Birthday Girl(44)

But Jordan’s not like that. She’s a good girl.

It just doesn’t make any sense she’d say she was with Cole when she wasn’t.

Unless she was up to something she shouldn’t have been.

I don’t want Cole to go through that with Jordan. Not like I did with his mother. What if he gets her pregnant and gets stuck dealing with a person like that? I don’t want him to be fucking alone forever, because he thinks he wasn’t enough for her.

I force my breathing to calm down. I’m jumping to conclusions. Relax.

She sees me approach, and her eyes light up a little. She opens her mouth to say something, but I speak first.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “Did you have a good night?”

She cocks her head, faltering a little. “Um, yeah, I guess.”

So nothing bad happened then. She’s in one piece and seems happy enough.

“Did you and Cole have fun?” I press, my pulse starting to race.

She drops her head, avoiding my eyes as she sticks the glass under the bar. “Yeah.” She nods.

And I flex my jaw, my temper rising. She just lied again.

“Yeah, Cole seems to think he never picked you up.” I plant my hands on the bar and lean in. “He says one of his friends picked you up, but he didn’t see you the rest of the night, and you didn’t come home.”

She stares at me, a blush crossing her cheeks. “Um…Yeah, it…I… I was…”

She stammers, flustered, and I stand there waiting for the easy, simple explanation I know will come, but…

It doesn’t.

She opens her mouth to say something again, but then closes it, a slight wince in her eyes like she knows she’s been caught.

I even out my tone, trying to sound calm. “Where were you all night, Jordan?”

Her gaze flashes everywhere but on me, her shoulders tense, and her breathing gets heavier. She can answer the question. She just doesn’t want to.

“Jordan?”

“Is Cole home now?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Then we’re both fine. The rest isn’t your concern,” she states.

I narrow my gaze on her. “And my house isn’t a hotel, little girl.”

She could’ve stayed with her sister or a friend, but why lie about that? She’s hiding something.

She lifts her chin, continuing, “Where I slept last night is between Cole and me.”

I keep my face straight, but all that floods my head are the images of a very young and stupid me catching my girlfriend screwing some guy in a car in front of our apartment at three in the morning. If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck…

Yeah.

I push off the bar and cross my arms over my chest. “I honestly don’t care what you do, Jordan,” I tell her, my heart slowly icing over, “but I’m not stupid, either. Cole may be distracted, but I’m not. Whoever picked you up last night didn’t bring you home, so if you’re screwing around on my son, I’ll take offense to that,” I warn her. “And then I’ll ask you to leave my goddamn house. I’m not paying to support someone like that. You understand? Don’t you ever lie to me again.”

Her jaw flexes like she’s as angry as I am. I expect her sharp tongue to come flying back at me, and I think it will for a moment, but then it doesn’t. Instead her eyes start to water, and her chin trembles as she breathes small, shallow breaths. She looks away, blinking.

“Yeah, got it,” she says quietly. And then she puts the towel down and lifts up the partition, leaving the bar. “Excuse me, please.”

She walks away down the hallway and out of sight. I stare after her.

I might be wrong. I could be wrong.

But I’ve ignored my gut so many times, and I know better now. I thought she was one of the good ones, but I’m not going to be made a fool of again. If she wasn’t doing anything, she would’ve answered the question.

Turning around, I head back down the bar toward the door. But a voice stops me.

“Screwing around on your son…” a female voice mocks my words. “Your precious son.”

I stop and look at Shel Foley, the owner, who stands behind the bar, a cigarette in her hand and smoke billowing in front of her face.

“You got something to say?”

She pushes off the back counter and sucks in another drag before snuffing the cigarette out in the ashtray and planting her hands on the bar. She glares at me. “Your dumbass kid was supposed to pick her up from work last night after she worked a ten-hour shift,” she tells me. “He got drunk at a party, and guess who came to get her in his stead? Jay McCabe—her ex—who thought it was fun back in high school to smack her around after he lost a game.”

What?

“She refused to be in a car with him,” Shel snarls at me. “Instead, I found her curled up, sleeping on the filthy pool table this morning, because she didn’t have anyone else to call last night.” And then she narrows her eyes. “She didn’t want you to find out what a loser your son is.”

I remain still, unable to move.

I don’t breathe, and I can’t blink, rage threatening to overflow.

He hit her. He fucking hit her? My fists curl, and my lungs ache. Every muscle burns.

Motherfucker.