Blood Love

Then: evening

After four years he knew when she was pissed with him. The signs were impossible to miss. He knew them even before they were together, just by watching, observing, surveying. Because he'd been in love with her longer than she knew-longer than she would ever know-and he didn't plan on telling her so. Ever. Because there were some things a man best keep to himself.

But he knew something was really wrong when he walked through the door of their apartment and saw her shoveling peanut butter like she was excavating for billion-dollar jewels.

Jason dropped the keys on the counter, approaching the situation with caution. Soulmates didn't necessarily mean everything was puppies and unicorns shitting rainbows. No, more often than not, they were at each other's throats, but that was something he loved about her. About them. Now wasn't one of those times he wanted to stoke her fire, though. Something was . . . something was off. Really off.

"Hayley?"

She ignored him, but her thrusts into the peanut butter jar became more hostile. More like she was imagining digging that spoon into his heart. He shuddered. Looked like he would be putting some sheets on the couch tonight.

Everything about her body was rigid and tense. He touched her elbow, ducking his head to see her face, hidden behind a fiery red wall of hair. "Princess," he whispered. "Look at me, honey."

But she didn't.

She didn't.

Frustration wrought his nerves. What the hell? Hayley wasn't one to play games. It was another reason he loved her so much. She wasn't like those other girls he dated who made him feel like he was either undergoing an interrogation or auditioning for Jeopardy every time they talked to him. Hayley was straightforward. She was frank. She was delightfully sarcastic.

So this . . .

This was disconcerting.

He grabbed her arm and spun her around. "Hayley, please . . ."

And then stopped.

Because there weren't a lot of things that truly caused Jason Lambargo legitimate pain. He'd been shot, stabbed, tortured, starved, and nothing-nothing-ever hurt more than looking at his girlfriend's face and seeing it marred with tears. Nothing.

He pushed the jar of peanut butter away and framed her face in his hands, clearing the tears, trying to talk to her, but she just pushed him away. And it was like a sucker punch. The air whooshed out of his lungs all at once. She backed away, face sorrowful and angry and he didn't understand.

"So good of you to fucking show up," she muttered, throwing a glass into the sink. It shattered. He winced.

"Baby, what is it?"

"Don't you 'baby' me," she spat, rubbing her forearm furiously over her eyes. "I can't believe you remembered little 'ole me back here at the apartment."

She honest to God wasn't making any sense. "Hayley, what are you talking about?"

"Where do you go every night?"

He froze, staring into her daring green eyes, misty and wet from tears. "What?"

"It's a simple question, Jason. Where. Do. You. Go. Every. Night?"

"I don't follow. I'm here."

She snorted. "Okay, maybe sometimes. But don't think I don't see you slip out every evening. Don't think I don't know when you sneak back into bed." Her temper was flaring but there was something damaged in her eyes. Something broken.

He said nothing.

"Oh, my God." She pressed her palms to her forehead, more tears pushing out. "This is the part where you say something."

"I don't know what to say."

"Oh, my God."

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what she wanted him to say.

A long moment of silence stretched between them, in all ways unbearable. Finally, after what seemed an agonizing eternity, she pinned those fierce eyes on his face and asked, "What's her name?"

Jason was so shocked he temporarily forgot how to speak. All he could manage was some incomprehensible bout of gibberish.

"Don't fuck with me on this, Jason. There must be another woman, so, what's her name?"

Christ. She thinks there's another woman. She thinks you're cheating on her. She thinks you're an asshole because you kind of really are.

"Dammit!" her hand flung across the counter, wiping out a couple glasses, sending them careening toward the floor and spraying in a million jagged pieces. "Why are you lying to me, Jason? You think I can't handle it? I can handle it! So just tell me, okay? Is she blonde? Is she a fucking airhead?"

"Hayley-"

"I don't know how I ever fucking thought this would last, anyway. I mean, you were out of my league to begin with. Nothing good in my life ever lasts. So, what was it? Bigger boobs? Rounder butt? Someone without any freaking freckles? Did you need somebody with hair you couldn't see from outer space? Tell me her fucking name, Jason!"

"Hayley . . . Hayley!" he ran his hands through his hair, trying to organize his scrambled brain. "You're talking crazy. What are you even-I just-"

More crying. Tears. His heart cracking in his chest. Confusion taking over.

"It's the scars, isn't it?"

He looked at her again, drifting back to reality. "What?"

"The scars. You hate them, don't you? I guess I can't be surprised. They're hideous. And everywhere."

He should have said something. The voice of every guy who had ever been in his situation was screaming in his head, telling him to pick his balls up off the ground and say something, but all he could do was stand there like a pathetic moron and gape at her, and then suddenly she was running into their bedroom and locking the door sobbing and he still had no idea what was going on.

"Hayley!" he knocked on the door. "Baby, come on. I'm not cheating on you. I love you. Let me in."

"You're just saying that!" she screeched. "Get the fuck out of here!"

"I'm not leaving you here."

"Yes, you are. Go. I don't want to see you."

He kept trying, but she refused to listen, and eventually refused to respond. Utterly lost, Jason slouched onto the couch. He didn't leave. He would never leave. But he wondered, and hated himself a little, thinking about his escapades. Not girls.

Worse.

Guns.

Money.

Violence.

Every single part of him that could not be let go. That could not be forgotten.

"Dammit," he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face.

He had a mess to clean up.