Chapter 22
Nora
Abright light assaults my eyes, the pain radiating through my throbbing head like an oncoming freight train. I need to look away, but my head and body hurt too much to move.
Details of how our little Las Vegas night ended are blurry, but I can guarantee that whatever happened here will definitely not stay here. There will be repercussions and alterations to the norm that neither of us can predict.
It also didn’t help that the hotel had only a few rooms remaining, all with one queen bed and a sleeper sofa. Apparently, Thursdays are a big gambling night, and we were lucky to get this room.
I glance at the sofa to find it empty and in its original shape. No transformation into a bed. No mussed sheets. No Jordan. A slight forest scent registers to my right and there’s a void where my arm should be. It’s dead weight from him lying on it and cutting off my circulation. If we’re in the same bed…I lift the sheet and peer under with one eye. Holy hell. My leg is wrapped around him, and he’s naked.
I’m naked.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Sliding my tingling arm out from under him, I roll out of bed and search the floor on my hands and knees for my clothes. His and mine are strewn across the carpet and intermingled like we undressed in a hurricane.
Sitting on my knees, I yank on the black sweater—not bothering with a bra, mainly because I haven’t found it yet—and snatch up my underwear. Rotating to my ass, I push my feet through the leg holes and realize there’s only one. Yep. My underwear, the lacy pair I bought a few weeks ago, is ripped.
I kick my foot, sending the useless undergarment flying into the air. To my horror, it takes its time floating to the floor like a little parachute. What in the hell did we do last night? Don’t answer that brain. My system is not recovered enough for the answer.
Tugging on my jeans, I’m thankful they’re stretched out from wear, but I rather have a pair of yoga pants or pajamas. Doing the crawl of shame is nearly impossible with fitted jeans and sore muscles.
Damn, why is every inch of me screaming? And if I was active enough last night to be sore, I wish I could remember it. Must have been quite the—
My phone vibrates, and I race to snatch it off the bedside table, hoping not to wake Jordan. He had more to drink than I did. Maybe he won’t remember either, saving me the embarrassment of having to admit I don’t.
Turning toward the window, I check the message. Air catches in my lungs as I read.
Clark:Missed you in class this morning. Barbie’s whiny voice was anything but relaxing.
A snicker spurts out of my closed lips when I see the new contact label for Henry. Drunken creativity at its best. I wonder who else has a new nickname in my contacts list.
Me:Sorry you had to endure that. I’m out of town.
Clark:Will you be back tonight?
Me:Yeah. Does VETS need something?
Clark:No. Limping along without you. I meant for dinner.
Clark:Interested?
“Who are you texting so early?” Jordan’s groggy voice registers, and I plaster on a smile, though I don’t feel it.
“No one. And it’s nearly noon.” I busy myself by picking up the remaining pieces of clothing, bottles, and wine glasses to make the place look less like a frat house after a party.
“What does Superman want?”
I straighten in surprise, an awkward load of clothes and dishes shifting in my arms.
“Why would you jump immediately to Henry?”
“Because you were smiling the same way as when you were with him yesterday. Did he ask you out again?”
After setting the glasses in the sink by the door, I dump the clothes on the desk nearby. “I’m not having this conversation.”
“You should go.”
The last thing I want to do is talk about Henry with the man I may or may not have feelings for and may or may not have slept with last night. The same guy who mended my heart with his tenderness only to ship me off to another man shortly after. What the hell?
“Who wouldn’t want to go out with Superman, Clark Kent, or Henry Cavill’s stunt double slash doctor?” he drones on. “He’s the total package.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, frustration weighing on every syllable. “Especially after last night?”
He pulls himself up to lean against the headboard, his hands folding calmly in his lap. “What happened last night, Nora?”
My head pounds with a new frustration as he stares me down. No emotion. No window into his thoughts. “I don’t fucking know what happened. Everything after we left the bar is a blur. Are you happy?”
“Guess we both have gaps in our memories now. But I remember every detail. Want me to summarize it for you?”
“No. I just want to get out of here. I’m hungover, I feel out of control, and this thing with you…it’s…”
“It’s what, Nora?”
Wetness stinging my eyes is the final straw. Crumbling to the floor, I spin to drop my back to the foot of the bed and my face into my hands.
“Confusing,” I finally say through the tears. “You’re confusing.”
The bed springs groan and squeak under his shifting weight. I hear him limp past me to the desk and slip on his shirt. The rustling sounds grow louder before his hands land on my legs. Opening my eyes, I find him wrapped in the sheet from the waist down, sitting with both his legs stretched out on either side of me.
“I asked you to go out with Henry because I don’t want you to have regrets.”
“Regrets?”
“Things feel different between us, Nora, and nothing makes me happier, whether we’re friends or more.” He grins but refuses to look at me. “If we grow into more from this do-over exercise, I need to be confident that you’re choosing me over everyone else. That you won’t be looking back and wondering what if.”
“Jordan, are you going to do this every time a man pays me attention?”
“I don’t know. We’re not at a place yet where I can trust what you say you’re feeling.”
My legs drop to the side, weakened by his confession. He doesn’t trust that I won’t toss him aside when commitment knocks on the door again. And he has every right not to.
“Go out with him and see if you feel anything. If you don’t, then we’ll have crossed the first hurdle.”
“Do you not want to be with me?” I ask, not meaning for those words to escape.
“I do. More than I want air to breathe. But it’s not enough. We’ve tried a relationship, and it didn’t work out. I don’t want to make the same mistakes.” He looks out the window, deep in thought.
He’s done nothing wrong. It’s all me. I pushed him away and forced him into doing the one thing I feared he’d eventually do on his own—leave.
“I need to feel and fully believe that when you choose to give your heart to me, you’re handing over all of it. All of you.”
With a sniff, I nod, and he swipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
“Will you go…for me?”
A long, burning exhale has my shoulders drooping. I drag my hands over my wet face before grabbing the phone. “This is insane.”
“I like that you think hanging with boring ole me would be more fun.”
“I don’t just think it.” I glance his way, soaking in the love in his eyes, then open the texting app. “Wait. I can’t go.” I set the device back on the floor.
“Why not?”
“He asked about tonight. We still need to drive back, and I’m not leaving you alone.”
“I’ll call the guys. They’ve been asking about getting together. We can have a poker night at the apartment. I’m still feeling lucky.”
Exasperated by his endless index of answers, my eyes glance at the ceiling, and I wonder if he’s talking about his gambling luck or what happened between us afterward.
“Which ones?” I ask, eyeing him with suspicion. “Guys I can trust, or guys who will want to find trouble?”
“Just Wes and Peter and maybe one more.”
“Wes is a firefighter/EMT, right?”
“Yeah. See, he can help if something happens. Nothing to worry about.”
“I guess.”
He leans forward, propping his forehead against mine. Lost in his gaze, I didn’t catch him stealing my phone until he places it into my hand.
“Text him.”
“You’re infuriating.”
Me:When and where?
Clark:Marcello’s 7 p.m.
Me:See you there.
I hold the screen up to show Jordan. “Happy?”
“Mostly.”
“Great.”
◆◆◆
Jordan
“Nora, you remember Wes and Pete?” I ask when my friends enter the apartment.
“How could I forget?” She sets down a box of poker chips on the card table she borrowed from a neighbor and waves.
“And this is Q, short for Quinton. We went to Basic together.”
“Nice to meet you, Quinton.”
“You, too, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? On that note, I’ll leave you boys to your fun.” She crosses the room to collect her purse, lowering her voice when she reaches me. “Tell him.”
“I will,” I whisper.
“And try to stay out of trouble,” she instructs loud enough for all to hear.
“Hey, that’s my line,” I joke, hoping to get a rise out of her. She gave me nothing but a blank, agitated scowl.
“You don’t want to join us?” Wes asks with a smirk.
“As enticing as that sounds, I have an appointment.”
He frowns. “This late? What kind of appointment?”
“She has a date,” I clarify.
“No kiddin’.” Wes studies me, and I slowly shake my head, hoping to stop whatever he plans to say next. Of course, he ignores me. “What’s on the agenda?”
“Just dinner.”
“Where?”
She pushes the purse strap over her shoulder with a sigh and answers on her way toward the door. “Marcello’s. I’m going to get ready at my apartment,” she says to me. “See you later.”
She flashes the group a tight-lipped grin as she escapes, and my so-called friends waste no time shifting their interrogation to me.
“What the hell, Jordan?” Wes asks with a sharpness I could do without. I’ve talked with him the most about my history with Nora over the years, and he’s never hidden his disdain for the woman I love.
Pete and Q stop to watch us from the kitchen, the refrigerator door hanging open. All three guys are now staring at me like I grew a third arm since they arrived.
“What?”
“Why is she here? Strike that. A better question is, why is she going out with someone else if she’s here?”
“Who is she?” Q asks.
“I’ve got this one,” Wes says, holding up a hand to stop me from answering. “She’s the girl he’s been fucking for five years. And despite her refusing to date him publicly, he still asked her to marry him…twice. Which she declined both times.”
“Shit, man,” Peter empathizes, snapping open a beer.
Wes’s assault continues. “Why is she here?”
“It’s a long story.”
“What did she want you to tell us?” he asks, accepting a beer from Peter. “I heard what she said to you.”
“Come on. I’ll fill you in while we set up the game.”
We all sit around the tiny card table Nora borrowed from a neighbor with our drinks. While Q shuffles the cards and Peter distributes poker chips, I tell them about my injuries, the lingering seizures, and why Nora came back into my life.
“Since you’re an EMT,” I say to Wes, “she wanted to make sure you were aware and prepared.”
“That’s uncharacteristically kind of her, but she didn’t seem to be in the caregiver mood when she left.” Wes picks up his cards and tosses in a chip to start the game.
“She doesn’t want to go on the date, and she’s upset with me.”
“What did you do?” Q asks, raising Wes’s bet two chips.
“Asked her to go on the date.” I flip three chips onto the pile.
“You’re a dumbass.” Wes shakes his head as he matches my bet.
“Agreed,” Pete says, folding.
“Thanks a lot. You don’t know everything, and this is how I make sure she’s all in on our fake relationship before we make it real.”
“You have to know how stupid that is. What if they have a connection? What if she fucks him, too?”
Well, that stung. “She won’t.”
“You said he’s a doctor.” Wes holds up a hand and starts ticking off all of Superman’s appealing qualities. None of which I can meet. “Looks like a famous actor who plays one of the most beloved superheroes, has a limitless bank account, and volunteers his spare time to help injured veterans?”
“He also has a British accent,” I add stupidly, living up to their opinion of me.
“You’re right. He’s got nothing on you,” Pete chimes in, his sarcastic tone telling me precisely what he thinks of my decisions.
“You all can kiss my ass. And since you’re obviously Team Kent, I will have no qualms taking your money tonight.” I fan my cards out on the table, and revel in the groans of my less-than-supportive friends. “Royal flush.”
Q and Wes toss their cards onto the table, and they slide across the chip pile I plan to rub in their faces.
“You’re going to need it to compete with dates at Marcello’s,” Q jokes, dealing another hand. “That place is impossible to get into unless you’re a local celebrity or rich as hell.”
“Superman is both,” Wes says before draining his beer.
“I hate every one of you.”