Flawless: (Fearsome Series Book 4)

by S. A. Wolfe

  “You have the best doctors.”

  “You have to let your mother help you in the recovery stage.”

  “You have a sister and mother who will do anything for you.”

  That’s where Marko makes his mistake.

  So, this is it, I think, when we are far enough away from the city to see the welcoming, snow-covered hills and open space of the approaching Catskills. It’s like a trigger for Marko. He sees the exit signs for the surrounding small towns and launches into a speech about how he needs to do more research to see what the failure rate is on this procedure because, after all, some of the people in Dr. Allen’s waiting room had the surgery in other hospitals and it failed.

  Marko keeps his eyes on the road, anger beginning to curl around his words as he presents his concerns about doctors being wrong, and maybe my heart will have limitations, maybe it will drastically change my life. What he means is it will drastically change his life.

  Before we reach Hera, he is so worked up that he says what he’s truly thinking. “This fucking sucks. At least one of your parents caused this. They passed down this fucking gene. And you could pass this down to any children I have!”

  “You have?” I ask. “I’m pretty sure I’m the only one between us who can give birth.”

  He doesn’t apologize for his remark as he parks in front of my home.

  I look at him hard, seeing the anger underneath his stony expression. All I feel is contempt for him.

  “Can you imagine putting a little kid through major surgery like this?” he asks in an accusing way.

  “No, I can’t. I can barely imagine myself going through this.” I grip the door handle, ready to leave. It’s obvious he’s not going to walk inside, sit down with my mother and sister, and explain what the doctor said. It’s obvious I’m on my own.

  “I need to do more research,” he repeats, his jaw clenched, shaking his head.

  “That’s good. You do that.” I swing the car door open and step out. “I’m scheduled for surgery in a few weeks, so I’m going to get my business in order and mentally prepare myself for when they saw my chest open and fix my defective heart that’s screwing up your life. So you go work on that research.” I slam his car door and walk into my house without looking back.

  My mother and sister take the news surprisingly well. For someone who is terrified of the outside world, my mother shows great strength and comfort inside her domain. At last, she has something meaningful to do—she must help save her daughter.

  Up until the surgery, it’s business as usual. I let my customers know I’ll be visiting my father in Florida for a long break, but that Aleska will be running the food deliveries and my mother, who really is a better cook than me, will make sure their meals are spectacular.

  Jess goes into labor before my surgery date, and I peek at the baby among the other infants from the glass window that protects the newborns from the visitors. If my friends think it’s odd that I’m going to spend so much time with my deadbeat dad, they don’t say anything. Jess is too busy with Scotty; Imogene and Lauren are buried in their jewelry business; Emma, Dylan, Carson, Leo, and Cooper are busy jumping into the restaurant business; and the town snoops, Lois and Eleanor, are busy gossiping about Peyton, the man who’s in charge of Hera’s biggest coming attraction. All this activity is the perfect cover for me.

  Marko sends periodic texts with an alarming number of sympathetic clichés. Either he’s improvising with his own versions or he really isn’t as bright as I thought.

  Take one step at a time.

  A journey begins with the first step.

  Take it one day at a time because each day has a thousand steps.

  What the hell?

  I ignore his texts. And he doesn’t call.

  I can’t wait around for him to feel better about this. It’s not my job to cheer him up, not when he’s being an awful person.

  My mother makes it her mission, her job, to lead my recovery phase. We order an expensive treadmill from a shop that will deliver and install it in our family room the next day. My mother loves it so much that she starts using it every day. She’s never been a runner, but now she hops on the treadmill a few times a day. I get used to the sound of the hum of the motor and the pounding on the rubber belt.

  As the surgery date approaches, my anxiety escalates, but my mother is becoming very fit. She also takes over the wall calendar with our business schedule. She plans out the food she will cook and schedules my morning and evening walking sessions on the treadmill, which will be supervised by her in case I suddenly feel weak and fall. She has my post-surgery all planned out. She’s here for me. She’s nervous but confident.

  Unfortunately, the revelations about this type of genetic heart disorder are not enough to compel my mother to have her own heart examined. She will not leave the house.

  Aleska is scared for me but tries not to show it. She does see a cardiologist and returns home, relieved when all the tests conclude that her heart is fine.

  It’s Aleska who drives me to the hospital at four in the morning. It’s Aleska who waits in the family room from when they wheeled me away at seven thirty in the morning to when surgery was completed at two thirty in the afternoon. She spends the hours sitting in a crowded room with other worried strangers, watching the patient names on the electronic board that indicates the status of our surgery in real time. And it’s Aleska who stands by my bed in the ICU after the seven-hour repair job, as we refer to it.

  As a nurse and one of my surgeons try to wake me, it’s Aleska’s voice I respond to. I’m told for several hours my eyes would flutter open at the sound of her voice, but I kept slipping back into unconsciousness. When I do awake fully in the early evening, Aleska is there, saying, “Wake up, lovey. Talia. Talia. It’s me, Allie.”

  I see my sister and, for a moment, I’m searching behind her to see if Marko is there, too. He was supposed to be there, but then I remember I was with the wrong person.

  Talia

  WHEN I FINISH TELLING the story, without omitting a single, gory detail of what I experienced in the hospital, there’s a moment of silence where I’m wondering if I said too much and Peyton is merely trying to think of something nice to say.

  He leans toward me. “You don’t need anyone to save you. You saved yourself, Talia.”

  “And some hotshot surgeons helped.”

  “You went through some kind of hell. That’s for sure.”

  Whatever strength I have been using to hold myself together these past few months is crumbling like a slow-moving avalanche of pebbles, rocks, and boulders. Instead of crying, my defenses go down. A soothing blanket envelops me so I don’t have to keep up my tough facade.

  Telling Peyton my personal story and reliving the unpleasant details was easier than I thought it would be. I could never speak this way with Marko about “bodily things.” Marko would be disgusted.

  Peyton is not repulsed by what I have told him, and his compassion makes him that much more desirable.

  He has a capable body; strong arms I’d like to wrap myself in, to cocoon myself against the Pandora’s box I’ve opened.

  Revealing my secret to him is only the beginning. Soon, the “middle” of this secret will be the admission to my friends, and the “end” will be accepting what has happened and what the consequences may be in the future.

  “That ex of yours … what a shithead.” Peyton’s eyes flare with anger. “He should lose his manhood for what he did to you.”

  “His manhood?” I laugh.

  “At least you got to see him for what he really is before you married the guy.”

  “I know I’m supposed to see that it was a real test of our relationship … Aleska made a point of telling everyone in town that our engagement was off. She told them while I was on my fake Florida vacation. The idea was that, when I came back to work two months later after my recovery, my breakup with Marko would be old news and my friends wouldn’t ask a lot of questions. I think all the a
ctivity around your restaurant helped distract everyone from the Marko issue, to be honest.”

  “I still can’t believe you hid your surgery from your friends.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Seriously, you know too many people here, and everyone is in everyone else’s business. I don’t see how it was possible for you to keep it from them, and I don’t understand why you felt the need to hide it.”

  I look down at my scar, then pull the robe closed more tightly to cover it.

  Peyton moves closer and puts his finger under my chin, gently raising my head so I’ll look at him. “You can tell me why—you’ve already told me everything else. And sooner or later, others will find out, too. You can only cover up the scar so long.”

  I don’t want to be a victim, or someone sickly, in Peyton’s eyes. The longing and desire for him is pure lust. It’s juvenile and inappropriate since, realistically, he’s not the man to pursue. Except, I don’t want the teasing sexual tension to end because it’s the push and pull between us that reminds me of my old self, the strong person I was. He makes me feel alive again.

  “I didn’t want my friends involved in my surgery and recovery because I would have become another town project. Considering my mother’s agoraphobia, having people stream in and out of our house to help me would only add to her anxiety. I didn’t want to worry more about her than I already do. I didn’t have it in me to take care of both of us. And besides, me being a patient gave my mother something to do. She got to do all the cooking for my clients, and she got to nurse me. She felt useful, and it’s been a long time since she’s felt that.”

  “You can’t use your mother as an excuse.” He rests his hand on my shoulder. “I think it was your pride. You don’t want to need help.

  “Still, how was it possible to stay hidden? Your house is less than two miles from my restaurant. I was there every day, and your name would pop up in conversation a lot when Jess was there. Everyone talked about you, thinking you were in Florida with your father. Jess couldn’t wait for you to get home.” He pauses and looks amused. “Wow, your covert techniques are spot-on. You really could be a Russian spy if you wanted to.”

  “Except I’m Polish.”

  “Yeah, I know. I like how it annoys you when I give you a hard time about it. I’m impressed with your ability to carry out your devious agenda.”

  “I wasn’t being devious; I was being practical. Our neighbor, Norma, was in on it, too. She’s always walking into our house unannounced, and my mother couldn’t bear to start locking the door to prevent the surprise visits. She’s like family, so we had to tell her.

  “Norma kept me company while Mom was cooking and Aleska was doing double duty, cleaning houses and delivering the dinners. My agenda consisted of walking on the treadmill and sleeping. Every day, I’d do the same thing—walking, exercises with small hand weights, TV, and sleep. Two months imprisoned in my own home with the same boring routine, day in and day out, I was becoming claustrophobic.”

  “It must give you a better understanding of your mom’s condition.”

  “A little. The urge to run out of the house and escape the boredom was so strong, but the fear of being on the outside was stronger. How does my mother not go insane?”

  “Before you can help her, you need to get over your own fears.”

  “If I hadn’t told you about my heart condition, would you think I was scared? Do I project fear?”

  “Not at all.” He lies back on the bed next to me with his arms behind his head, looking up at the ceiling as though he’s studying the rustic wood beams. It gives me a chance to admire his long, hard, lean body.

  He has taut muscles, ripped abs, and those fantastic lips I want to kiss again. It’s funny and rather demented how I think more about Peyton than Adam Knight, or any other man, for that matter. Lust has no common sense; it has zeroed in on Peyton MacKenzie.

  “I am afraid.” I scrunch down on the bed and turn on my side, facing him. He rolls to face me and puts his hand firmly on my waist. It feels good, natural, like the satisfaction you get from sliding a puzzle piece into its proper place.

  “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  “I used to be a typical, twenty-five-year-old with no sense of mortality. Frailty belonged to other people, not me. Since the surgery, I feel scared and nervous almost every day. I know I’m lucky to be alive, but since I came closer to death than I’ve ever experienced, it’s all I think about.”

  “Death?”

  “I’m afraid of feeling weak, physically and emotionally, because my responsibilities to my mother and my sister are enormous. They can’t afford to have me fall apart. I can’t afford to be weak. I have to take care of my mother. And I have to help Aleska, to make sure she finishes college, because it’s important to her and our business. And I also feel a great responsibility to Norma. She doesn’t have any family, except for a distant niece in Arizona or someplace hot like that. She’s this amazing hundred-year-old woman who has it all together and is able to walk around and speak her mind, but everyone needs someone to check on them and make sure they’re okay, even Norma!” I’m so worked up I’m about to cry.

  “Easy,” Peyton says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I was only asking a question. You don’t have to justify how you feel.”

  I take a long, deep breath and exhale slowly.

  “You’re not weak, and you haven’t failed anyone.”

  “But if I die, I’m worried about what will happen to these people. They’re my family and none of us are very good on our own. We only function if we live and move like a herd. We’re like a pack of helpless cows.”

  Peyton cracks a smile. “I had no idea you were this stressed out. You have everyone fooled. You come across as a strong person. There’s no reason you can’t feel that way again. The doctor said your heart is perfect. And you got rid of the crappy boyfriend who didn’t deserve you in the first place. I can’t believe you were with an asshole like that to begin with, and I should know—relationships have always been disposable to me. But that lowlife leading you on with marriage and the picket fence, and then dumping you because he decided your genes aren’t good enough—well, he’s wrong and you can’t fall for any kind of that bullshit.”

  I like having Peyton defend my honor and get all worked up over Marko’s bad behavior, but he’s right. Peyton only has casual flings, so I need to be very clear with myself and know exactly what I’m getting into if I’m choosing the door labeled I Want to Bang Peyton. That’s exactly what I’d get. An awesome banging before the door closes and hits me on the ass. It sounds pretty great, actually.

  “I’m glad Marko is out of the movie—picture. I’m glad he’s out of the picture. But he has made me see myself in a different way. I didn’t think the scar would be such a big deal, but he would cringe every time he mentioned it. He couldn’t hide his revulsion.”

  “He was wrong. Stop worrying about what he said or did. He no longer matters. Maybe one of your kids will be born with the same defect, but now they can detect it and fix it. It’s not a death sentence, especially since you’re aware of it. So it’s not an issue.”

  “But it is. Don’t you see? Any man I consider marriage material will have to be told about this, and he may have the same reaction as Marko. Maybe every future boyfriend and fiancé will see me as defective.”

  “Every? How many boyfriends and fiancés do you plan on having?” His joking is weighted with a tone that suggests he’s also annoyed.

  “I’m serious. I never worried this much about my appearance or thought that I could be undesirable, except for that awkward teenage phase. But what fifteen-year-old girl doesn’t freak out over a patch of zits that appears overnight or her flat chest that requires an obnoxious padded bra?”

  Peyton bites his lower lip, stifling a laugh.

  “Don’t laugh. Because of this damn scar, I hate looking in the mirror now. Every time I do, I see the tip of the scar dead center above every blouse. It pulls all the skin around it. M
y chest looks like it belongs to someone fifty years older than me.”

  “You’re blowing this all out of proportion.”

  “I’m not. Maybe it seems superficial to you, but I’m worried what people will think of me when they find out. Am I going to be Poor Talia, she’s fragile, go easy on her? Are most men going to be like Marko and be turned off by me physically? It’s a horrible thought. That’s why I hate looking in the mirror. I wear the stress and fear on my face. And who wants to look at that? Who wants to look at me?”

  “I do. I’d love looking at you naked, too. Just try me.”

  Don’t tempt me, mister.

  There’s nothing I want more than to have hard, sweaty, hot sex with Peyton. Nothing would make me feel more alive than heart-pounding—ironically—rough sex. The thought of our two bodies entwined makes me feel like my old self, the one before the disastrous Marko era.

  I pause and study his eyes and lips. Slowly, I inch forward.

  A slight smile tugs at the corner of Peyton’s mouth. “What did I tell you about rocket fuel, sunflower?”

  “You like kissing me … I think you want to kiss me again.”

  “I do. But you need to think about what you’re doing. Who you’re doing this with.”

  “I’m tired of thinking,” I say, moving closer until my lips brush his.

  Peyton groans as I lightly trace his lips with my own. His grip on my waist becomes tighter as if he’s working hard to maintain control and pace himself—at least, I hope it’s how he feels, because that’s exactly what’s happening to me.

  I want to push him back on the bed and climb on top of him, grab him, fondle him, strip him, and have my dirty old way with him. But this soft kiss is too intense, too perfect to break.

  I always thought you get one first, electrifying kiss with someone, one chance when you touch and get lost in the mind-bending thrill of being with that person you’ve had a secret crush on. Except, these past few weeks, I had convinced myself that I didn’t have a crush on Peyton because he’s just supposed to be eye candy. I’m astonished how deliriously excited I feel kissing him.