Jagged (Colorado Mountain #5)(31)

But he liked movies.

I knew I should ask him. Things had been weird since our blow up about my vibrator usage weeks ago.

We weren’t the same.

This was mostly my doing. I was finding ways to live my life and have fun. I was reconnecting with friends, meeting for coffee, lunch, or dinner before I’d have to go to work. I went to the library in Carnal, met the famously-still-alive-after-being-buried-alive Faye Goodknight and got my library card so I could check out books and rediscover my passion for reading, something I did in my room a lot but more often did at the café with a latte. And it was near on harvest festival time and I was looking forward to going, with money, so I could eat the amazing food and maybe splurge on something cool from one of the vendors.

I was also kind of avoiding Ham.

If he noticed it, he didn’t show it. He was back to mellow, grinning easy, quick to tease or joke in the minimal time I spent in the common areas of the condo and in the not minimal time we spent together at work.

Roomies. For Ham, easy.

Truth be told, Nina was right. It was cool to get back to doing things I liked to do and I was having fun. It felt good not to wallow in what was done and gone and wasn’t much fun and find things to look forward to. I’d waited to have that back for a while and it was more than nice having it.

But the invisible chasm that separated me from my roomie was still there. I felt it even if he didn’t and I didn’t like it.

He was my friend who did me a solid. He was a guy with, as he put it, “basic needs” so he was going to see to those and I needed to get over it because it was none of my business. And he’d been a dick but he’d explained and kind of apologized, meeting the issue head on and guiding us around it.

I needed to sort my shit out.

At least I’d sorted out Maybelle, Wanda, Arlene, and Cotton (I hoped). I’d spent some time with each of them over the past few weeks and when we’d sat down, I’d told them in no uncertain terms to back off. I also told them my new lease on life and that I need them to accept the fact that I was finding my way off the dark path and into the light.

And last, I’d been brutally honest about the fact that I was working through being hung up on Ham, but it was mine to do, I was determined to do it, and I didn’t need their help. I also shared that it was no help, them getting in the face of a guy I was tight with who had my back. If they didn’t trust him, they should trust me so they needed to back off.

Wanda seemed contrite. Maybelle was noncommittal but I thought I got through to her. Arlene stated, “I’ll do what I do,” but she’d been a frequent visitor to The Dog and she hadn’t been in Ham’s or my business once since we had our chat.

Cotton said nothing except, “Find a day. I need an assistant. Feelin’ the urge comin’ on to take me some pictures. And you’re luggin’ my stuff.”

I wasn’t sure if that was Cotton’s way of giving me what I wanted without telling me he was going to give me what I wanted or vice versa. I just knew he didn’t come back to The Dog.

I was sure I was looking forward to “luggin’ his stuff” while he worked. He’d never asked me to do that. He was famous, his photos more so because they were the freaking bomb, and there were likely not many people who had the privilege of working with him.

So all that was good… I hoped.

I stopped nearly to the mouth of the hall that led into the living room when I heard Ham’s voice talking quiet.

And jagged.

I sucked in a silent breath.

“Yeah, darlin’, dyin’ down. That’s good, Feb.”

Feb.

February Owens. The woman he cared about who was the obsession of an ax murderer.

After the finale to that grisly debacle, it was impossible to miss the aftermath news reports about it, but even so, I didn’t try.

I was curious. Curious about February Owens.

Eventually, my curiosity was assuaged. They showed pictures of her and her boyfriend, and she was gorgeous. Older than me, probably closer to Ham’s age. But she looked a little like me. Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Her man, who apparently had been her man way back in the day and they’d hooked up again, was phenomenal. Definitely on par in hotness to Ham, if leaner and not quite as tall.

“No, probably won’t go away. But it will come further between,” Ham went on and I suspected he was talking about the situation with Dennis Lowe, the resulting media onslaught and continued morbid fascination of the public when stuff like that happened.

“No, nothin’ this way. I’m a footnote, babe. And way good with that,” Ham told her.

I started to slink back when he continued.

“You good? Happy?”

At that, I stopped. Mostly because he sounded like he wanted that for her even if her being that way meant she was that way with another guy.

Which was, apparently, Ham’s way.

“Good, beautiful,” he whispered.

He wasn’t saying something was beautiful.

He was calling February Owens “beautiful.”

And that hurt. A lot.

Why did that hurt so much?

She was “beautiful.” February Owens, who had to be one of the women he had when he also had me, was “beautiful.”

I was “cookie.”

She was closer to his age and she was inarguably beautiful. I wasn’t jailbait but I was a lot younger than him so I got “cookie.”