”