Nothing Else Matters (Romance on the Go Book 0) Read online

  “Is that all?”

  She searched for sarcasm in the comment but recognized it as one of the mundane responses a clerk might make. “I hope so,” she replied and was rewarded with a startled look as her world began to close in around her.

  Paying with her credit card, she snatched up a takeout pizza menu from a little rack on the counter while her wine was shoved into a couple of sacks. Her cupboards were bare and while she intended to court oblivion, doing so on an empty stomach spelled disaster. She’d rather not vomit.

  The Uber waited, and she crossed to it, hugging her bulky purchases. “Can you take me here?”

  He glanced at the menu. “It’s kinda far out of the way.”

  Belatedly realizing she’d given away her unfamiliarity with the city and the fact he could drive her anywhere, she then dismissed any sense of danger. It didn’t matter, given the state of her mind, but she found she wanted to get home without further delays. “Never mind. I’ll call for a delivery.”

  He shrugged and backed out of the parking space, and then auditioned for NASCAR. The speed suited her mood, and she leaned back in the seat, feeling out of control, but the rush serving to keep her thoughts at bay.

  When he pulled up at her building, she dug for cash and tipped him handsomely. His maturing features tightened. “You okay? You look weird.”

  Her world had imploded, all the careful shoring up of protective walls and filling wide moats gone by the wayside. “I’m fine.” She had to be. She’d made herself clear.

  She entered the locked front door by rote, juggling her purchase and manipulating the key. The elevator whisked her to her floor, and she counted all the lookalike doors until she found her own. Behind it at last, she set the wine down with her purse and yanked off her coat. The remainder of her clothes followed suit, and she found a set of flannel pajamas to draw over her chilled body.

  Fighting with the foil-covered box, she drew out the spout and filled a water glass with the ruby beverage, taking a long drought. It wasn’t stellar, but the illusion of calm took hold, and she dug out her phone. She’d refrained from pouring until changed from her office wear, and surely that meant she was still in charge. It had to be five o’clock somewhere.

  So what if seeing him had brought it all back? His tall, muscular body, thick dark hair, and chocolate eyes. His killer smile. The way he made her feel when he touched her… Another gulp of wine didn’t erase any of it, despite the promised oblivion touted by everyone who indulged. She obviously needed a whole lot more.

  Her world upended, the locked box open and its contents leaking, the first call she placed was for pizza, a Supreme, extra-large. She didn’t intend to set foot outside her apartment until Monday morning. Then, after running her thumb over the screen, she called Jo.

  “Hey. You got my message. Good timing. The terrors are in bed.” Her friend sounded upbeat, but there was a wariness behind it.

  “I did get your message.” She was startled by the tone of her voice. Calm, cool, and collected. She took another swig of wine—it was working. “Sorry for not getting back sooner. Work’s been insane.”

  “I’ll say. I think we’ve talked once since you left. And no one else has heard from you aside from Mona who got her birthday card.” Joanne was hedging.

  She didn’t want to talk about Mona or anyone else. It wasn’t in her to cut the woman off by not recognizing an important day of the year for her, but she really wanted to leave her old life behind. She refused to consider it might be catching up with her. He’d heard her clearly. Maybe. Had she wanted him to?

  But she minded her manners and asked, “How are you? And the boys? Sid?”

  “We’re good, Claire. And you?” Since you got my message lingered beyond her question.

  “I’m fine. The job’s still great. I like my boss.” She’d dance as long as she could. She didn’t want to open that wound again. If she didn’t share, it would go away.

  “Any time to do anything else?”

  Just five days to fill. Immediately. “Not a lot.”

  “Is that healthy, honey?”

  She knew Joanne had been both taken aback and hurt by her abdication as it were, the abrupt transfer and subsequent move. “It’s working.” Until today.

  “You’re still stopping yourself from thinking.”

  And feeling. Mostly. “I’m coping.” Her voice had enough bite in it to quiet her friend, and she took another swig to mellow out. Joanne was a good person and didn’t deserve her shit.

  “What do you want me to tell Liam?” Jo finally asked, stepping up, assuming Claire wouldn’t want to call him herself.

  She choked off the barrage of responses that streamed from her brain. What did I do? Why? I loved you... I needed you… Been there, done that, still wearing the hair shirt despite all efforts. “Nothing.”

  “You aren’t curious? Or … anything else?”

  Aware her friend wanted to offer support, Claire hesitated and chose her words carefully, expressing the truth even though she wrestled with it. “I saw him. Right after I read your message.”

  “What? And you didn’t lead with that? Claire.” Joanne huffed. “He’s in Chicago? Oh, my God. Claire, that has to mean something.”

  And, her best friend had just changed her mind. “He dropped out of my life, without a word, remember. So, nothing.”

  “Oh, okay. I get that. I mean, I’m not there, so…” Jo sighed. “If you’re sure. He sounded as though he had something important to say. But maybe it’s just me being curious.”

  What could he say that would change anything? If it was some kind of twelve-step thing, she hardly cared, and she couldn’t go there again. She needed more time to forget about him, not take another hit to feed her addiction. It still simmered and tempted. “I’m sure.”

  Saying it didn’t necessarily make it true, and the shard of agony that grated in her chest stole her breath, but she didn’t take it back.

  “What if he won’t give up?”

  “Then I’ll deal with it.”

  Her friend dropped it, and they chatted desultorily about other things. Claire promised to be in regular touch, though warned Joanne she would be impossibly busy. She suspected the other woman was aware that Claire was putting distance between anything and everything in her recent past. She knew what she was doing, rightly or wrongly, and was helpless against the need to do so, no matter the cost.

  By the time the pizza arrival shut down the conversation, she’d made inroads on the box of wine and took further solace in filling her belly with a slice of the loaded pie. Despite her hunger, she couldn’t manage more than that one piece and wrapped the rest up for meals over the next few days. And then she curled up on the couch with yet another glass and watched mindless television, trying to ignore the shifting thoughts in the back of her head, hoping they’d subside.

  You did the right thing. Don’t think about him.

  The TV buzzed and chortled with canned laughter, and the lights made her eyes hurt. It was too much trouble to get up and turn them off, so she settled for pulling a blanket over her head, desperately hoping she didn’t fall asleep and dream.

  Controlling the pain was possible while awake and focused on other things, but her sleep was another deal entirely. She sometimes thought she might bleed to death internally when her unconscious mind wove the memories of Liam together to lash her unmercifully.

  Hovering on the edge of slumber, she drifted and then succumbed. Just a little nap.

  Chapter Four

  Well, that hadn’t gone according to plan. And how unrealistic was he to expect Claire to welcome him with open arms? His reaction upon spotting her on the street, on the way to her office, had thrown his plan right out the window. Every instinct drove him to get to her, waiting on the curb—and he’d spooked her.

  He’d waffled between going to her place or dropping by her place of work, and chose the latter. What he had to say wasn’t for public consumption, but it was less likely she’d shut him
down in front of others, either, and he’d offer lunch or dinner, extract a promise from her. Claire always kept her promises. Strategic planning was called for in any mission. He chose to ignore the fact she might have promised herself to never give him the time of day. He’d feed her his heart if she’d take it.

  But she hadn’t given him the chance, fleeing, badly upset. He’d let her go—for now—because he’d seen something different in her eyes. This called for a better strategy.

  Reminding himself that the good things in life rarely came easily and that his future lay ahead, he refused to believe he’d destroyed the possibility. That faith restored his equilibrium. He’d fix his colossal mistake. He’d burst through many doors, locked and loaded, only to find his prey gone, the intel faulty, so he regrouped. The trick was never to give up. At the very least, she deserved an explanation.

  He retraced his steps to the SUV and punched Claire’s address into the GPS. He somehow knew she’d gone home, to hide and try to avoid him.

  The drive seemed interminable, and dusk fell quickly. Twice, he had to stop and check another map, the GPS apparently confused by construction. The commute was considerable for Claire, though he’d read that public transportation was good. He found himself worrying about her being on a train or bus late at night before reminding himself she’d been managing for months without him. It chewed at him, and he shouldered another bite of blame.

  He finally found the place, a tall, nondescript apartment building. It might have a view of the lake but didn’t stand out otherwise. Parking in a visitor’s slot, he then made his way to the door.

  Inside the foyer, he had a choice of intercom buttons to push and located her name. C. Booth. Good security, not giving away her gender. Then he envisioned announcing himself and her refusing to let him in, leaving him stuck in the vestibule like some kind of macabre comedy. Or her calling the cops.

  It gave him pause, but he’d have backed off if he hadn’t seen her warring emotions. And knew better than to give her more time to shore up her barriers.

  Fortuitously, a tenant pushed past him and opened it, and Liam followed the man inside. He then muttered under his breath about anyone from the street being able to easily access the apartments.

  The sixteenth-floor hallway looked and smelled like most of the places he’d been in over the years, and he sauntered down the hall until he found the correct number. All kinds of scenarios skittered through his head as he stared at the painted fire door, few of them encouraging. He badly needed to see Claire, to touch her and reconnect. If he could just get her to hear him out.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked firmly and wondered whether she’d open up when she saw him through the peephole. With no response to his rapping, he figured he’d guessed correctly but wasn’t deterred. He thumped on the door again, and again, the noise reverberating in the space. He’d have the neighbors up in arms soon—maybe she wasn’t home. Maybe she’d already called the cops. The best-laid plans…

  Then, he heard something. Despite the thickness of the door, it was ill-fitted, and he made out the unmistakable sound of complaining—or cursing. He knocked harder.

  ****

  Somebody shoot me now. Claire pushed up and shoved the blanket off her face. What was that infernal pounding? It matched the thumping in her head, and she muttered a few choice words. She’d slept, but not for very long, and she’d drunk far too much wine in a short period of time.

  Another set of banging reports drew her bleary stare to her door. What on earth? She didn’t know her neighbors and couldn’t think of who had come calling. Maybe a serial killer. Or a salesman, ignoring the no soliciting signs in the lobby by the mailboxes.

  Or Liam. She wanted to reach inside her head and yank that suggestion out and stomp on it. She’d made her decision and would stick by it.

  She scrambled to her feet and marched a reasonably straight line to the door, her entire body protesting. A judicious peek through the spyhole weakened her knees, and she slid down the hard surface into a puddle beneath the doorknob. She hadn’t really thought he’d be on the other side… Or maybe she had.

  “Claire?” His unmistakable voice washed over her, and she bit back a whimper, all her ramparts breached and put asunder.

  She was a complete and utter mess, and now with no reserves, thanks to her flirtation with a certain vintage. She wanted to puke but worried her head might explode.

  “Can you open the door?”

  And let you in? She wasn’t that stupid, despite the brain damage she’d wreaked on herself.

  “Claire?”

  Leaning toward the crack, she said, “Go away.”

  “Not until we’ve talked.”

  She’d have given her soul for a conversation months ago. Dull, seething anger hatched in her belly. “Go away.”

  “Please.”

  She stilled, even her disjointed emotions freezing. Had she ever heard Liam come close to begging? Even when she had her mouth on him, taking him deep, sucking his turgid, salty flesh and working her tongue against the defined notch beneath the bulbous head of his sizeable cock, he’d refrained. The vivid memory made her shudder, and a pulse of need shocked her into replying. “Why?”

  “Because I fucked up, sweetheart, and I want to make it up to you. I want to explain.” His voice emanated close to her head, and she realized he was sitting or kneeling on the other side of the door, only a couple of inches of steel and wood separating them.

  Too late. Too fucking late. A flood of moisture dampened her cheeks, and she tasted salt, muddling her senses. She hadn’t let herself cry, not when she’d accepted he was gone from her life, not when Dr. Salinger crushed her hope, not in her bed when she’d tried to sleep her life away, and not even in the face of Joanne’s sympathy. She’d been too afraid to start and never stop again.

  She curled up in a ball and wept, sobbing so hard her entire body shook, like she’d finally been given permission to release the pent-up emotion she’d denied for so long. Submerged it beneath exhausting, long hours of work and avoidance. She hurt so bad.

  “Claire. Claire.” Liam’s urgent tone rasped over the raw edges of her agony.

  A curious sensation of being pushed over the tile, sliding without thought, overcame her, and then hard, strong arms wrapped her up and lifted her body against a heated chest. Her bleary, swollen eyes cracked open to take in the hollow of Liam’s strong neck, and his familiar scent soothed her battered senses.

  “Jesus, Claire. What’s happened to you?” He carried her into her bedroom and sat on the mattress, cuddling her on his lap.

  She hiccupped while shaking her head, pushing him away with futile effort. Grim mirth twisted her mouth. You happened to me. A whisper of pride kept the thought to herself.

  “Shh, sweetheart.” He grabbed a bunch of tissues and mopped at her face. She cried harder and managed to crawl away to huddle on the bed.

  He spooned her, his big body heated, a bulwark she had craved when he’d left. He’d left her. The thought crystalized and calmed her outburst, aided by the lingering stroke of his hand over her side.

  As she regained control, she wracked her brain for a way to send him on his way, knowing his stubbornness. What story could she feed him, how might she push his buttons to avoid sharing and evict him from her life? Before he slipped back inside and took up residence. An exorcism. That was what she needed.

  “Are you okay? You’re shaking. And you’re skin and bones.” He eased her onto her back and stared down at her.

  He really hadn’t changed, except his dark hair wasn’t as closely cropped, and she had the inane thought about the timing of his last haircut. Not to mention the many theories about his whereabouts and actions during the past months.

  They tumbled over one another and collided, sparking frissons of rage and confusion, of hurt and profound sadness. Without thought, she swung at him, his quick reflexes saving his sensuous mouth a blow.

  Lightly holding both her wrists, his chest brushing h
er breasts and stealing her resolve to do him bodily harm, he pressed a kiss on her knuckles and said, “I deserved that, and more, but you might hurt yourself.”

  Shame overtook her. She hadn’t used violence since smacking Tommy Chambers in kindergarten. “You can let go.”

  He released her but transferred one hand to her cheek, his thumb passing over it. “Can I get you something? Water? Aspirin?”

  No doubt she resembled the bedraggled hangover queen of the century, reeking of consumed alcohol. Not that it mattered how she looked. Not where this man was concerned. “I’m fine. You can go.”

  One dark brow lifted over an equally dark eye, both orbs fringed with impossibly thick and long lashes. His strong nose and chin dispelled any hint of girlishness, but she found that gaze drawing her in as always.

  “Now that I’m here, we should talk.”

  Pressing her head back into the pillow, she tried to gain another inch of distance. “How did you get in?”

  Something flickered across his face, and he withdrew a little. “Your door wasn’t installed properly, and the lock’s not worth shit.”

  “You picked my lock? Broke in?” She was in love with a criminal.

  “Let’s just say I have skills we’ve never talked about. Which needs to change. As much as possible. Not the skill part but the talking.”

  Her interest wasn’t piqued. It wasn’t. And while the outburst had been cathartic, and probably long overdue, she hurt, and nothing Liam said or did was going to change that. She’d loved him beyond measure, given—and taken—and he’d left her.

  “Sweetheart, you can’t hate me, or at least what I did, more than I hate myself.” His thumb caressed her cheek again, and she choked on a residual sob.

  “Don’t count on it.” She flung herself away and skittered off the bed, gaining the bathroom and slamming the door.

  Biting back a scream when she saw her bird’s nest hair and smeared makeup, not to mention her bloodshot, swollen eyes, she dragged her pajamas off and clambered into the shower. The water sheltered and soothed, washing away some of her baggage with it, and when she emerged, it was with renewed purpose.