True Divide (5 page)

We broke up for good a few years ago because I realized I was unhappy way more often than I was happy. It might have been easier if there were a more dramatic reason than that—he cheated, I cheated, or something else worthy of a soap opera story line—but instead, it was just the end. Plus, over time, the fun Dusty from my teen years has taken on a bitter edge, the result of always wanting more than what he already has.

I may have also completed a women's magazine quiz entitled “Is It Over?” only to find that my results were a near perfect score. “Perfect” meaning my score fell squarely into the “Don't Bother with CPR Because This One's DOA” category on the answer page. That helped put things in perspective.

I cover Dusty's hand with mine and then pat it, gently, because I'm not in the mood to fight with him, either.

“No way, Deputy. Keep your fifty for the next blonde through the door.”

At that moment, like a stage cue to a melodrama starring me as the ditzy woman who will likely end up tied to railroad tracks at some point, the door to Lonigan's opens and in walks Jake. Turns out my
other
high school ex-boyfriend happens to be the next blond through the door. Oh, life and all its zingy little sucker punches. If I weren't struggling to take my next breath, I'd probably be knocking back the Randa-rita that Garrett just set on the bar and slamming down my empty while demanding another. But I'd put the entire fifty on Dusty
not
buying Jake a drink.

Dressed down from yesterday, Jake's in twill workpants and a well-worn unbuttoned red flannel over a heavy dark sweater. His hair is slightly askew, like he just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. When his eyes connect with mine, they brighten only long enough for him to register Dusty, the pose of our bodies, my hand over his. Then Jake turns away to scan the room, and before I can shut my slackened jaw to avoid any flies getting in there, he's raising one hand in greeting to someone across the room.

Dusty doesn't seem to have noticed Jake, or if he did, there isn't any recognition on his part. Because Dusty was a year ahead of us in school and their paths rarely crossed in a good way, Dusty certainly wouldn't recognize Jake now, unless he really bothered to look. When Dusty pulls his hand back from under mine and makes his way back to his bar stool, I can't decide whether I want to stomp over to Jake's table and demand to know what he is still doing here or just leave these drinks on the bar top and scuttle out the door.

You know what? Hell, no. My scurrying away is not happening.
He's
the one who left without a word.
He's
the one who showed up here and had the audacity to call me “Shoelace” like he used to, as if it hasn't been ten freaking years since we last spoke. This is my town. I still live here and he doesn't. If anything, I might rather enjoy the opportunity to let Jake Holt see exactly what he left behind. Not the heartbroken seventeen-year-old me—but the grown-up, has-her-act-together, and wearing-a-cute-outfit-with-wellies version of me. And, if he happens to fall all over himself with regret at the sight? Well, that would just be a bonus.

With that idea in mind, I straighten my spine, pull my shoulders back, and grab the drinks to make my way back to the booth.

Once I've taken my seat and managed a few gulps of my drink, I scan the room, trying for as much nonchalance as possible. Jake's across the way, sitting in a booth where he can see me clearly, paying only cursory attention to the slightly familiar man he's met up with because every few seconds Jake's eyes flicker to mine. And as much as I want to stifle the excited flutter that comes with the fact he is quite obviously watching me, it happens each time our gazes cross.

I remind myself that the goal is for
Jake
to feel the fluttering. All while I remain cool and composed, making it obvious that I'm not looking for anything or anyone. Which is true. I stopped trying so hard to find a man years ago, convinced that when it was right, the perfect man would come knocking on my door. And zooming into town on a private jet because my brother-in-law needed a ride probably doesn't count as opportunity knocking. Even if opening my door to find a man like Jake standing there—all ruggedly enticing—seems like the kind of opportunity I'd like to investigate. Thoroughly. For as long as it takes to traverse all the proportions of his new not-gangly body. Who knows how long that might take? Days, I'm sure.

No. Retreat, Lacey. You are an independent, kick-ass, take-care-of-yourself kind of gal now. Do not play this game with that man. Just consider him some sort of optical illusion, the ghost of boyfriends past or something.

Sandi's talking. I can hear her voice, but the words are running together. Only the fact I know her so well means I'm able to offer the appropriate verbal mumblings to make it seem as if I'm really listening. But because I'm evidently weak, and despite all of my internal ramblings, when Jake looks my way again, it's on. I give in, and a gripping match of eye-flirtery and temptation between two worthy opponents ensues.

He looks, I look away. I look, he sees, and the side of his mouth hitches up in faint acknowledgment. We both look, locking gazes until someone gives. It's maddening.

And fabulous.

Finally, Sandi's phone rings and the sound of her Brantley Gilbert ringtone—the absurdly apropos “17 Again”—blaring forces me to focus on her for real. Then she's looking at me and pointing to the phone, mouthing her husband's name with a lighthearted eye roll before shimmying out of the booth to finish her call outside, where she'll be able to hear better. The moment she's gone, I know exactly what's going to happen in the next sixty seconds. I actually smooth my skirt down and fluff my hair as slyly as possible.

“Christ, I thought she'd never leave.” Jake doesn't ask permission to sit down, simply takes Sandi's spot and slides his hands onto the tabletop, thrumming his fingers softly.

No use fighting my smile in response to reeling him in, so I let a slow grin take over. I'm sure he tried to come out on top in our little game, but he's a man. They're easily persuaded by feminine wiles. Just ask poor young Cole.

All that matters is this: I. Win.

“You could have come over here at any time. She doesn't bite.”

Jake raises one brow. “You sure about that?”

“Not entirely.” Silence settles, only for a moment, but long enough for us to look at each other squarely and size up whatever is happening right now. “Is that who I think it is?” I tip my head in reference to his booth mate.

“Uncle Rick. Figured I should do the family catch-up thing, if I'm here. He hasn't called me Shirley or thumped me in the back of the neck with a ratchet, which feels like a minor victory over my adolescence. So, you know, there's that.”

Jake's uncle Rick owned a ramshackle two-stall mechanic's shop just outside of town, and Jake used to pick up a few bucks working there when we were kids. The job provided him the opportunity to discern a proclivity for fixing things, discovered while he shimmied under a farm truck to do a brake job or swap a leaf spring. Only when he managed to hone his skill set enough to do an oil change in record time did Rick even utter a slight word of encouragement. Mostly, he complained and griped until Jake learned how to tune him out and still look like he was listening.

“He sold my grandma's farm after she died, closed up his shop, got a job with a liquor distributor, and it seems he met the love of his life on one of his deliveries. At a strip club. Where I'm sure she's working because law school is so expensive, right? Because that relationship's
obviously
gonna work out.” Jake rolls his eyes and then stretches his hands flat against the table.

My eyes drop to take in the small tattoos on his fingers. A heart, a spade, a club, and a diamond across the knuckles of each hand. He didn't have those before. When he notes my interest, his hands come together, fingers clasping loosely until the ink is mostly obscured. I lift my gaze up again.

“Why are you still here, Jake?”

I allow myself a good long look while waiting for him to answer, letting my eyes run over his face, across the red flannel shirt he has on over the ragg wool sweater, over the slight scruff of a beard coming in. He looks so much more like the old Jake now; instead of that trim-cut uniform from yesterday, he's all relaxed appeal. Which is problematic. Because even more so than yesterday, he's
my
Jake right now. Or, who used to be
my
Jake.

“This storm's got me grounded. I can't take off until this cloud deck lifts. Trevor's letting me crash in the mansion they refer to as a guesthouse, and he said I could borrow Kate's truck if I needed to.” His eyes drop a bit. “Probably should have dropped Trevor off yesterday and bailed to beat the snow, but curiosity got the best of me. Figured I might see you at the hospital. I made up a bullshit excuse to tag along.”

The most absurd kind of satisfaction rises up inside me when I register what he's owned up to. Wanting to see me. Going out of his way to do so. I take a sip of my drink and say nothing. Although I'm sure the smile teasing across my mouth says everything. Another win for Lacey, thank you.

“Totally worth it, though. You look . . .”

Jake pauses. I hold my breath.

“. . .
amazing
. I swear, fucking felt like I was in some flashback. Was the hospital PA system actually playing emo love songs or was that shit just me? 'Cause I kind of wanted to just grab your hand and find a dark stockroom somewhere. Which basically describes every single day of my existence during our senior year.”

Jesus. That right there, those few sentences, might effectively sum up all that I've ever understood to be Jake Holt. A wild mix of bold proclamations, self-deprecation, swoony flatteries, all with a thread of eager rowdiness woven in, just to hold it all together.

My heart starts to thump enthusiastically, my body reacting to what it knows as opportunity. Jake grins, a slow-burn expression that forces me to consider a suddenly obvious question. What would sex with Jake be like now? Soft and slow? Rough and furtive?

I narrow my eyes and think on that for a moment. When Jake gives an impish little raise of his brows and lifts one hand up to tug on his bottom lip almost absentmindedly, I have a pretty good guess. Hot. Focused. Relentless. And, if I'm not mistaken, he'd manage to make it fun, too. So, to put it simply, I think sex with Jake now would be
awesome.

Before I can decide what to do with that assessment, Sandi comes sweeping through the bar, phone still in her hand, and stops next to the table, car keys in her other hand.

“Mack filled his tag. So my boys are on their way back from elk camp. Gotta get those home fires a-burnin'. You ready?”

Only when she looks up for my response does she see Jake. Her brows lift, she volleys a look between us, followed by a grin. “Unless you already have a better ride arranged.”

Subtle, she isn't. Jake looks my way, expression almost entirely blank, but his eyes lock on mine.

One deep breath and I calculate everything. The last time I indulged in the idea of “one night” with an ex, I didn't wake up feeling like it was the best idea I've ever had. The rum in my drink slows my response time and at the hesitation, Jake's eyes widen ever so slightly. Over his shoulder, I can see Dusty perched at the bar, and the sight reminds me of what can happen when you give in to the wrong kind of nostalgia. And I don't want another one of those nights—or mornings. Yes, an empowered woman can do whatever the hell she wants. Yes, her life can, and probably should, include the occasional night with a man for purely decadent reasons.

Unfortunately, Jake once said every generous and gentle word I can remember that was spoken in truth, instead of strategy. He provided the backdrop to each lusty and heady moment of true wanting I've ever experienced. Then he left without any indication that I had anywhere near the same impact on him. Even though all of that stopped hurting years and years ago, it still happened. There's no changing that.

“I can give you a ride, Lacey. No need to take off if you aren't done here.”

His eyes hood a bit and glaze ever so slightly. I smile. “I'm sure you can. But . . . I'm good.”

Slipping out of the booth, I stand to pull on my coat, and Jake doesn't bother hiding his leisurely perusal. Up and down, then back again, over the entire length of my frame. Which, if we're keeping track—
and, we are
—makes three for me. Three thrilling, satisfying wins.

Sandi drops me at my car and proceeds to flip me off as she drives away, her final reaction to the fact I didn't give her a word-for-word rundown of my conversation with Jake. She proclaimed him to be lumbersexual delicious, demanded I explain why I didn't take the “ride” he offered, and peppered the rest of the fifteen-minute drive mumblingly trying to remember him from back in the day. No luck, it seems, because she only muttered his name and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth in thought.