by Nicci Harris
As I hold my tears for the fifth day, I call Toni.
"I can't leave the house," I say as soon as he picks up. Clutching the handset to my cheek, I peek behind the heavy fabric at the news crew parked up across the street. "I mean, how boring is the District these days that they can afford to station a van out there night and day?"
"Well, I'm thoroughly engrossed in your epic love tale. The Ballerina and The Butcher Boy. I especially like it when Bronson goes to get the mail in the morning and forgets to put clothes on."
He doesn't forget. I scoff. "Yeah. I bet every girl in the fricking District is enjoying those posts. Clay had a heart attack when he saw the photos. It's really bad press."
"Erm, a naked Bronson Butcher is not bad press. Also, gotta tell you something, darlin, you are going to have to start saying fuck not frick. Your baby daddy is in jail now-"
"He's getting out soon," I state firmly with a nod of my head, ignoring the light-hearted teasing, not really feeling like I want innuendos and humour and silly retorts right now. "Yeah, really soon. Maybe tomorrow. Then it'll all be over."
"Oh," he says, his tone pitching higher. "So you've spoken to him then?"
"Nope." I yank the curtain shut and move back to my spot on the floor beside the Nintendo controller that has been my distraction for the past few painfully long and lonely days. "It's been five days and Butch has spoken to him, Bronson has spoken to him, Xander has spoken to him, the maids have probably spoken to him. I don't know, have you spoken to him? You probably have." I slump with a sigh, ceasing my petty comments and jealousy and ugh.
"I just need him to be out soon. That place can't be good for him." I want to say it can't be good for his darkness. A place like that feeds toxic masculinity. It stokes it. Fuels it. But I don't let that concern leave my lips.
"Golden Girl, come on." He lets out a slow breath. "He probably can't talk to you because he doesn't want to get a boner in case he ends up all Shawshank Redemption-ed."
I smirk in condescension. "I'd like to see anyone try."
Toni smacks his lips. "You think he'd be the giver then?"
Ugh! "I'm hanging up no-"
"I'm lightening the mood, darlin." He speaks gently as if he can tell I'm a few stupid comments away from either bursting into tears or hissing like an alley cat. "You know why he hasn't spoken to you."
"No, no I don’t."
"He's ashamed."
I roll my eyes even though he can't witness my silent display of derision. "Max doesn't get ashamed."
"Okay. Then he's probably just trying to keep his head in the game-"
"If you make a head job reference!"
"I wasn't going to." He chuckles quietly because maybe now he wants to. "I was going to say, you know he needs to stay tough in there. You're all gooey and sugary and he can't have that right now. . . I get that."
"Yeah." I nod sadly, imagining how exhausting it must be to continuously feel defensive and on high alert. To lack the luxury of honest expression, unable to show any form of vulnerability. "I get it too. And that is totally him." I hesitate on the next question, not really wanting to extort my best friend's boyfriend. . . Still, the need for information outweighs my uncertainties. "Have you spoken to Braidy about it?"
"Yes, of course," he states straight away, and if I could kiss him for that, I would. "The first thing I did was get all up in his grill, but he's local control, darlin. He told me this is in Australian Federal Police jurisdiction."
"Miss Slater," Carter's voice comes through the bedroom door, followed by a light tapping sound. "May I come in?"
"I gotta go," I say to Toni as I end our call and stand up. Staring down at my yoga pants and Max's oversized shirt, I cringe a little. There are Cheeto stains on my chest and a wet patch on my shoulder that I'm pretty sure is drool - maybe orange juice. Using my hands to brush the crumbs off, I mutter angrily to myself, "Pull yourself together, Cassidy."
When I look less like a depressed little pregnant girl who has been sprawled out on her couch for the past few days, drowning her sorrows in Skyrim and junk food, I make my way over to the bedroom door. Opening it, I am immediately greeted by Carter.
I crane my neck to smile up at him. "Hi."
His eyes drop to Max's shirt and then to my bare feet. I wiggle my toes instinctively when his gaze touches them. "Put shoes on. I am taking you for a drive."
I roll my head around my shoulders a little in protest. "I just want to wait here for Max. Maybe he'll be back soon."
Carter's starkly beautiful eyes beg me to listen and accept. "Just a little drive to get you out of the house, hey?"
Sighing in defeat, I nod. "Okay. I'm just going to change my shirt."
I move back into the room and pull on my own shirt, missing the smell of Max as soon as I do, and a pair of ballet flats. We exit through the back door to avoid the press, and as we pull around the house to leave, I duck low in my seat even though the windows are tinted dark and no one can see me. They snap pictures of the car and Carter.
"I feel like I should talk to them, ya know? Give them their story. Maybe they will leave if I do. What do you think?"
"I highly doubt that, Miss. Luca has already spoken to them. They are waiting to interview Max upon his arrival."
I exhale loudly, feeling a pang of anger and resentment that people can't just leave us alone. They want a piece of him. My Max. They can't have it because it isn't available. I am slapping a 'zero vacant spots' sticker up. I don't even have enough of him right now.
Frowning at the media, I wonder how long that has been going on for. I know the boys have been headliners most of their lives and I know Max hates it, but I've never experienced anything like this before. We are going through something hard and personal and. . . Max is going through something - something life-changing - and he doesn't need this. . . this. . . shit. Yep, shit. And fuck them. So. . . yeah. My baby daddy is in jail, so I can say that now, thank you, Toni.
I stare out the window, scowling silently as the world passes by. After about fifteen minutes, we pass over into Brussman and I feel a flitter of happiness move through me, being in my own city again. A quiet city. The car pulls onto a street and I sit up, staring at the beautiful old houses on the big country lots. This part of Brussman was developed first. It has a rural feel and look, but it's only fifteen minutes from the city centre. As we roll along, the speed bumps keeping us at a slow pace, I realise that I recognise this suburb. It's about fifteen minutes from my home - funnily enough, both my old home and my new one.
Right in the middle, actually.
When Carter slows to a stop, I frown questioningly at him in the rear-view mirror. "Why have we stopped?" I see his eyes smile.
Warmth rushes through me, heating up every cell in my body.
In my soul.
My heart leaps when realisation hits me. "Is he here?"
He's here!
Flying from the car, I search the street and properties, body spinning, eyes bouncing around. Nothing. Beside me is a big empty block of land covered in long green weeds that have surely been there for a while. There is a steep incline and . . . My heart pirouettes and aches and I let myself cry when I see Max standing at the top. With his hands in his pockets, casual stance, and thick muscular body, there isn't a woman alive that wouldn't feel his presence like a flutter settling right between their thighs.
I rush to him, laughing through my tears when I see him scowl at me as I run.
"Stop fucking running," he barks. But he's not angry. Not at all.
Controlling butthead.
My feet can't take me fast enough and then I catapult into his arms. He catches me behind the thighs, moulding me around him until my legs band his waist and our bodies press so tightly that they almost fuse together. I wish they would.
Our noses touch. Lips connect. His tongue moves inside me with aggression, licking, devouring, claiming. My palms cup his cheeks and I accept it, accept the need. The yearning. It's the best sensation ever.
I can feel his heart's pounding rhythm, a sure sign of his passionate, desperate, longing response to seeing me. Holding me. Mine matches his as we kiss breathlessly, with a frenzied possessiveness that isn't safe and guarded but instead dangerous and utterly vulnerable.
"When did you get out?" I pant against his lips.
"This morning."
I freeze, pushing away from his chest to stare into his penetrating stormy-blue eyes. "This morning? I've been waiting for you. I've been worried. I've been. . . kinda messy."
A hint of a grin draws his lips out. "Messy?"
"Yes," I admit through a light smile. "Why didn't you come straight home?"
"I had a few things to sort out." He holds me effortlessly with one hand under my backside and feeds his other up through my hair. His brows bunch for a second, then he pulls a Cheeto out from my knotted strawberry-blonde strands. My cheeks ignite with shame. I cover my blushing face, which is already wet from my tears and hot from my embarrassment.
I grin into my palms. "Oh my gawd. Kill me."
He laughs, deep and real, and the sound touches my heart. Lowering my hands, I find his gaze caressing my face. Then he grins at me and eats the Cheeto.
My mouth drops open.
"You're feral," I say, with a soft giggle, briefly forgetting where he has been for the past few days and letting myself relax against him. "That could have been from yesterday."
He laughs again and holds me close. Then he sets me down onto the ground. The thick lush grass feels like a sponge under my ballet flats. I grip his forearms and rake his body thoroughly - inspect him - searching for hints of trauma or turbulence within his presence.
"Did they hurt you?" I mutter as I catch his eyes, but I'm met with only cool, calm, menacing Max. No shadows hidden within his irises. There is sadness though and it hurts my stomach.
I touch the stubble at his jawline, and he closes his eyes, moving into my palm, chasing comfort in a subtle way.
"I'm sorry, little one," he says, his voice stern, hoarse, rough, as if he's been shouting or yelling all night long. And I wouldn't know. . ."Did what happen scare you?"
Clenching my jaw, I draw breath in through my nose. Quick, short, breaths. I remember the feeling of having him ripped away. Of my world tilting. Spinning. "Yes. Yes, of course it did, Max. I was scared for you."
He exhales slowly, shaking his head. "Don't be scared for me."
"That's a stupid thing to say," I state, glancing away from him, over his shoulder at the vast block of land we're standing on. "What happened to you?" I mutter without offering him my gaze, my voice hesitant and breathy. "Were they nice to you?"
He straightens, causing my palm to slip from his cheek. A big warm hand grips the curve of my neck. His thumb pushes my chin up, demanding my gaze meet his. "Little one, don't do that."
I fight the well of tears. I fight it, but it happens anyway. "It kills me to think about you in that dark place. . . Behind bars. You're so much more fragile than-"
His hand tightness on the arch of my throat. "Little one, stop it."
"You could lose yourself in there, Max," I say in barely a whisper. An echo. "God, I can't lose you." I grip at his forearm, fingers kneading him with a kind of desperation.
Cradling my head with his hands, he leans in closer and says, "You won't."
I stare up at him, craning my neck to fix him with my passion and meaning. "In here, Max." Pressing my palm to his hard chest, I feel the muscles ripple below his shirt. "I know you think that's weak and silly. I know you want to cringe; you probably have the urge to just throw me down on your mattress and silence me with your mouth, but I am here for-"
"I always have the urge to throw you down on my mattress and silence y-"
"Those places can be rough. And, well, it's over anyway," I say weakly. "Right? So you don't need to be strong anymore. I want you to be able to tell me what that was like for you. I don't want you to have this life-changing event and not share it with me. I don't-"
"Cassidy, I need you to stop talking." He presses his lips to mine, their warmth and gentleness coercing me to be quiet. I close my eyes and let his mouth consume me, silence the questions and thoughts. I lock them away for now to enjoy the peace and contentment of our world. We hum into our kiss, a strange kind of sadness behind the motion of his lips and tongue. A gentleness that isn't hopeful but painful, and I try to ignore it.
Our kiss is broken when Carter clears his throat beside us.
Max frowns at the interruption.
"Sorry, boss. The sun will be down soon." He hands Max a black headset of some kind. "Here you go."
Max looks at my wide-eyed expression. "Turn around and face the block, little one."
A nervous giggle leaves me. "What are you doing?"
"I want to show you something."
He positions me in front of him with my shoulders and head pressed to his hard broad chest. He slides the headset over my eyes, and I'm immediately staring at a black abyss.
"I'm nervous," I say, shuffling on the grass.
A little fizzle sounds by my ear as Max flicks the headset on. Then an image of a beautiful house appears on the empty lot. I cover my gasp. It looks so real, as though I could walk straight up through the portico and open the double doors. It is two storeys high with carved trimmings around the roofline, a gable, and exposed eaves. There is a veranda on the base level, adorned with low fencing. It is a modern representation of a 19th-century-style home. It's fricking beautiful. I beam with pride. Max has designed this house; I just know it.
I twist my head and the house stays stationary as if it is really cemented to the earth. "Is this VR?"
"Yes." His voice makes me jump a little as he sounds far away, my eyes and ears not experiencing the same environment. It's quite jarring.
"What do you think?"
I grin. "It's cool."
He chuckles. "Of the house, little one. Not the VR."
"Oh." I smile hard and wonder if he's looking at my face. "Well I think it's just lovely."
I take it all in, noticing a building set back behind the house, offset slightly to the left. "What is that?" I point as if he can see what I can.
"That's a dance studio."
My heart skips a beat, possibly an entire chorus. I pull the headset down, and the block is empty again, shadowed by the low light of the newly setting sun. I spin to face him, blinking fast. "What?"
He sighs roughly, searching my flushed features. "It's for us."
I squeal with excitement. My heart jetes and fouettés and piques and does a silly dance. "Really?"
He nods, a pleased smile hitting the corner of his mouth. "If you want. I know this is your city. This is where I want you to be."
Wrapping my arms around his middle, I squeeze him tight. "Thank you."
He pushes me out in front of him and I notice his eyes have glossed over. I do a double take, not quite understanding the sadness I see within their depths. Not wanting to. . .
My throat tightens.
"You're my life, Cassidy Slater," he says, trailing his fingers down my cheeks. "Now, with your perfect face. While you're so beautiful it fucking hurts. And when your belly is swollen with my babies and you're grumpy and a pain in the arse, then too. And when you're old and grey and for some fucking reason still putting up with all my shit. You're my life."
I can't breathe.
I can't think. I don't want to hear any of this. Not liking the break in his throat, the shudder to his voice, I shake my head slowly. "Why are you saying this?"
He grits his teeth, fighting back emotion, his face lightly veiling so much pain. "I'm going away."
My lip trembles uncontrollably. "Where are we going?" Spinning away from him, I cover my face, tears bursting out too fast to control. No.
"Don't do that." He twists me back to face him, his jaw pulsing when he sees my tears. "Hold on to the feeling from before. Don't cry. They want me to plead guilty for possession of an illegal firearm and assault on an off
icer."
"You didn't assault anyone!" I cry.
"Actually. . . I did." He nods with a show of regret. "They can't get me for anything else. Jimmy made sure of that. We are hoping for thirty-six months, out on parole at twenty-four."
No. No.
"No. No. No," I chant, shaking my head violently, feeling dizzy, feeling my world fall to pieces. My legs give out from under me and my knees hit the grass, giving up. I'm giving up.
He grips my shoulders, pulling me to my feet. "Listen to me, little one."
"No."
"Listen," he growls, but he's not angry. It is aggression manifesting from passion, and I understand it all too well.
I want to scream.
Shriek.
I ball my hands into fists.
"While I'm in, I need you to be the bravest you have ever been. Don't disappear in here." He presses his big, warm hands to my cheeks, tapping one of his forefingers on my temple. "Be you. Bubbly. A silly little girl. Soften my brothers' lives."
I can’t see him now, not through the tears.
So many tears.
"I can't do this without you!" I cry.
"Do what?
I gasp for air as sobs begin to cripple my body, anger disappearing into a melting pot of despair. "Anything! Live. Breathe!"
He kisses my lips quickly, our mouths coated in my tears. He pulls back and wipes at my face, thumbs moving under my eyes and around my cheeks, but more salty water rains down. I'm helpless to stop them.
Helpless to save him.
Us.
"Are you kidding me?" His brows draw in tight with severity. "You're the fucking boss, Cassidy. You run things for us now. You can do anything without me."
"No."
"Stop saying no."
I squeeze my eyes shut, holding them that way as I shake my head over and over. No.
"Look at me." He tries to pull me back to him, to a place where he breaks my heart. But I don't want to go. Don't want to hear it. Don't want to be a part of this conversation. "You're not just little Cassidy Slater anymore. I'm not sure you ever were. . . You're my girl. Strong. Fierce."
