Harden My Hart

by Clare Connelly

  ‘Hell, yes,’ he groans, and he drives himself into me, tipping us both over the edge so I hear my name deep in his chest and then on his lips and I capture it with my mouth, tasting it, feeling his absolute and complete surrender to me. He pumps and my muscles squeeze him, his body racked with the force of his orgasm; my legs wrap around his waist and hold him tight to my body and my hands work slowly up and down his back as though I’m calming a raging human. There is a beating of a faraway drum like the metronomes I remember from music class, but I don’t listen to it. I hear only this. My heart, his heart, pleasure, release and, yes, relief because finally we are freed from this madness, our obliteration mutual and complete. There is no further need to torment ourselves with this utter desperate want.

  It’s like the bursting of a dam, the freeing of a tsunami. I lie there, my back pressed to the sheet, his tortured breathing filling the room, the plane moving steadily closer to earth, my pulse settling, my body aching and throbbing and pulsing with impossible pleasures.

  I feel as though I boarded a flight and got sucked into some kind of hurricane, the current dragging me into the atmosphere, away from everything I thought I felt and knew, swirling me around so my limbs are spread and then spitting me out somewhere almost unrecognisable. That is to say, I barely recognise myself. Before Grant I dated Shawn, but he was the first guy since Dave—with good reason. Dave took me a long time to recover from. Not just Dave but what we lost together. I’ve been hesitant to get involved with any guy because of Dave, and definitely hesitant to let my body have full throttle at its desire.

  But here I am, windswept by a hurricane I didn’t see coming, and not even a little bit sorry I didn’t seek better shelter.

  This was amazing. But also it was enough. There’s perfection in uniqueness. One experience, one memory, one time.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hart.’ The disembodied voice of the captain crackles into the room. Holden doesn’t react. I lie there, eyes open, heart thudding, and listen.

  ‘We’re commencing our final descent into Sydney. If you take a seat and fasten your seat belt, we’ll have you on the tarmac in twenty minutes.’

  He doesn’t move but my well-trained ears clock the shifts that are taking place. The flaperons being lowered, the clicking away of galley furniture, all the operations that make it possible for the plane to land safely. He shifts a little, giving me breathing space, and I take full advantage, wriggling out from under him, separating our bodies with genuine regret, and taking the briefest moment to steady my still-rushing pulse before I stand at the side of the bed.

  I don’t look at him as I scout the room for my clothes. There’s a very clear path of destruction. I pull my thong on first, then my bra, but, before I can get my shirt in place, he’s standing behind me, still naked, his body warm, his hands lifting to cup my breasts, his mouth dropping to niggle at my ear.

  My stomach twists.

  I want—what?

  I spin in the circle of his arms, looking up into his face, and I smile. It’s all I can think to do.

  His eyes move from one side of my mouth to the other, a frown on his face, as though he’s not quite sure how to interpret the gesture.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say simply. ‘That was incredible.’ And it was. I pull away from him, dressing quickly. I feel him watching me, which makes my fingers fumble. Then I walk towards the door, double-checking I haven’t forgotten anything before I leave.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  I press my fingers to the door handle, lowering it before turning to face him briefly. ‘Back to work. Enjoy your stay in Sydney, Mr Hart.’ I wink, give him one more grin and then slip out of the room, my pulse hammering so much harder than my casual departure would indicate.

  * * *

  Sydney glitters beneath us as we come in to land. The famous Opera House sparkles like a pearl against the moody darkness of the ocean, the lights of the city casting a shimmering glow across the water. I take a crew seat, buckle in and refuse to think about Holden Hart and what we’ve just done. Not because I’m ashamed, not because I regret it, but because I know it can only be a one-time thing and if I’m not careful I’ll want to push out of the crew seat, stride back to where he is and beg him for one more night.

  And then what?

  Another? And another?

  That’s not Holden’s speed and nor is it mine. Or, rather, it’s not on my agenda right now. For the first time in a long time I’m facing the truth of what I want in life. I’m not running any more.

  It’s time to settle down and let myself be who I am—and that’s going to take all my focus. I’m not interested in getting involved with any guy—not even one as sinfully hot and undoubtedly talented as Holden Hart.

  * * *

  The baby is a baby. Little with pink skin and tufty black hair, eyes that are dark—when they’re open, which isn’t often.

  ‘She sleeps a lot,’ Grace says almost apologetically, but then I look at my sister-in-law and see the smile on her face and I realise it’s less apology and more doting.

  I nod, try to smile, because it’s expected of me, and wonder when I can leave. Perhaps Jagger senses my mood because he brings me a Scotch, handing it to me before stepping over to Grace and wrapping an arm around her, drawing her to his waist. I look away, my eyes hitching to the view of Sydney beneath us. Their obvious joy is weird to observe, but it’s not because I resent their happiness. Here, in the midst of their domestic bliss, I feel the most like an outsider, the least like a Hart, that I have since I learned the truth.

  The baby—Felicity, named for the happiness she brings to their lives—makes a noise, then another, and Grace reaches for her, lifting her out of the bassinet and drawing her against her chest, breathing her in as though Felicity holds the meaning of life in the fluff on top of her scalp.

  ‘Want to hold her?’

  It’s one of those questions people ask when they think the answer is a foregone conclusion. Grace is walking towards me, holding the baby out. I stare at her, momentarily lost for words, then lift my Scotch glass by way of explanation. ‘I’m good. Hands are full.’

  Grace pulls a face and her voice is gentle, encouraging. ‘She’s tougher than she looks. You won’t hurt her.’

  I shrug, turning away from them, striding towards the balcony.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I hear Jagger murmur. ‘It’s just Holden.’

  I stiffen for a moment, contemplate saying something, or doing something different, but hey, he’s probably right. This is really just what I’m like, now more than ever.

  Sullen.

  Cross.

  Antisocial.

  Except with—

  Don’t do it.

  I don’t want to think about Cora. It’s been three nights since I got to Sydney and, thanks to the Roosevelts deal and a major commercial lease agreement with my Sydney casino, I’ve been working too much to let my mind go back to the flight. To remember the way she came, moaning my name over and over, the way she straddled me and took me deep, burying me inside of her.

  Sex helps me feel whole again, it helps me forget, but sex with Cora did more than that. It temporarily obliterated my sense of time and place so I barely remembered I used to be a Hart, let alone that it was all a lie.

  Cora is like a drug, the hit from being with her every bit as heady as any ecstasy could render.

  And I’m in hardcore withdrawal right now. I want more of her. Not because of her but because of how she makes me feel, which I’m pretty sure makes me a douche for even thinking about calling her.

  I’d be using her. Using her to get high. Using her to forget.

  So?

  It’s not like she wouldn’t be getting anything out of it. I know how much she enjoyed being with me. Why wouldn’t she sign up for another night or three? What’s the big deal?

  Or could I get the
same rush from someone else? If I went into the casino tonight and spent some time in the bar, found someone else to take home?

  I frown, catching my reflection in the mirror. I do this a lot. Frown. Stare. Brood. Ordinarily, sex with a random woman would hit the spot, but not right now. It’s specifically Cora I want to get high on, Cora I want to see again.

  And before I can second-guess myself I pull my phone from my back pocket and type out a message to my head of security.

  Find out where Cora Andersson is staying. She was working as flight crew on the way over to Sydney.

  Then, as an afterthought:

  Thanks.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Three days after landing

  BOX UPON BOX upon box. Here in this unassuming storage container in Bankstown is all that remains of my Old Life. I stand on the precipice looking in—as though there’s danger within, as though I’ll have to slay a dragon if I move any further.

  The dragon—if in evidence—has been here for a long time, since I locked the sliding door eight years ago and haven’t been back since. Even when Dad died I stayed away. It was all too much, too hard. I was too angry and I knew that wasn’t appropriate. Grief was called for, but I’d grieved already. His death was a mere formality; he’d cast the die a long time ago, positioning himself for a state of decline that nobody could drag him from.

  I shake my head, fully aware of the damage these thoughts can do, and pull my scarf more tightly around my neck, buttoning up my jacket as though it’s some kind of shield, before moving into the small space. There’s a light to my right. I turn it on, sneeze a couple of times as my nose adjusts to the dust, then stand still, right in the middle of the remnants of who I used to be. Boxes to the right are easy—clothes. They can go to a charity shop. I don’t think I’d fit into any of the things I wore as a teenager, nor do I think I’d still like them.

  Schoolbooks are beneath them. I run a finger over the corrugated cardboard, then move deeper. A small grey box brings back a rush of familiarity. I pull it from where it sits, wedged between a shelf and another box, and liberate the lid.

  My breath catches. My fingers fumble. I pull the photos out, a visceral ache spreading through me.

  Dad.

  His eyes look back at me, so alive, so bright, it’s impossible not to remember every detail of the day I took this photo. It was morning—he was always at his best in the mornings. We’d had our first rain of the wet season, but the storm had begun to clear overnight.

  ‘Come on, kiddo. Let’s go see if there are any frogs about.’

  I was no longer a ‘kiddo’ but the name had stuck. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t realised that I was growing up. Eighteen and convinced I was on the precipice of serious maturity.

  I’d been waiting to tell him. About Dave, about the baby we’d conceived, about the fact we’d decided to get married and rent a little house together on the outskirts of town.

  But the morning had been so perfect, and perfect mornings with Dad were so rare. I hadn’t wanted to ruin it.

  I took the photo spontaneously. I always had my camera with me back then. I made a joke and he laughed and, before he could realise what I was doing, I opened the shutter and snapped this picture.

  I run my finger over the edge now, slowly, reverently, wondering how many photos you could take of someone to reconstruct them completely? I feel as though, in this photo, he’s so very real, I can almost hear his laugh reverberating across the fabric of time.

  I place the picture on top of a different cardboard box and keep sifting through the images. I was in a black and white phase—moody, angsty teen pictures, clearly the work of someone who loved listening to Hole and Marilyn Manson. I shake my head, a wry smile touching my lips.

  Photos of Sundown Creek knot my stomach with nostalgia. I sit cross-legged on the cold concrete floor of the storage shed, not really feeling the iciness. I’m not here in Bankstown; I’m back in the town where I grew up. I can hear the birds flying over the creek, the low hum of farm machinery, the distant whirring of the mysterious airplanes that used to fly overhead, gracefully bringing themselves down over Sydney.

  Dave.

  I find his photo right at the bottom. Dave, with his shaggy blond hair and freckles across his nose, aviator sunglasses and the air of someone who was older than his years. As a high school kid he looked more like a uni student, and he acted like it too. He was the first one of his year level to get a driver’s licence, first one to get a car.

  I was so impressed by him. I place the photo with the one of Dad, and then add one of our old home too, but there’s a heaviness within me as I do that. Because home is still there. Dad’s gone. Dave’s gone. Our baby’s gone, but the home is there and sooner or later I’m going to have to face the music and go back—even if just to clean it out and get it ready to sell.

  My throat knots at the thought of that. I haven’t been back since that weekend.

  Of their own accord, my eyes shift sideways.

  Don’t Open

  Dramatic nineteen-year-old me scrawled the warning to my future self, as if knowing that the loss would never get easier. The little bags of baby clothes, perfectly clean, ready for our child, were all there, waiting to be filled out with chubby arms and legs. But they never had.

  I couldn’t bear the idea of donating them, even though I should have. Good clothes like that needn’t have gone to waste. But they belonged to our baby and it seemed to me that if we couldn’t give him life we could at least honour his death and keep something—some tangible proof of his existence, even when everyone else, even when time itself, moved on.

  I stand up, wiping my hands on my thighs, and get to cataloguing the rest of my stuff. If I’m going to stay in Sydney I need to know what’s here. Most of it will go. Not all.

  Apparently twenty-seven-year-old me is no more inclined to part with the clothes our baby would have worn, had he lived, than nineteen-year-old me was.

  The photos, my old film cameras and film, that will stay with me too.

  I spend a couple of hours in the storage shed, but leave with just a small bag of things. The photographs I singled out, a couple of books I remember loving and, at the last moment, a teddy bear I slept with as a child. I don’t know why: the nostalgia’s apparently getting to me.

  I’m staying at a friend’s apartment. She’s doing her PhD in Egyptian Archaeology and is outside of Cairo for a year on a dig. Her place is in Surry Hills, a suburb lined with terraced houses, leafy trees and wrought iron balconies; it’s far nicer than I could justify being able to afford right now. The course I want to do is going to be an investment and it’s not like starting a photography business is going to be easy.

  Not only has she loaned me her apartment, but she threw her Vespa into the mix as well. ‘Seriously, it has to be driven or it will die. Helmet and keys are in the laundry.’

  I step over the seat, kick the stand and rev the engine. On the first day I could barely start the thing and now I weave it in and out of traffic as though I’ve been riding motorbikes all my life.

  It’s winter but beautiful, with a blue sky, crisp temperature, shining sun. I take the Vespa off the highway, turning towards Surry Hills, retracing the roads I drove along earlier today. A few minutes from where I’m staying, I pull over and grab a champagne bottle on a whim—it feels like a day worthy of marking. I’ve been dreading going to the storage shed for years and now that I’ve done it I feel like I deserve a pat on the back.

  I tuck the champagne into the bag that sits on the side of the Vespa then slide the helmet into place, dipping my head forward as I drive the rest of the way.

  I can’t miss the plane that flies overhead, the trail white against the immaculate blue sky, and something fires inside of me. Memories I’ve been working very hard not to give in to. Memories of the Hart jet, the bed, of Holden Hart. Memories of the way he to
uched me, kissed me, worshipped me as though I were some kind of idol and he a devout follower, brought me over the edge of pleasure time after time after time after time.

  And, beyond those memories, acceptance.

  He’s probably gone by now. I didn’t ask what he was coming to Sydney for, nor how long he intended to be here, but I doubt someone like him stays anywhere for very long.

  Whatever we shared on the plane, neither of us intended for it to be more than that, otherwise we would have swapped numbers, made sure we had a way to speak to each other, to arrange another...

  Stop.

  It is what it is. He’s so much a part of my past he might as well have his own dusty little box in the living museum of my life that is that storage shed.

  I pull the Vespa into its space and cut the engine, but I don’t move. I sit there, lost in thought, giving myself a moment before I unhook the helmet and head inside.

  * * *

  Cora Andersson in the flight crew uniform that didn’t quite fit was sexier than I have words to describe. Cora Andersson in my bed, naked and panting with need for me, was hotter than hell.

  But this?

  I shift a little in my seat, glad for the darkly tinted windows that allow me to observe her without being noticed. Astride a small motorbike she looks wild and free, sexy and untamed. I strain against my pants, my cock recognising its mistress is right across the street. A few moments pass and then her hands—hands that curled around my length and held me tight—undo her helmet. She keeps it in one hand whilst lifting a bag off the bike in the other.

  Curious, I watch her a moment and try to imagine how this will go down. What the hell will I say to her? Will she be happy to see me? Or freaked? Like I’m some kind of stalker or something?

  It’s a sign of how hooked on her I am that I can even think like that. Women usually throw themselves at my feet, but not Cora.