Page 62 of Love & Rockets

“If you decide you want the same thing, well, then we have something to talk about.”

Without waiting for her response, or lack of one, he ended the call. Flat on his back, he stared up at the chalky-white primer he’d rolled over perfectly good paint and wondered what the hell he’d been thinking.

****

Jake stirred late the following day. His skull pulsated like a jacked-up subwoofer and his mouth was so dry he had a hard time prying his lips apart. He had to work to get up enough spit to swallow, and the instant he did, he regretted the decision. His tongue tasted like he’d been sucking the sweat out of used gym socks. He breathed through his nose as he tried to decide which would be worse—opening his eyes or crawling blindly to the bathroom.

Neither seemed like a winner.

Mustering what had to be super-human strength, he managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Well, one leg. The other had already been hanging halfway off. His toes curled when he felt the slippery layer of plastic covering the hardwood floor. Groaning, he took a quick inventory in an effort to put all the jagged pieces of the previous night together.

He’d been painting.

Darla.

Married guy.

Baby.

My baby.

My baby would be almost Grace’s age. They could have been friends.

There. That.

He cracked an eyelid and groaned again. This time longer and louder. Slamming his eyes shut, he squeezed them tight, hoping to block out the image of Grace Kennet and the almost-twin he’d conjured for her. The thought of his kid being one-tenth as cool as Darla’s nearly slayed him. And when visions of what might have been didn’t actually slay him, he’d headed into the kitchen to find his old friends, Jim and Jack.

Telling himself the pain was nothing less than he deserved for being such an ass, he opened both eyes wide and held them open as the light streaming through his windows seared his retinas. Empty liquor bottles lay discarded on the floor beside a crusted paint tray and roller. A can of dark blue paint stood open in the center of the jumble. Apparently, his international friend, Stoli, had decided to crash the painting party along with Mr. Daniel and Mr. Beam.

Painting.

That explained the obscene amount of light in the room. He’d taken the blinds down to paint. A bonehead move. Apparently, the first of many.

Gripping the edge of the stripped-bare mattress to steady himself, Jake blinked once. Twice. All of his bedroom furniture stood clustered around him like mourners come to wake the dead. A third, final and very deliberate blink guaranteed he wasn’t seeing things. The wall across from him was, in actuality, painted so badly he cringed.

“Oh, shit.”

Sliding to the floor seemed the better option than testing his legs. Crawling across the floor on his hands and knees, he scanned the vicinity until he spotted what he needed. His phone. The sleek new device was now decorated with smears of midnight blue paint, but he didn’t waste time lamenting its previously pristine condition. He couldn’t spare the worry. Not when he’d laid his heart on the line for the woman he loved only to have her stomp all over it.

Again.

Jake pressed the button to wake the screen, then thumbed his way past the built-in security. No missed calls. For the most part, the nothingness was a relief. He hadn’t been the poor, pathetic loser who drunk-dialed his ex. Or she hadn’t called him. Poking at the screen, he double-checked the call log, then blew out a long, comforted breath. There was only one outgoing call logged from the previous evening. To his brother, Brian.

He tried to recall the conversation with Brian but came up empty. There’d been one. Brian’s laughter still rang in his ears. But he couldn’t quite remember what he’d said. Tossing the phone aside, he worked himself into a crouch, then managed a gingerly walk to the attached bath. He’d positioned himself at the commode when the pounding started.

Groaning with a mixture of pain and relief, Jake pressed the heel of his hand to the center of his forehead. “Just a minute,” he croaked in a voice barely more than a whisper.

The demon at his door only started pounding harder.

“Hang on,” he shouted, then winced at the reverberation of his own voice.

There was a pause went a long way to restoring his faith in a merciful God, but it didn’t last. This time, the thumping sounded like a small army was trying to batter down his door. Muttering under his breath, he zipped, flushed and flicked on the water in the sink. Heedless of the noise, he took the time to wash his hands and splash water on his face before he emerged.

His bedroom wasn’t the least bit improved on second glance.

The walls were freshly painted—mostly. Deep slashes of dark blue cut across areas that hadn’t garnered quite as much attention from his roller. His steps faltered as he stared at the disastrous result of his painting rampage. Bits of jarring white primer peeked out from behind the dark stripes. Like a tiger in reverse. A tiger clad in Auburn blue.

“Answer the door or I’m calling Mom and telling her you’re brokenhearted,” Brian shouted through the door.

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