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I don’t know how many times I’ve opened my eyes and quickly closed them again. I don’t know how many hours or days have passed. I’m moving but not moving. Hearing but not hearing. Feeling but not feeling. My skin is sore, my head thumping. My darkness too comforting to leave. I’m too afraid to open my eyes, too much of a coward to face my wrongs.
Without the energy to fix my fuckups.
There are so many.
You’re one fucked-up sorry state.
You need help.
But . . . I’m beyond help. Especially now—now she’s gone too.
Everyone. Gone.
I melt back into the hard floor, feeling like I’m fading away. Wishing I could finally be spared the mercy of this agony. Never. Because I don’t deserve respite. Every cruel, painful thing that’s happened to me in my lifetime is justified. And offering me the hope of redemption before taking it away? Giving me Ava and taking her away? I had it coming.
I hear some yelling, but it seems far away, and I roll my jaw, feeling it scrape across the decking under my cheek. My mind bends and twists, my past playing on loop, ruthlessly reminding me, yet again, of the endless hole of misery that is my existence. But amid the horrors something shines through. Something good. It’s hazy, barely detectable, but it’s there, trying so hard to overpower the merciless evil.
Ava.
I pushed her away, screamed at her, scared her, made her question . . . everything. I made her run. I made her fight her feelings.
I made her leave me.
But she’s not gone? Not gone, but not quite here either.
Because she can’t find her way through the darkness to me. I have to get to her . . . but someone pulls me back, stopping me. I feel something press into my back, my brain rattling as my head is lifted, hands rubbing all over my face, through my hair, all over my naked chest. There’s talking. Words that sound miles away. I can’t decipher what they’re saying. Can’t make out the voices.
But then there’s one I recognize, and it’s begging me to open my eyes. Saying my name repeatedly, sounding distressed. A face appears through the darkness, and my heart races as I reach for her. She’s too far away.
No!
My legs start moving, frantic and fast, trying to run to her and yet I get nowhere, watching her drift farther and farther away from me. Soon, she’ll be out of reach completely. Soon, she’ll give up trying to find me. Soon, she’ll be gone forever.
Soon, all I’ll have is this darkness and more regrets.
No hope to cling on to. I don’t think I can shoulder anymore grief. I can’t lose the only piece of relief and happiness I’ve found in years.
I’ll never survive it.
Don’t leave me!
Warmth penetrates my hand, and something seeps into me, something soothing. I still, concentrating on feeling it. It’s familiar. Comforting.
And then it’s gone, and I’m suddenly weightless. Moving. Don’t take me away from that feeling! Something soft meets my back, and something softer meets my cheek.
It’s back. That feeling is back, and as it rubs gently up and down my face, the darkness starts to fade again. Something subtle and delicate invades my nose, and something presses to my forehead. Lips. Soft, full lips. My arm shoots out, grappling at the lingering darkness, trying to seize the source. “Ava?” My eyes sting just trying to get them open, and the glare hurts, but I frantically search everywhere, looking for her.
And then I find her.
Her mouth moves, she’s speaking, and yet awe is clouding my ability to hear her. A rush of memories takes me hostage—our row, the drink, her face a picture of shock and devastation. Disgust.
You’re one fucked-up sorry state.
You need help.
I try to lift my head, but it’s so heavy, so painful, and I slump back down, out of breath. Broken. My mouth is dry, words sticking to my tongue, but I force them out. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .”
She takes my hand and lifts it to her face. Her touch is like a sedative. My mind shuts down, the weight of my regrets too much, and I succumb to my exhaustion. I have only enough energy to pray she wasn’t a dream.
I’m warm. So damn warm. I gingerly allow my eyes to peel open, the dusky light not quite dusky enough not to hurt. I look down my body, squinting, seeing blankets coating every inch of me. My sensitive skin feels tender under them. I’m sweating, suffocating, so I lethargically push the stifling material down my body in search of some air. How did I get here? With blankets and a pillow?
I reach up to my pounding head, putting pressure on my temple to try and dull the pain. “Fuck,” I murmur. There’s only one cure.
Vodka.
And I need it before my mind has a chance to kick in after it’s fought through the fog, before it has a chance to remind me of where I am and why I’m here. What I’ve lost.
I swing my legs off the couch and scan the room in search of my savior.
And nearly stop breathing.
“Ava?” Her name falls past my lips, sounding like a desperate plea. She’s here? I rub my eyes, certain my mind is playing tricks on me, certain the vodka is fucking me over. I’m dreaming. I’m still asleep. She can’t be here. Why would she be?
I open my eyes, bracing myself for the disappointment, and slump back against the couch when I find her still curled up in the chair. I can do no more than watch her, waiting for my reality to catch up and take her away. For her to disappear.
Yet ten minutes later, she’s still in the chair. Fast asleep. Peaceful.
Swallowing hard, I push my hands into the sofa, but quickly take my weight off them when pain shoots up my arm. I hiss and assess the swollen, purple mass, turning it over, gingerly flexing it. It’s ugly. The reasons behind the injury are ugly. Everything in my life is ugly.
Except . . .
I divert my attention to the chair again. “Except you,” I whisper, using my legs to get me up. Every bone in my body cracks until I’m standing; I’m feeling dizzy and lightheaded. And old. Jesus, I feel so fucking old.
I give myself a few moments to stabilize, drinking in as much oxygen as I can before I attempt to put one foot in front of the other. My steps are tentative. Every time a foot meets the floor, it sends shockwaves up my legs, through my torso, before exploding in my head. But I endure the punishment, accept it, take it all.
I make it to the chair and lower to my haunches, reaching for her hair. Her beautiful, dark, shiny hair. Her face looks a little blotchy. Tears. And yet every part of this woman is so alive and vivid. And every part of me is dull and dead. I could tarnish her beauty. Strip her of her sass. I could ruin her. Maybe I already have. “I love you,” I whisper, as if in apology. As if those three words are an acceptable
excuse for what I have done. I have nothing else. I love this woman with a crippling intensity. It’s a love that sends me into a new kind of madness. A madness that’s far more appealing than my past craziness. Through no fault of her own, Ava’s become my crux. A reason for me to go on.
I exhale heavily, the silky strands of her hair sliding through my fingers, feeling soft against my sore skin. And suddenly, her eyes open. I fucking hate the torment I see in her stare as she slowly comes around. I did that. I caused that.
She blinks and shoots up from the chair, and I startle, my tired body not working fast enough to stop me falling back.
“Shit,” she yelps.
I flinch at the harshness of her language, as well as the volume. “Watch your mouth,” I croak, fighting my way to my feet and dropping onto the couch, fucking exhausted.
“You’re awake.”
Fuck me, she needs to turn her volume down. My eardrums feel like they could burst along with my head. There’s no denying she’s seen me at my absolute worst. But . . . she’s here. For once, I haven’t got to chase her down. Although she looks ready to bolt at any moment, her eyes wide and panicked, her body rigid as she backs up to a chair and lowers.
The silence is unbearable as she looks at me, her mind obviously racing. I can see the endless questions running circles, while endless excuses loop mine. Endless apologies. Endless regrets.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, breaking the awkward silence but somehow making the atmosphere even more uncomfortable. I breathe out, looking down at my mess of a hand. Black. Purple. Blue. Yellow. Every phase of bruising you could imagine adorns my swollen limb. And it hurts again. It really fucking hurts. How am I feeling? I swallow, and that hurts too. How could I possibly convey my regret? Apologize? Reassure her? I ponder that for too long, until Ava stands abruptly.
My knackered body responds without instruction, straightening, ready to stop her leaving. I can’t let her walk away from me again. God knows where I’ll end up next. “Where are you going?” I blurt, set to charge her down. Make her listen. Make her hear me. Just as soon as I find a way to explain myself.
“I thought you might need some water.”
Water? I need something, and it isn’t water. I need forgiveness. I need absolution. I need her. This distance between us, this hesitancy, isn’t boding well. Neither is the fact that at this moment in our relationship, for the first time, she is both the strongest mentally and physically. But make no mistake, I’ve always been at this woman’s mercy. Now more than ever. She left me, but she’s back. What
does that mean?
Ava goes to the kitchen, and I watch her the entire way until she disappears. Even in another room, her absence is excruciating. I can’t fix this with my power over her. I can’t use what I’ve always depended on. Our chemistry. Our attraction. The explosions we create when we’re intimate. Things are too broken. You must give her words. But where the fuck will I find the right ones? And is she prepared to even listen?
In complete despair, I drop my heavy head into my hands, willing my brain to back me up and give me something. Anything.
Nothing.
It feels like the whole fucking world is against me.
Even myself.
As I stare down at the threads of the carpet, feeling like the worst kind of shit on every level, her bare feet appear. Her perfect bare feet. I lift my tired head to face her. Her eyes are swimming. Despair to match mine. I can’t bear it, and in a knee-jerk move, I reach for the water, laying my hand over hers, desperate to feel her. For her to feel me.
She jumps out of her skin, startled, and my heart jumps out of my chest, pained. Cold water drenches my hand, spilling up over the glass, my shakes not helping. My shakes are the least of my worries, and they look like the most of Ava’s. God, she thinks she knows, when she knows nothing. Absolutely nothing. This here, me now, it’s just a smudge on the vast canvas of my fuck-ups. And look at her reaction. It’s not natural for us to be this . . . distant.
“When did you last have a drink?” she asks quietly.
Of all the questions she must have, she asks that? Ask me if I love you. If you mean the fucking world to me. If you’re the difference between life and death.
I take some water to wet my mouth and hopefully loosen my lips. “I don’t know,” I admit. Each sip, each bottle, went that little bit further to complete oblivion. It was the only way. Lose the memories. Lose the days. “What day is it?”
“Saturday.”
“Saturday?” I choke, scanning the room for empty bottles, finding none. Did she clear them? Did she count each and every one of my sins as she tossed
them in the bin? “Fuck,” I breathe. I should be dead. And if I don’t somehow fix this mess, I will be.
Find the words, Ward.
Except . . . nothing seems adequate, which leaves more silence, me playing mindlessly with my glass and Ava going back to the chair, meters away from me. If I could only hold her. If she would only let me touch her. I’d apologize with every inch of my skin on hers. Make her remember.
“Jesse, is there anything I can do?” she asks, sounding helpless.
I laugh on the inside, but there is not one scrap of humor, only despair. “There are lots of things you can do, Ava,” I murmur, my eyes on the rippling water in my glass. “But I can’t ask you to do any of them.” Because it isn’t fair. She deserves more than I’m capable of giving. For weeks, I agonized over what to tell her and how. For weeks I swayed from courageous to cowardice. And here we are, every reason for me to keep my mouth shut proving itself. She’s had only a fraction of my unbearable tale. The rest? The rest will put the nail in the coffin for me. And it will kill her too. And yet, selfishly, I can’t bear to tell her to leave before I do any more damage.
“Do you want a shower?” she asks.
A shower. A few weeks ago, such a question would’ve had me up out of my chair like a rocket and carrying her like a caveman to the bathroom. Today, I can hardly find the energy to pick myself up. She won’t join me. She’s merely caring for me. Out of guilt? Duty? Because she feels sorry for me?
Or because she loves me?
“Sure.” I hiss my way up to my feet, mentally begging her to help me. She doesn’t. “Shit.” The blanket falls to a pile at my feet, my hands not fast enough to stop it. I look down my naked body. Limp. Flaccid. Useless like the rest of me. I struggle to reach down and hide myself. “I’m sorry,” I say lamely, covering my body. I’m sorry for everything.
She looks insulted for a moment, and I very nearly blurt out that my condition has nothing to do with her and everything to do with being broken. Does she realize she’s the medicine?
Ava sighs and leads on, and I follow, my feet dragging, my heart following. I’m even more fucked by the time we make it to my bathroom, out of breath, aching, feeling weaker.
“Would a bath be better?” she asks.
Undoubtedly. My legs won’t hold me up for much longer. “I suppose.”
As Ava draws me a bath, I rest against the wall for support, and I take in every inch
of the space she designed. The vanity unit, where we finally came together. The shower, where I’ve cleaned her endlessly from the top of her beautiful head to the very tips of her perfect toes. The bath, the one I braved facing because she was in it with me. A bath before Ava crashed into my life was inconceivable. I could never have soaked, relaxed, not when every bath time with Rosie would have been at the forefront of my mind.
I swallow back the building lump and find Ava. She’s staring at the vanity unit. Is she thinking all the things I’m thinking? Seeing us both in here, naked, together, smiling?
And loving, even if neither of us found the courage to speak the words?
I see her physically shaking herself back to life, clearly unable to face those thoughts. “There.” She points to the full tub and makes a hasty exit.
“You’re acting like a stranger,” I call quietly, halting her escape. We’re not strangers. Nowhere near strangers. We’re one. A force. She’s a salve to my cracked heart. She’s my soul. My fucking everything.
“I feel like a stranger.” Her voice is wobbly, riddled with emotion, and it echoes in the silence that follows. Her pain, mixed with my pain. It’s toxic. We need to be rid of it, and yet, I have no clue how to start fixing it.
With the truth.
But the truth is too risky. I’m not prepared to make any moves that’ll see this woman walking away from me again. Never. God have mercy on my soul, I have to do whatever it takes. Anything. I will protect her from the truth if it kills me.
“Please look at me, Ava,” I whisper, begging, knowing our chances of surviving this will be so much better if she could just face me. See me. Feel me.
It takes too much courage of her part, and too much fear on mine, but she turns wearily. Looks at me. And her head starts to shake, tears brimming again. “I can’t do this.” She’s gone from the bathroom faster than my brain can compute what’s just happened.
“Ava,” I yell, begging my legs not to fail me as I run after her, chasing her down the stairs, reaching for her endlessly, but I grab thin air each time, missing her. Thin air. That’s what will become of me if she makes it out of this apartment.
Nothing.
Empty.
Dead.
I dig deep for some strength and seize her wrist, yanking her back. She’s facing me in a second, and I stagger back from the force of her frantic shove. But I don’t lose my grip. I can’t lose my hold of her.
“No,” she cries out, hysterical. “Don’t touch me!” The state of her, the state I’ve made of her, crucifies me.
“Ava, don’t do this.” I try to get my face close to hers, force her to see me. “Stop.”
Every muscle in her body seems to give, taking her down to the floor by my feet. “Please, don’t,” she begs. “Please, don’t make this harder.”
I look down at her, horrified. My God, what have I done? How have I managed to transform the fierce, sass-filled lady that I fell in love with into this? A shattered woman. A woman in despair. Broken.
Every reason for me to turn my back on my past, to bury it, is on her knees before me, sobbing her heart out.
I drop to the floor and grab her shuddering body, tugging her onto me, cradling her, hugging her, rocking her back and forth while praying into her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I choke, tears starting to fall. I cry for her. Not for me. I deserve this pain. Ava does not. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t deserve it,” I whisper, “but give me a chance. I need another chance.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she sobs, hiding in my chest from our reality. She doesn’t realize it, but she’s doing it already. My trembles have calmed. My heart is steady. My delicate skin is relishing the friction of her all over me.
“Don’t run away from me again,” I order, though it’s gentle, and she sniffles, breaking away from me. My scar tingles under her gaze as I take her face and force her to look at me. I need her eyes. No matter if they’re full of hopelessness and not the fire I so love, I need them. Just to check she’s really here. Just to check she’s real. “I’m going to make this all right,” I vow. “I’m going to make you remember, Ava.”
Her look tells me she believes me. She should. I’ll never let her down again. I’ve been in various levels of hell. This is up there with the worst of them.
“Can you make
me remember the conventional way?” she asks, totally serious. It brings the first smile to my face in too long. There’s nothing conventional about us. Never will be. I had my way, she had hers. And together, it worked. It’ll work again.
“I’m making it my mission objective,” I say with grit. “I’ll do anything.” My words seem to reach something inside of her, and her lips part as she scans my face. I hope she sees determination in my eyes, and I know she has when she falls into my chest and clings on like she needs me. As much as I need her. Even just a glimmer of hope would have charged me with resolve. This? How hard she’s holding me, how deep she’s snuggling? It’s more than a glimmer. It’s a lightning bolt. She’s healing me. Healing us.
I exhale, sinking my face into her hair, my arse beginning to go numb, but my heart feeling everything there is to feel. So much fucking love.
“Your bath will get cold,” she whispers.
“I’m comfy.” It’s a lie. My achy muscles are screaming.
“You need to eat as well. And that hand needs seeing to. Does it hurt?”
“Like hell.” And eat? My stomach turns at the mere thought.
“Come on.” She peels our skin apart as I moan my dismay. Yet I’m drained of the physical strength I need to keep her here. I should also be amenable to her clear desire to take care of me. It’s backward, not us, and I hate it. But . . . I’ll take anything I can get.
She offers her hand, looking down at me. It’s admirable, but we both know she couldn’t move me an inch, even when I’m useless. But I still accept, wincing my way up to standing, and let her unhurriedly lead the way to the bathroom, my eyes unmoving from our joined hands between us.
We enter, and I take it all in, wishing I could erase the horrid memories of this space, leaving only the amazing.
“In you get.”
I find her pointing at the tub—the giant tub that’s way too big for one person. The potential of soaking in it alone isn’t the only strange notion I’m dealing with. “Are you making demands?” I ask, unsure whether I quite like it or hate it. The dynamics of our relationship are shifting
too fast for me to get used to.
“Sounds like it.” She’s indifferent, in a smug kind of way.
Would it be too much to expect her to join me? It would be a major step in the right direction, a leap closer to our normal. “Will you get in with me?” I ask, sounding very unlike the Jesse Ward who met this young beauty only a few short weeks ago.
Her indifference turns on its head, and she moves away, now unsure. “I can’t.”
Bullshit. She can and she should. She simply won’t. Injured, I try to explain, rather than enforce it, which is exactly how things would happen if I wasn’t standing here with my tail between my legs feeling half dead. “Ava.” I breathe out her name like a plea. “You’re asking me not to touch you. That goes against all my instincts.” She knows that. Is she punishing me? Every second without her attached to me in one way or another feels like the worst kind of torture.
“Jesse, please.” She looks away, clearly unable to face the hurt in my eyes. “I need time.”
Time for what? To decide whether she’s staying in my life or not? Time to decide if she’s going to forgive me? Then why the hell is she here? “It’s not natural, Ava. For me not to touch you, it’s not right.”
Her eyes dart to her feet, and she’s silent. God, what’s going through that head of yours, lady? If she’d tell me what to do, I’ll do it. No questions asked. Anything.
Then do this, Jesse. Give her the time she’s asking for and just be grateful she’s even here.
Fuck. Can I do that? Abstaining is hard enough when she’s not around, but when I can smell her? Smell the relief and the cure so close?
Ava finds it in herself to look at me, and it’s a blatant effort to show me her stance. Adamant. It’s ridiculous. We both know what will erase this pain. Me. Her. Together. She’s hurting too, and the remedy—me—is standing here before her begging her to let me repair what I’ve broken.
It goes against the grain for us but, reluctantly, I do as she’s asked, dropping my blanket and stepping into the tub. Alone. “It’s not the same without you in here with me.” I rest back and close my eyes, hoping my lack of vision will take the edge off how odd it feels to bathe alone. How much I hate it. Listening to her moving around. Knowing she’s here.
She wets my hair, and her fingers massage gently across my sore scalp. I grit my teeth, forcing my hands to remain still and close to me. Then I feel her palms circling my body, soaping me up. Cleaning me. If only. My throat tightens, the strain to remain unmoving making my
muscles ache more. Her hands spend extra time around the sight of my scar, slowing in their soft circles. She’ll never clean that enough for it to be gone. My lungs start to scream, and I realize I’m holding my breath, bracing myself for her to question me on it again.
“You need a shave.”
I exhale discreetly, feeling her touch move to my jaw, and I open an eye to find her taking in my overgrown face.
“You don’t like it?” I ask, having a feel myself, stroking at the bristle.
“I like you however you come,” she whispers, but my relief to hear that is clouded by the flicker of pain in her dark eyes. She said it. She didn’t mean it. She wouldn’t take me when I’m drunk. She wouldn’t take me shouting insults at her, being a bastard.
You were good. In fact, you were the best I’ve had.
And I’ve had a lot.
I shy away from the sketchy memories, flinching, feeling her slap across my cheek as if she’s just delivered it. Jesus Christ. “I’m not touching another drop again,” I promise. I’ll never forgive myself for being so fucking weak. For drowning my sorrows in alcohol. Never again.
“You sound confident.”
“I am.” I push myself up, taking her face. Fuck. I grit my teeth, flexing my injured hand. Motherfucker. I push back the agony and focus on what’s important. Another agony. One that hurts more. Her distance. “I mean it, never again. I promise you.” She has to believe me. “I’m not a raving alcoholic, Ava,” I go on, needing her to know that, while at the same time ignoring the voices in my head calling me out. Telling me I’m deluded. “I admit I get carried away once I have a drink, and I find it hard to stop, but I can take it or leave it. I was in a bad place after you left me. I just wanted to numb the pain.”
Jesus fucking Christ, are you hearing yourself, Ward?
Ava looks away. She’s not sure whether to believe me, so I have no option but to prove myself. And I will. Every fucking day for the rest of my life.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asks. “Is this what you meant when you said I would cause more damage if I left?”
I look away, ashamed. I said so many things, many of which I’m sure I can’t remember. I was desperate. “That was a shitty thing to say.”
“It was.”
“I just wanted you to stay,” I whisper, looking at her again. Some things need to be said while looking someone in the eye, and this is one of them.
“I was stunned when you told me that I had a nice hotel.” That moment. The realization. I still don’t know if it was a blessing or a curse. Would she have given in to the potent chemistry we share if she had known in that moment exactly what The Manor was? Who I was? “Things got pretty intense, pretty quickly.” I felt like my dead heart had been hit with high voltage. It was new, addictive, and I knew I had to explore it. Even if the object of my newfound desire tried to rebuff our connection. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to run away again. You. Kept. Running. Away.”
“I didn’t get far though, did I?”
No, and she didn’t want to either. I knew it. She knew it. Which made the whole tiresome pursuit a mix of frustrating, exciting, and fucking exhausting. “I was going to tell you,” I assure her. God, if she knew of the war going on between my heart and head. “You weren’t supposed to come to The Manor like that. I wasn’t prepared, Ava.”
Once again, she becomes thoughtful, and I will her to speak those thoughts. She doesn’t. She probably finds it odd too—we’ve always talked with our bodies. Our chemistry. “Come on, you’re pruning.” She presents me with a towel and an expectant look, and with a lack of anything else to do, I do as I’m bid, stepping out and letting her dry me. It takes me back to the time she stood like a zombie before me, the morning after she drunkenly confessed her love. And then bloody forgot. Should I remind her?
She reaches my neck, and I smile at the concentration on her face. “A few weeks ago, I was nursing your hangover.”
“I bet your head is banging a lot harder than mine was,” she retorts quickly, and I recoil, offended. I don’t know about that. She seemed on a mission herself that night. At least my binge was spread over five days. “Food and then the hospital.”
“Hospital?” I blurt out, stunned. What the fuck? So she’s having me sectioned? If I’m crazy, it’s only because she’s made me that way. Or is she talking rehab here? Therapy? She’s my therapy. “I don’t need a hospital, Ava.” I need you.
“Your hand.”
I frown as I take a peek, flexing it a little on a suppressed hiss. It looks like a fucking balloon. “It’s fine.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Ava, I don’t need to go to the hospital.” I don’t need a doctor poking at me, smelling
the alcohol on me, assessing me, drawing conclusions.
“Don’t go then.” She leaves the bathroom, and I scowl at her back. The only problem my hand is giving me is the lack of ability to grab her and toss her on the bed. But I would certainly try, and I would sustain the pain, because it could never hurt as much as this.
I follow on heavy feet and fall to my back on the bed as she goes to the dressing room. I hear her rummaging around, and turn my face up to the ceiling, feeling annoyance that I have no right to feel creeping up on me. This is all so wrong.
“Here, put these on.” A pile of clothes lands next to me, and I drop my head to the side on a sigh that I absolutely want her to hear. How long will she do this? Haven’t we both suffered enough?
I make no attempt to dress, without the energy or the desire, my aching head refusing to help me out and give me any direction, other than what comes naturally when it comes to this woman, and I’ve already established that I can’t throw my weight around, not that I have the strength, anyway. Gently does it. I’m not filled with confidence. I tried gently already, when we first met, and I got absolutely nowhere.
I feel something tap my ankle and look down my body to see Ava holding my boxers at my feet.
Oh?
I sit up, looking down at her. Why would she put herself there? At my feet. Her face level with my dick. My blood surges, and no amount of self-control would stop it. God, and I thought the pain couldn’t get any worse.
I stand and she starts dragging my boxers up, and with her hand brushing my legs added to the already unbearable situation, my dick literally pings to life. So much so, it knocks the towel enough to loosen it around my waist.
It drops to the floor.
Ava freezes and stares at my raging hard-on for a few silent moments, and then in a delayed reaction, as if she’s suddenly remembered she’s resisting me, she startles, moving back. She looks up, her lips parted, her eyes alive. I know mine match. Grab her. Show her.
How long will she be able to keep up this fight? She still wants me. She wants me so badly, but forcing this is not the way forward. She’ll reject
me, if only to make a point to herself. It’s like the time we met all over again, except this time, begrudgingly, I must do something other than making demands to win her over. “I’ll go to the hospital,” I say, pulling my boxers up. “If you want me to, I’ll go.” I’m playing fair. Fuck knows why, since she’s always loved me playing dirty. But sexual manipulation, something she categorically loves, feels so wrong given the delicate situation.
“Agreeing to have your hand looked at won’t make me fall to your feet in gratitude,” she fires, looking insulted.
What? Was there any need for that? I’m being amenable, doing as I’m told, and she gives me her lip in return? “I’ll let that slip,” I grate, bristling terribly. Rein it in, Ward.
She doesn’t take too kindly to my scorn. Never does. “I need to feed you.” She leaves in a strop, and I start to wonder if her mood has anything to do with the high possibility that she was ready to jump me just then and I stopped it. She has questions, and she’s told herself she won’t submit until she has her answers. Which basically means we’re never having sex again. I’ve seen the result of some truths being revealed. I’ll be damned if I’ll willingly put us through that again. So I have no choice but to find another way to give her what she wants and at the same time get what I need.
I pull on the sweats and T-shirt and trudge after her, inspecting my hand as I go. It really does look nasty. “Ouch,” I mutter, scowling as I take the stairs, pushing aside how much it fucking hurts. I gaze around my penthouse, sensing her absence even though she’s here, and walk into the kitchen, ready to apologize all over again. But I find it empty. “Ava?” I call, turning on the spot, listening, trying not to let panic get the better of me. But my voice rises naturally as I call her name repeatedly, my feet carrying my heavy body to the door. I grab the handle with my injured hand. “Fuck!” I bellow, the pain excruciating. I feel sick. I swap hands, yank the door open and head for the elevator, but a distant sound of a door closing stops me, and I look back, reversing my steps. A whooshing sound kicks in, and I follow it until I’m upstairs again, standing outside one of the spare bedrooms. The shower. Not our shower. More pain. Another kick in the gut.
I reach up to my face and drag my hands down my bristle, resting my forehead on the wood of the door. Why is she even here if she’s just going to punish me like this?
I drag myself back downstairs and find my phone charging in the kitchen. I call Sam, and he answers fast, his tone soft. Concerned. “Please don't
ask how I am,” I say, my voice rough as I pace in front of the terrace doors, up and down. I look at the staircase again. Hear the shower.
“Mate, don’t ever do that to me again,” he warns, and I swallow, nodding. “I swear to fucking God, I’ll kill you myself. You won’t need vodka. How’s Ava?”
My eyes are still on the stairs. “Distant,” I say simply because that’s exactly what she is. Here but not here. Caring but not caring.
“Give her time, man. It’s a lot to take in.”
“How did Kate take it?” I make my way to the kitchen to get more water, so fucking thirsty.
He’s silent, and I frown. It actually makes my head bang. Just a frown. “Quite well.” He sounds reluctant. Wary.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing?”
“Talk,” I order, necking my water in one fell swoop. Has Kate said something to him I should know? Something to do with Ava? My heart starts to pound.
“I need a guest pass for The Manor,” he blurts out fast, and the frown that was hurting doubles in size and pain.
“What?”
“Don’t make me say it, Jesse.”
It hits me like a boulder, and I rest my glass slowly down on the counter. “Fuck,” I breathe. “For Kate?”
“Of course for Kate,” he breathes. “For fuck’s sake. But you can’t mention anything to Ava.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, very. And Drew took Victoria out for dinner last night to ask her if she wanted to explore—”
“Jesus Christ,” I huff out my disbelief, traipsing back to the lounge, trying not to feel unreasonable resentment. Not that I’d want to take Ava into the rooms of The Manor, of course. Never. “Fine. It’s not like I’m not keeping enough of my own secrets, is it? What’s one more?” I collapse to the couch on a grunt.
“You need to be rid of those secrets.”
“Are you fucking insane? Did you miss the fucking shitstorm that just happened?” I snort to myself. “She can barely look me in the eye, Sam. And you want me to add to the list of reasons for her to leave me for good?” Not a fucking chance in hell. I’ll die first. Seeing Ava so obviously distraught is enough to protect her—and myself—from more pain. “Have fun at The Manor.” I hang up and let my head drop
back, closing my eyes.
I shouldn’t have. Faces. So many faces from my past, the faces of people I love, pass through my mind like a reminder of all I have lost. Jacob. Rosie. Carmichael. I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to suppress the memories from creeping forward.
“God, Jake, no!” The car hits him, hurling him fifty yards up the road, and I slow to a stop, suddenly paralyzed. The sound of his helpless body hitting the ground is chilling.
And that montage of memories blends and blurs into others.
Rosie. Her little smile. Her chubby little body slipping around in the shallow bath, bubbles everywhere.
Carmichael. The disappointment on his face when he walked into the bedroom as I fucked Sarah with nothing but anger fueling me.
Fuckup after fuckup.
The people I love. Alive. Until I ruined them. Killed them all. Slowly started to kill myself. Then past all the grief and darkness, Ava appears. A light shining amid the ruins. But the light starts to dim, and I reach for her, begging her to stay. My hand wafts through mist.
No!
I jolt upright, scanning the room, disorientated, sweating, breathless.
I find Ava pulling the front door open. “You have a rhino ram-raid you?” someone asks as I try to shake the sleep and dreams away.
“Something like that,” Ava replies, assessing the door too. What happened to the door? I get up to go find out, my muscles screaming again, my eyes refusing to focus properly.
“I can secure it for now, but it’ll need replacing. I’ll get it on order and let you know when it arrives.”
“Thanks.” Ava turns and stutters to a stop when she finds me behind her.
“What’s going on?”
“John had a fight with your front door when you didn’t open it.”
John. God, I’d better brace myself for that blasting. “I should call him.” I don’t want to call him. Face him. Have strips ripped off me for being such a pathetic dickhead.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, assessing me up and down, her voice brittle.
Terrible. “Better.” But what about her? Has she softened even a little? “You?”
“Fine.” She lies. “Time to get you to the hospital. I’ll get my bag.” She starts to pass me, and my arm is moving before I can think better of it.
“Ava,” I say quietly, racking my brain for what else to say. I don’t know. All I know is my skin is on hers in this moment, and it feels good. And I cannot take my eyes off her profile as she stands motionless. Tense.
After the uncomfortable silence has stretched for too long, she looks up at me, her face a blanket of impassiveness. Then her eyes drop, she sighs, and she removes herself from my grip. “Shit,” she blurts, and I flinch, making my muscles jolt. Jesus, will this pain ever go away? Every last piece of me is fucking killing.
“Watch your mouth, Ava,” I growl, more annoyed with my body than her language. “What’s up?”
“My car’s at Kate’s.”
“We’ll take mine.” Why the fuck am I offering a way out of this predicament? I don’t want to go to the hospital. I want to lock us away in my penthouse and never leave. The outside world is dangerous to our relationship.
“You can’t drive one-handed.”
“I know.” I could actually. But . . . “You can drive.” I grab my keys and throw them, wondering what the fuck I’m thinking. My Aston is a far cry from her little Mini. She’ll never cope with the power.
Ava catches the bunch and stares down at them, looking nervous. My fears amplify. Never, not once in the time I’ve known Ava, has she driven us anywhere. Times are changing. But not too much, I hope. I need to find our normal again.
“Come on,” I say, fighting the urge to take her hand and lead her out. The sooner we get this done, the quicker we’ll be back in the safety of Lusso and we can get on with fixing this shit. I hope. I open the door for her and watch her walk out, thanking me too formally.
It’s silent to the door.
We’re silent the entire way down in the elevator.
Clive is silent as we pass through the lobby.
I see my car, the window no longer smashed. Fixed. Unlike its owner.
It’s silent when we get in my Aston.
And silent for the first fifteen minutes of our journey, except for the roar of the engine. I can’t bear it.
I cast constant looks across to her, taking pleasure amid the screaming quiet at the sight of her concentrating so hard. Anyone would think she’s on a driving test. Her hands are positioned perfectly, and she’s constantly checking her mirrors. Part of me is relieved she’s such a careful driver, but there’s slow and there’s slow, and when my eyes catch a bicycle passing the passenger window, the rider looking at me with a shake of his head, I decide enough is enough. It’ll be next week by the time we get to the hospital. Next week before I get her home and resume my mission.
“Ava, you’re driving like Miss Daisy,” I say, exasperated. “Will you put your foot down?”
The scowl she throws my way is epic, if brief, so she can get her attention back to the road. “Shut up,” she mutters, but we pick up speed, and I smile at her profile.
“That’s better. It’s easier to handle if you’re not pussyfooting around the power.” I should heed my own advice and stop pussyfooting around Ava. And when I see her straining to keep her mouth in check, fighting her smile, I know she’s thinking the same.
There’s no denying, she’s the one with all the power. Always has been.
Maybe one day I’ll admit it.
One day when I’m confident she loves and needs me too much to even contemplate living without me.
I pray for the day. Although given my life, the destruction, the sacrifices, I’m not sure even praying to a god I don’t know will help Ava’s defenses to lower.
But regardless, I will pray. ...
