Claim 2: Volume Two (3 page)

Chapter Four

Jordan

It took everything in me to not approach her at the office today.  If there’s one thing about Loren that will never change it’s her desire to excel at her career. Mostly out of respect for that simple notion as well as the fact that my stepfather kindly asked me to not make it any more awkward than it already is, I kept my distance.  Even going as far as making friends with the receptionist to avoid rushing to meet Loren at the elevator bank. 

Sitting through that meeting was hell.  Loren and the owner of the software company were a little too chummy.  I saw right through their act.  They know each other outside of the professional aspect, but how I have no idea.  Did she date him?  Is he the guy she’s dating now?  Has he seen her naked?  Did he hold her soft body while she called out his name?

Putting a halt to those kinds of thoughts, I stayed in my office after the meeting and left promptly at five not wanting an office run in with Loren.  Don’t get me wrong, we’re going to talk and if it’s possible, I’m going to save my marriage, but doing it at her place of business—my job as well—isn’t the right time.

Thinking I’d meet her at home, I waited in the driveway for what seemed like hours before I used my key to wait inside.  When the sun started to set, I began to worry and considered calling to make sure she was okay.  Needing to distract myself for a little while longer, I walked into Loren’s room—our bedroom—and pulled out the box of pictures she keeps on the shelf in the closet.  It must have been exactly what I needed to keep my mind off her.  One second I’m looking through images of a vacation we took and the next the sound of keys hitting the table jar me from my memories.

Quietly, I put the box away, keeping a few pictures out to show her, remind Loren exactly how good we can be together when I’m not being a jackass.  When the water starts running in the bathroom, I halt myself from rushing to her, giving her the few moments she needs.  Loren’s a creature of habit, each action having a purpose.  Walking in the house and the first thing she does is draw a bath, it’s most likely due to her being stressed.

Feeling guilty, assuming that stress is probably because of me invading the one place she can escape everything else, I make a plan to leave as soon as I hear her sloshing around in the water, only that doesn’t happen.  A knock on the door startles me and when I hear the voice of a man my stomach churns.

Needless to say, I’m unable to leave without giving myself away.  So, against everything I believe in, I sit on the bed and wait.  And wait.  And wait some more. 

When the man says he’s going to leave, my excitement can barely be contained.  For one, their little rendezvous didn’t end up in the bedroom.  That would be pretty difficult to explain.  And two, I’ll finally be able to leave this damn bedroom.  Playing Clash of Clans is only a good time when you actually have things to do and Facebook is full of slutty selfies and ducklips. 

The front door opens and after a few minutes closes.  Stepping into the hallway, Loren walks to the couch, rubbing her lips.  I know that move.  She’s done it with me before.  He kissed the hell out of her and her dazed look proves that this guy might have a little more invested that I initially thought. 

“Looks like my competition is stronger than I thought.”

“Holy shit, Jordan!” she screams, jumping off the couch, gripping her chest, her face a ghostly white.  The color quickly returns to her cheeks and Loren walks into the kitchen. 

“Who was that?” I ask, only a few steps behind, desperately fighting the defeated attitude threatening to overtake my mind. 

“None of your business,” she scoffs, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge and pouring a glass.  Raising the bottle in my direction, I shake my head and grab a beer instead. 

Walking back into the living room, I take a seat in the recliner, the chair I purchased when we first bought this house.  Letting the cushions surround my body, the familiar feel comforts me enough to not start freaking out about my wife making out with some random guy.  There’s so much I have to tell her and starting an argument will afford me a first class ticket to Get the Fuck Out. I’ve been there, not really a fan, pretty sure I don’t want to go back.

Loren takes the spot furthest from me on the sofa, setting her glass on the table after a long swallow and stares at me.  I can see the gears working—her trying to figure out what to say—her mouth opening and snapping closed soon after. 

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t expect this to happen,” I start. 

“What did you expect?  You’ve been hiding in my bedroom for how long? Obviously before I got home from work.  What the hell is that about, Jordan?  I never really took you for the creepy stalker guy.”

“I wanted to talk.  I tried so hard not to interrupt you at the office.  I know how important your job and reputation is, so I came here.  I was looking at pictures when you came home.”  Taking the picture out of my pocket, I slide it across the table.  She stares at it for a second before picking it up, smiling.  Smiles are a good sign.  It could be worse.

“This was a really good time.  Do you remember that old guy that kept asking us to smoke pot with him?” she laughs.

“Oh, I remember.  I also remember that you smoked with him.  Then you laughed for two hours straight.  I was a little worried you had some kind of reaction, but you looked so happy.”

“That was the first and last time I ever did any kind of drug.  The laughing was nice, though.  I’ve not laughed that much in … ever.  That was the only time,” she giggles, putting the picture back on the table.

“Is that the only thing you remember about that weekend?” I ask, testing the waters.

“No,” she whispers, taking another drink from her glass, refusing to meet my eyes.  Ding. Ding. Ding.

“What else, Loren?” I push.

“You asked me to marry you.  We left right from our trip, went to the retreat and got married right then and there.”

“Do you remember how much you loved me in that moment?  How you couldn’t wait to be my wife?  Lo, I need you to remember that.  I need you to remember that kind of love,” I say, almost pleading.

“I did, Jordan.  After you left, I remembered.  They nearly killed me.  I was worried at first, thinking you’d come back, but you didn’t.  What I remember more than those feelings is what I went through after you threw me away like a piece of trash.  For another woman, no less.  Do you know what that does to a woman’s self-esteem?  The kind of love I felt for you is buried so far underneath the hate.”

Swallowing hard, I know she’s right, but she doesn’t know everything.  She only knows what I told her, and the majority of that was a lie.  A fucking lie to protect … her.  “Not everything is as it seems,” I mutter, wondering if I tell her everything if she’ll think I’m lying to get her back.  I need her to believe me, but I’m not sure she will.

“And not all endings are happily ever after.  Sometimes, they’re just done.”

“I don’t want it to be done.  I made a mess, Loren.  Please.  Give me a chance to clean it up.”

“You had a year, Jordan.  An entire year.  You did nothing.  Then, out of the blue, when I finally meet someone I think I can have something with, you want to swoop back in and confuse the hell out of me?  That’s not fair.”

Confuse her?  She’s fighting.  Not me, but her own feelings.  I can work with this.  It means I have a chance.  Even if it’s a small one, it’s there.

“Tell me you hate me and never want to see me again.  I’ll leave, sign your papers and you’ll never see me again.  Just say the words, Loren.”  If I give her an out and she takes it, I mean it, I’ll go, but if she doesn’t, that’s all the faith I need that I can win her back.

“Jordan,” she says exasperated, “Please.”

“Please what?  Please leave?  Please stay?  Give me more, Lo,” I demand.

“I can’t,” she whispers, finishing off her glass.

Resting my elbows on my knees, I watch her, studying her body language for a hint of what she wants, but everything she’s putting out there is contradicting at most.  Her face looks pained, like she can’t make the decision, yet her body language is closed off, as if she’s not willing to give an inch.

“I can’t tell you to leave,” she finally mutters.  She shakes her head when the grin appears on my face.  I try to hide it, but this is exactly what I wanted to begin with.  A chance.  Even though she doesn’t want to, or is afraid to, she’s going to give it to me.

“It’s because you love me,” I state.

“Don’t get cocky.  It’s because I’ve wondered every day for the last year what it would be like if you came back.  I’ve played every scenario over in my head hundreds of times.  How I’d react.  What you’d say.  If I tell you to get out of my life forever, all of those painful thoughts that wracked my brain for a year were in vain.  When you finally leave me for good, it’s going to be because it’s the only option.  So, don’t get cocky, Jordan.  You’re on thin ice.”

“Thin ice is better than no ice.” 

Rising from my seat, I walk over to Loren, bend down and kiss the top of her head.  I’d love nothing more than to feel her lips on mine, but the thought of that other dude’s saliva touching hers infuriates me beyond words. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I whisper in her hair.  Loren’s hands fidget, like she wants to reach out and touch me, but restrains herself.  Laughing to myself, I stroll out the door and into the night, determined more than ever to fix this mess.

Chapter Five

Loren

Waking up after finally getting some sleep.  Not that my brain wasn’t running a million miles per minute, I think the exhaustion finally caught up with me.  Feeling well rested, I’m determined to make this day my bitch.  Lots of stuff do to for the software campaign; enough to keep my mind concentrated on certain things while blocking out others.

Rolling over, the first thing I see is a good morning text from Nolan which brings a smile to my lips.  As I giddily text him back, my happiness fades and guilt appears. 

Jordan.

I owe it to him to at least hear his side of the story?  Or am I falling into his trap yet again?  I have no idea and there’s really nobody to talk to about it.  If I call Cleo, she’s just going to bitch that I’m even letting Jordan breathe in my vicinity.  I don’t really have any friends at work.  Norah’s busy planning for the baby that’s due any day.  My mom wouldn’t understand.  Actually, no, she’d understand and take Jordan’s side, regardless of how wrong he was.  She’s always had a soft spot for him.  Sometimes, I think she likes him more than me.  No, that’s silly, she’s my mom and she’d talk to me, but I really can’t listen to all of Jordan’s good qualities.  I need someone impartial.

I’m pretty much on my own with this one.  I’m going to have to wait and see how the cards fall.  It’s too early to say I only want Nolan.  I barely know the guy.  What I do know is the amazing feelings he gives me and the exceptional way he treats me, but that’s about it.  That’s what got me into trouble with Jordan in the first place.  I fell for him hard and fast.  I can’t make the same mistake with Nolan.

Now, my only question is do I tell Nolan about Jordan?  Or do I keep that information to myself until I know if I’m going to for sure give Jordan a second chance?

Hell.  This is going to be pure hell.

****

Working straight through the morning, I’m only alerted to the time of day when my stomach starts to growl.  Checking the time, it’s after one and I haven’t eaten anything all day.  Saving the document I’m working on and grabbing my purse, I walk out of my office and toward the elevators when Jordan steps in front of me, halting me in my tracks.

“What’s up?” I ask, trying to maneuver around him. I have too much to finish before I go home to have a conversation with him … let alone in the middle of the office where anyone in ear shot can hear.

“I was going to grab something to eat.  Join me?” Tossing around the possibilities, I agree.  How bad can it be?  Two old friends chatting over a quick mid-day meal?  Who the hell am I kidding?  This can’t possibly go over well.

“Sure,” I respond, obviously a glutton for punishment.

The walk to the deli isn’t far, maybe a few blocks, and instead of Jordan wanting to get food and head back to the office, he insists that we sit there for our meal.  Resigning to the fact that I’m not going to win this argument, I take my spot on the far side of the booth while Jordan slides in opposite me. 

The setting is far from romantic; mostly busy business people taking a few moments for a break from a hectic day, the scent of cured meats filling the room, all of that followed by the two men sitting at the table behind us that don’t understand tact when applying cologne.  As the waitress walks by, Jordan flags her down, like a true city boy would and orders both of us sandwiches, my favorite of course, and even careful to remind the server to ensure mine is without tomato.  The man knows me far too well.

“So, how was your morning?” Jordan asks, starting some light conversation.

“Good.  Busy.  Yours?”  I follow his lead, nothing too heavy; exactly what I can handle right about now.

“It’s alright.  Pat’s been on my ass about proving my worth after being gone so long.  I’m sure I can do it, but it doesn’t help that he’s my boss and kinda my dad.  A little too much pressure.”  And I remember this is exactly why he didn’t like working at this company.  Growing up with Patrick as the only influential male in his life, Mr. Fletcher tends to hold Jordan to a different standard than everyone else.  Expects more from him and most of the time, his expectations of Jordan are unreasonable, let alone realistic.

“He’ll ease up when he knows you’re staying.  Are you staying?”  The question slips past my lips before I have a chance to catch myself.  Treading into personal waters is dangerous; the tide can pull you under at any time.

“I plan on it.  Unless …” he pauses, looks up at me, his eyes sad and after a few moments of him reading me and me trying to understand what he’s thinking, his line of sight changes and a smile appears.  “Thanks so much,” he says to the waitress who’s setting down our baskets.

Attempting to ignore the awkward tension building between us, I waste no time digging into my sandwich, picking off the tomatoes that somehow made their way onto my plate regardless of Jordan’s instructions.  Making sure to keep my eyes on anything except Jordan, I risk a peek now and again, each time catching him looking at me with an expression I’m not familiar with.

“What?” I demand, taking another bite and swallowing it down quickly.  “You keep watching me and it’s freaking me out.”

“You just look really beautiful today,” he compliments, shoving a fry in his mouth.

“Shut up.”  Heat invades my cheeks.  I don’t want his compliments to mean anything to me.  I need to know his motives before I can allow myself to respond to him, but he knows ways around it.  Even when we would fight, he would know the exact thing to say to open me back up again.  The bad thing about being alone with Jordan is he can use all that knowledge he gathered from when we dated and the brief time we were married … and still together … against me.

“I’m just sayin’.  You look gorgeous.  I bet you didn’t even try.”  That’s where he’s wrong.  I did try.  Yesterday.  Today.  I want him to realize what he lost when he walked out that door, but I also want him to still want me.  How twisted am I?  I’m giving myself whiplash. 

Do I want him?  Do I want him to leave?  Would rolling around in the sheets with Jordan satisfy the craving for him that I’ve been dealing with for so long?  Will being intimate with him make me want him more?  Do I choose the boy who’s already broken me so deeply before or the sweet, kind and caring cowboy who I’m sure wouldn’t hurt me?

“Do you have any ideas for the software campaign?” I ask, changing the subject.  I need more time.  More time to figure out what the hell I’m doing before I make a mistake I could regret for the rest of my life.  Or the decision that would give me the ending I’ve been dreaming of since I was a little girl.

“How do you know the owner?  Joel?” 

Shit.

“He’s a friend,” I respond, not wanting to give away any more than that.  If I tell him I met Joel online, he’s going to ask about Nolan.  Telling someone you met a guy online screams desperation.

“Just a friend?” Jordan pushes for more information.

“Yes.  Just a friend.  We email back and forth sometimes.  Talk about TV shows.  That’s pretty much it.”

“So, you’ve never slept with this friend?”

“What the hell?  Do you think I’m some kind of whore?  Out screwing different guys every day of the week?  Is that how you see me?” I all but scream, trying to have some tact since we’re in a public setting, but not letting up that I’m infuriated with his line of questioning.

“I just asked a question, Lo.  That’s all.”

“The answer’s no. I haven’t slept with him.  Now can we please stop talking about my sex life or lack thereof.  Please.”

“Lack thereof?  Are you not getting any, Loren?”  My entire face, down my neck and onto my chest feels like it’s on fire.  I’m probably a scorching shade of red right about now.  Do I lie?  Tell the truth?  Ignore the question?  That’s what I’ll do.  Ignore it and it’ll go away.

“Software company.  Any ideas?”

“Lots of em.  But after you tell me.  Who was the last man you were with?”  God, this is so embarrassing.  It shouldn’t be.  Jordan’s seen every side of me, inside and out, and here I am scared to tell him about my last sexual partner.

“None of your business.  Ideas?”

“Start by building their brand.  Find new customers and a catchy marketing pitch to offer to Google and Bing.  Start with small, independently owned computer shops and then branch into the chains.  Last lover?”

“Great ideas,” I mutter, pulling out my notepad to write down his ideas.  I have similar ones in the office, but on the off chance he said something I didn’t jot down earlier, I need to have all my ducks in a row.  He’s not the only one trying to impress Mr. Fletcher.

“I’m about ready.  You?”  Tossing my napkin onto my nearly full basket of food, my stomach not able to accept much more.  All these questions have me ready to vomit.

“Sure am,” he follows my action, stands from the booth and extends his hand to me.  Accepting it, even though I shouldn’t, his fingers clasp around my wrist, assisting me to stand.  Reaching in my purse to grab my wallet, I’m too late when Jordan drops a twenty on the table and pulls me toward the exit.

Unable to have his hands on me, I quicken my pace, staying a few steps ahead of him.  I’d much rather have him watching my ass than touching my arm, as weird as that sounds.  Pushing my way through the turnstiles, I rush to the elevator banks, hoping to beat him by a longshot, but his legs carry him much quicker than I assumed.  When the door slides open, Jordan moves in, holding it from closing on me as I slink my way inside, careful to not touch him in any way. 

The doors close and it’s just Jordan and I alone inside.  My heart rate accelerates and I now understand the whole tension builds in a small enclosure thing I see on TV and read in books.  Wiping my sweaty palms on my skirt, I glance up and Jordan’s standing directly in front of me, his arm braced above my head on the glass behind me, only a mere inch or two from my face.

“Who was the last person you were with, Loren?” he asks, dipping his head into the valley between my neck and shoulders.  My body involuntarily shivers at his action, my knees trembling in anticipation.  He gently moves my blazer away from my shoulder, exposing the thin strap of the camisole underneath.  With his fingers, he pushes that aside as well, leaving my skin exposed.

“Please stop,” I whisper, barely able to make a sound come from my mouth, worried I’ll moan in his ear.  His lips press against the sensitive flesh just before his teeth graze the top of my shoulder. 

“Just tell me.  I want to know.  I promise I won’t be upset.”  Running his tongue over where his teeth just met my flesh, he already knows I’m putty in his hands.  Again with the using tricks against me thing.

“You,” I moan as he gently sucks at my neck, my head falling to the side to give him better access. 

A feral growl erupts from his throat.  The hand that was against the mirror is suddenly fisted in my hair, him angling my head just millimeters from his lips.

“You haven’t been with anyone since me?” he asks in disbelief.

“It’s not like I haven’t wanted to.  Dating’s kind of hard when you’re miserable most of the time,” I respond defensively.  Damn him for riling me up.  He’s doing this shit on purpose.

“Not even the guy you were with last night?”

“No,” I answer, embarrassed.  He shouldn’t have known anything about Nolan.  It’s not fair that one knows and the other doesn’t.  It’s not a fair fight.

Fight?  I’m letting Jordan in.  What the hell am I doing?

His lips come down hard on mine, demanding.  He nips at my bottom lip, his tongue running wild on the seam of my lips until I finally give in and part my lips.  Hastily, he claws at my body, my hands acting on their own accord, find their way to his hair, holding him to me, kissing him back like I’ll never get to do it again.  Greedily, my tongue battles with his for control, but I lose, and my body molds to his. 

The bell above our heads chimes, indicating we’ve reached our floor.  Just before the doors open, Jordan steps back, running his hands through his own hair, then smoothing down mine.  Adjusting his pants, he steps out first.  I wait a moment, having to press the button to keep the doors open, unsure if I’ll be able to walk.  In all my life I’ve never been kissed like that.  My knees feel like jello, my head spinning and my entire mouth cold, missing his warmth.

When I’m confident enough to walk through the lobby, I make a beeline for my office, avoiding eye contact with anyone on the way.  Sitting down at my desk, I drop my purse in the bottom drawer and unlock my computer. 

Work.  I need work to keep me occupied.  Distracted.

Checking to see if Mr. Fletcher has emailed me a budget yet, I open the program and see a waiting message from Jordan.  As I’m getting ready to open it, my phone dings, pulling me off course.  Opening the text first, it’s from Nolan.

Nolan:  Busy later?

Me:  Not sure.  Text you later?

Nolan:  Sounds good.

Not sure how to deal with that situation yet, I go back to work.  Maybe Mr. Fletcher sent Jordan the budget first and he’s forwarding it to me.  As I open the email without a subject line, my jaw drops, heart stops and the need to clench my thighs together is overwhelming.

Lo,

I’m coming for you.

Jordan

Fuck.