Kristen Ashley - Jagged

I closed my eyes when I got silence.

Greg.

He’d signed the divorce papers.

It was done.

Shit, we were over.

The end.

I’d done what I never wanted to do. Never thought I would do. Hell, never thought I had it in me to do.

I’d broken a man.

I sucked in a breath through my nose, brought the phone down, and forced myself to lean forward, grab my remote, and turn on the TV rather than listen to the voice mail.

Again.

The news flashed on and I made myself pay attention to it.

Now, tonight’s top story, the newsman said. Dennis Lowe, the man who has been on a multistate killing spree, his chosen weapon an ax, was shot dead in the home of one of his victims by law enforcement officers today. After a short standoff with the FBI and local police, officers entered the house where Lowe was holding three women hostage. One hostage, Susan Shepherd, is in stable condition in a hospital in Indianapolis.

“Holy crap,” I mumbled. “An ax?”

A picture of a relatively good-looking—strangely, considering his chosen weapon was a freaking ax—mild-mannered-appearing man flashed on the screen behind the newscaster.

Lowe’s body count right now is unknown, although four murders are confirmed as being attributed to him. However, there’s a possibility that his victims number at least seven, with murders in Colorado and Oklahoma, and another man today in Indiana, suspected of being Lowe’s gruesome handiwork. In addition to Ms. Shepherd, a police officer and a bartender in Brownsburg, Indiana, were severely injured during the kidnapping of one of Lowe’s hostages, February Owens. Ms. Owens was allegedly the object of Lowe’s obsession and the reason behind his grisly spree. In Texas, Graham Reece, until today the only survivor of Lowe’s attacks, was released from police protective custody.

My breath became painfully stuck as I stared at Ham on the screen, looking hugely pissed and wearing a sling holding his left arm tight to his chest, prowling to his silver F-350. Reporters were crowding him, bright lights in his angry, hard face. You could see the reporters’ mouths moving but Ham’s was tight.

The news anchor droned on as I dropped the remote to my lap, fumbled with my phone, and flipped through my contacts.

As promised, I’d kept Ham’s phone number. I had not changed mine so, luckily, this meant I had not had to contact him.

He had also never contacted me.

For three years.

He was listed as Z Graham Reece because that would make him the only Z I had in my phone and it would, therefore, make it so I wouldn’t ever have to see his name accidentally as I scrolled through my contacts.

But right then, I went directly to the Zs hit his name, hit his number, and put the phone to my ear.

It rang four times while I breathed so heavily I was panting, at the same time despairing that Ham might not pick up.

Then I heard, “Zara?”

As promised, he kept my number, too.

I thought this at the same time a lot of other thoughts clashed violently in my head.

Therefore, the only response to his greeting I was capable of was to chant, “Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh shit. God, God, God.”

“Cookie,” he whispered.

At that, I burst into tears.

“I take it you’ve seen the news,” he remarked.

I made a loud hiccoughing noise, which was the only ability I had at that moment to answer his question in the affirmative.

Ham understood me.

“Honey, I’m okay,” he assured me gently.

I pulled in a breath that broke around five times and then I forced out a wobbly, “Ax murderer.”

“Yeah, sick fuck,” Ham told me.

That was all he had to say?

Sick fuck?

So at that, I shrieked, “Ham, you were attacked by an ax murderer! That shit doesn’t happen. Ever!”

“Zara, baby, I’m okay,” he stated firmly.

“Oh God. Oh shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I chanted.

Ham said nothing.

With effort, I pulled myself together and asked, “You’re okay?”

“Said that twice, babe,” he replied quietly.

“You sure?” I pushed.

“Zara, darlin’, no fun havin’ some guy come at you with an ax but he’s very dead and I am not so, yeah. I’m sure.”

I gave that a second to move through and slightly calm me before I muttered, “Okay.”

Ham again said nothing.

Suddenly, I was rethinking this call, the first time I’d spoken with him in three years.

A lot had happened to me. Nothing as big as being attacked by an ax murderer but it did include marriage, divorce, and a lot of other not-so-fun stuff.

I no longer knew Ham. He no longer knew me.

Sure, any girl who’d been in love with a man who was attacked by an ax murderer would want to call to make sure he was okay.

Then, that girl should think again and maybe not make that call the day her now ex-husband signed their divorce papers, a day that was just one day in months of super-shitty days, each one leading toward the likely outcome that her life was going straight down the toilet.

Or, perhaps, she shouldn’t make that call ever.

Finally, Ham spoke.

“Are you okay?”

“Ham, darlin’, no fun havin’ a guy you care about show up on the TV while they’re reporting on the multistate killing spree of a freaking ax murderer but he’s very dead and you’re not so, yeah. I guess I’m okay.”

“Okay,” he replied and I could hear the smile in his voice.

God, I missed him.

Shit, I missed him.

This was a bad idea.

“Talked to Jake,” he stated unexpectedly and I knew right then for certain this was a bad idea.

Jake worked at The Dog. Jake had worked at The Dog for ages. Jake was installed behind the bar at The Dog in a way that everyone knew he wasn’t going to leave.

It wasn’t just about longevity in the job. It was about the fact that The Dog could get crowded and rowdy, which meant he got good tips. I suspected it was also mostly because it got crowded and rowdy, half that rowdy crowd was female and drunk, so Jake also got a lot of action.

Jake was a Gnaw Bone native, like me. And, in his position of working at the bar in town where the locals frequented, Jake knew more of what was going down in Gnaw Bone than the police did.

So that meant, if Jake talked to Ham, Ham knew about me and Greg.

“Ham—”

“Says you split up with your man.”

Okay, totally certain this was a bad idea.

And totally certain that, when I could next afford to buy a drink at The Dog, I was going to drink it and then throw my glass at big-mouth Jake.

“Yeah,” I confirmed.

“First stop,” he declared.

“What?” I asked.

“Comin’ to see you. First stop.”

Oh God.

Not only was calling Ham a bad idea, it was a catastrophic one.

“Ham—”

“Babe, you shot of him?”

“Yes, Ham. Though I wouldn’t refer to it as ‘shot of him,’ but—”

“First stop.”

I wanted that. I so very much wanted that.

But not now. Not after what I did to Greg. Not with all that was going on.

And probably not ever.

Because seeing Ham might destroy me.

I’d walked away from him once and that was hard enough.

I didn’t think I could endure watching him walk away from me.

“Darlin’, I think—” I began.

“Care about you, cookie, you know I do. Been years, sucked, not knowin’ what’s up with you but, babe, I just got an ax embedded in my shoulder. You think shit through when that kind of thing happens, trust me. And, Zara, you matter. I can give respect to you and him. You’re together, hitched, you both deserve that. You shot of him, this disconnect we got goin’ ends.”

“I—”

“First stop. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

I lost my cool and exclaimed, “Ham!”

He didn’t care that I lost my cool.

“Tomorrow, babe,” he replied.

Then I had dead air.

I stared at my phone for several beats before I told it, “Yep, that was not a good idea.”

The phone just sat in my hand.

The news anchor droned from the TV.

I got up and headed to the kitchen.

I came back with a glass of ice, a two-liter of ginger ale, and a bottle of vodka. The last of my vodka that I’d been saving for the right time, seeing as I couldn’t afford to replace it and I couldn’t see on the horizon a day soon when I would.

This was definitely that time.

Ham’s voice slid through my head.

Tomorrow, babe.

I decided not to bother with the ginger ale.

Or the glass.

Tatters

I heard the growl of a big truck’s engine.

My eyes shot open.

That growl was coming from my driveway.

Then it stopped.

That was when my body flew into motion. I threw the covers back and jumped out of bed.

It was dark. I didn’t care. I rushed through my bedroom into the hall and straight to the front door.

I unlocked it, yanked it open, and Ham was standing there, one arm in a sling, the other hand lifted toward the doorbell.

I threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around him.

He grunted, part in surprise but mostly in pain.

I jumped back.

“God, sorry!” I cried.

He stared at me through the shadows. The only illumination we had was dim and coming from the muted streetlamps of my development. I felt his eyes move over my face as I drank him in.