Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  I can’t offer him an explanation. A reason. I can only stand in front of him and be judged. I want to say I feel the weight of his censure and disgust, but all I feel is his triumph. A triumph short lived, and possibly unsatisfactory for him. He stares at me for a moment longer, the weight of his gaze almost suffocating, before he turns on his heel and storms from the room.

  A moment later, the front door slams.

  ‘Anyone would think he owns the place,’ I say to the now empty room, Nigel long since having trotted off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Dylan knows, and I’m numb. Not processing. Unmoving and just stunned. But fuck him and his victory because this house may no longer be my home, but I’m not one of his things. He doesn’t own me. He makes it sound as though I’m the only one on trial here just because I did what I did before he ruined me.

  Call it self-preservation, because the only reason I’m not pooled on the floor is that I. Left. First. I saw the signs; barely married and he’s telling the actress he’s filming with that I’m just his hair stylist. His hair stylist! And yes, maybe I was, but only because he insisted I be on set to fix his hair. Dylan isn’t that vain; I thought it was because he wanted me near, but now, I think it was probably the thrill of being able to feel me up while risk being caught. Seems nothing’s better than feeling up your wife while her hands are busy.

  What is it with men? Creeping up and grabbing your arse when your hands are sudsy or full of tint?

  But it wasn’t so much my job title I objected to even if it felt like he was punishing me that day. What I objected to was his intonation, his tone. That throwaway line.

  Oh, she’s just my hairstylist. Just. Just!

  And I very much objected to how he waltzed on by with her pawing his arm, all doe-eyed and star struck.

  So we’d fought that morning.

  So he was tired of us being a secret, but I had my reasons.

  So he didn’t know I’d already begun to look at flights to take him home to meet my family. Screw what his agent said because when I said I had my reasons, the slime ball’s words were part of it.

  Right now, he doesn’t need a wife, Ivy. He needs to feed the fan beast—make them think he’s dating the ‘it’ girls of this world; models, starlets, daughters of famous parents. Are they or aren’t they? Who will it be next? He needs to cultivate this persona; make the world ask just who is Dylan Duffy?

  If anyone cared to ask, I’d tell them the truth right now: Dylan Duffy’s a complete twat.

  As a star’s wife, you’ll have to prepare yourself. Actors fall in and out of love during the roles they play. It’s make believe, sure, but for them, at those moments, it’s real. You know what I’m saying, Ivy. Yeah, I knew what he was getting at. That people stray. You have to be prepared to watch from the sidelines, babe.

  Not happening, babe.

  Nigel pads back into the room, flopping onto his bed by the unlit fire. I don’t know whether he’s been fed or walked, exactly what time it is, or which side is up and which is down currently. I’m so tired I’m almost dead on my feet. But I still have one more thing to do. I slide open my phone like a dutiful friend. I’d sent Fin a text from the cab telling her I’d landed and that I’d Skype her soon, but I’m not in any sort of mood to be grilled again. Actually, I’m surprised she hasn’t called to ask what the delay is. I shoot her a quick text to say I’m off to bed and that I’ll call tomorrow, instead. Closing my phone, I slide it into the back pocket of my jeans.

  Bed. I need sleep. My mind’s not working so well, and I’m in no mood for combat. That is if he even returns. We can continue this in the morning; he and his black temper can go rain someplace else for now.

  My suitcase is small and light, having packed for only a few days, so it’s easy to carry upstairs. Though his note didn’t mention a timescale, I’ve no intention of staying long. The master suite is the first door on the left at the top of the stairs, and though I pause at the doorway of the room that was once ours, I don’t go in. Instead, I walk the hallway to the room farthest away. The scene of the crime is something I don’t need to see. Wonder how many women he’s had in there since?

  I’m surprised Nigel isn’t behind me; he used to sleep at the end of our bed. It’s hardly surprising he isn’t trotting at my heel. He probably feels like I abandoned him, too. Once I’ve brushed my teeth and removed the grime of travelling by virtue of a quick shower, I shove on a tank top and shorts set, then leave the bedroom door open a wee bit. That way, should the woolly mutt change his mind, he won’t resort to howling.

  It has been known. A couple of times, Dylan locked him out of the room. Nigel’s a bit of voyeur, and Dylan didn’t like him staring when we . . . you know. No need to worry about that happening again. Not for me, anyway.

  The linens are cool against my skin, though I feel off balance lying in the guest room. I’d decorated this room with my parents in mind, hoping they’d visit once they’d gotten over my husband bombshell.

  That’s never going to happen now.

  I’d turned the thermostat higher before collapsing into bed because I hate sleeping in the frigid air conditioning. Give me good old Scottish weather with the rain pelting the windows and the wind outside blowing a gale—give me that, and I’ll show you the perfect antidote. The upside of living somewhere where it rains three hundred and fifty days a year—a hot toddy, a Kindle, and the central heating turned up full blast. There’s just something about a room feeling like the sauna in a Swedish massage place.

  And that’s pretty much the last thought I have.

  It’s dark. The floor creaks, but for some reason, I don’t open my eyes. I’m not frightened, reassured perhaps by the quiet whine of Nigel. Seems I’m not the only one having their sleep disturbed. My breath halts as Dylan’s voice whispers in the darkness; a small praise I don’t quite catch. My heart jumps into my throat even as, without opening my eyes, I can see him patting Nigel’s head. Without any real cognitive processing, I continue my feigned sleep as Dylan’s body lands heavily on the chair across from the bed.

  Then nothing. No further movement. Just the sounds of our breathing, deep and even. I know he’s watching me, and my skin prickles from the weight of his gaze, the fine hairs on my forearms standing like pins. The room is warm now, overly so, and I’ve kicked the blankets to the end of the bed, it seems. I’m suddenly aware of my tiny pyjamas; have my boobs fallen out of the thin cotton tank? Without reaching to touch, I can only guess, and even as I do so, my nipples harden against the fabric.

  I’m not flashing him, am I?

  Guilt comes next. Because I feel uneasy that he’s here? That I pretend to sleep? Whatever the cause, I fight the urge to open my eyes. A sick sense of need fuels my sleeping pretence as my mind and heart are suddenly filled with a million conflicting things.

  The clink of ice against a glass brings me out of my confused misery, and the sense of him taking a sip makes me almost want to lick my lips. I manage to keep my breathing deep and even, though the cogs in my mind whir. Why is he here and what am I to do about it?

  ‘I hate you.’ My heart stops again—properly. His voice is little more than a whisper; an exhausted sound in the darkness that pierces my chest. ‘I really, really hate you,’ he repeats, his voice a little stronger now. Then he utters my name like a curse.

  Tears of shame and rage burn in my throat; my molars gripped so tight I feel a shooting pain. I did this to him—I’ve caused this hurt. But the fact is—we’re a matching pair—he made me feel the same.

  ‘I have all this . . . stuff inside me—this fury,’ he whispers, the words of a one-sided conversation I’m not meant to hear. ‘I’m famous for smashing cameras and trashing bars and hotel rooms as much as for my work these days. That’s all your doing. You fucking ruined me for better things. Better fucking things; what does that even mean? What was better than you and me?’

  The glass hits the dresser followed by a muffled bang of his knees against the floor, the mattr
ess dipping a little as he rests his elbows there. He’s so close; his soft breath suddenly feathers my skin.

  ‘My God, how I hate you.’ I can feel his fingers hovering, almost touching my hair. I want, though I shouldn’t, to feel him more solidly. I crave the contact, though I tell myself it’s a physical thing. That I miss his touch, but I don’t miss him. More lies I tell myself.

  ‘I want to hate you. Why can’t I?’

  I try so hard not to tremble, the invisible weight of his hand now ghosting my arm. Inexplicably, I want to reach out and soothe his suffering, but I’m not that girl anymore.

  ‘But maybe I should thank you,’ he says suddenly. Fiercely. He inches closer, his lips just a kiss away. ‘But I think I’d rather choke you first.’ I almost flinch, expecting the weight of his hand even as, at the same moment, my treacherous thighs clench. We’ve toyed with this kind of stuff before but never in this vein. Never with real hate. And the sickest part yet? I yearn for this right now. I crave him, my nipples pebbling against a weight that doesn’t come as he speaks again.

  ‘This person I’ve become—this fame—the brooding and fucking. The destruction. That’s all you, baby. I suppose it’s the real me now. I fucking hate—’ His words halt mid-rambling tirade, his fingers grasping the chain I wear around my neck. ‘What the fuck is this bullshit?’ he whispers, fingering my wedding band that hangs from there.

  Stupid, stupid Ivy. I can’t believe I’m wearing it. I should’ve left it at home, but the truth is I can’t bring myself to take it off. It’s always there, slipped under my shirt, the comforting weight of it against my chest.

  I lie stock-still and barely breathing, feigning sleep, and for what? But I’ve come this far. I can’t stop now because this time, I’d surely break apart.

  Dylan doesn’t move; in fact, it hardly seems like he’s breathing himself, but then the metal chinks quite suddenly, the weight of its pendant against my skin once again.

  As he stands then stumbles away, I’m not sure if the choking sobs are his or mine.

  Chapter 9

  Dylan

  I have the hangover from hell, and I feel like I might puke, but I’m up unreasonably early. Am I hoping to see her practising yoga by the pool? A sick puppy ready to hump her downward dog? The way I feel after finding she still technically wears her ring; I’m more likely to push her into the damn thing and put my boot on her head.

  I was so fucking sure I could do this. Watching her face as I’d told her I knew—knew that she’d lied, I’d had to leave. Put some distance between us. It was leave or put my hands around her neck. Leave or choke an explanation from her. An explanation she wasn’t prepared to give.

  I was so fucking sure I could do this.

  I can do this. She has to pay.

  I thought about bringing someone home to screw loudly in our bed. Something to make her stay a little less comfortable. I thought about it; chickened out at the last minute. I didn’t even accept Blondie’s offer of bathroom head. There’s always the risk that it’ll end up on the internet anyway.

  Stumbling into the glare of cameras outside the bar, I came home. Home; what a joke. I didn’t go looking for her—hadn’t expected her to be in that room. I’d just needed to fall into a tequila coma somewhere. I’d faltered down the hallway, bumping off the walls and into one of the bedrooms. An indiscriminate choice; I didn’t care where, so long as it wasn’t in the master suite. If I hadn’t been so drunk, I might’ve considered she’d be avoiding that room, too.

  Jesus, what a mess. I was so sure having her here would make it easier for her to break. Just my fucking luck I stumbled into the wrong room, but one step over the threshold, and it was like I was compelled. I’m beginning to think she wears some Celtic voodoo perfume or something. Orange blossom and something indefinable.

  There she lay while the dog’s growling at me like I’m not the one paying someone to live in my house and look after him. I stood mesmerised, watching her chest rise and fall, her lips gently parted, and all that dark hair fanned out on the pillow, tempting me to touch.

  Just like old times. Especially as I fell to my fucking knees.

  I almost touched her. Almost pushed my face into her—drowned myself in her.

  Almost.

  No harm, no foul, though, right? And miraculously, I’m up, showered, and sitting at the kitchen island drinking coffee and feeling vaguely human when she walks in.

  ‘Morning, dear,’ I say then catch her glare. Her reaction warms my mean ol’ heart. Fuck apathetic this time because apathetic needs to hurt. ‘Sleep well?’ I’m pretty sure she slept through my ramblings, though I still grip the top of my cup as I wait for a response.

  ‘Fair to middling.’

  I grit my teeth, the familiarity of her funny speech patterns and quirks haunting me in the daylight now. Like how she stumbles over her words and gets things ass backwards regularly.

  ‘Coffee?’ She never touches the stuff, but I feign to forget. Just like she feigns not to hear me. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask as she reaches into the pantry, her back facing me.

  ‘Looking for Nigel’s leash. He’ll need walking.’

  ‘Fuck walking the dog,’ I snap suddenly. So much for calm and collected. ‘He’s not your dog anymore and no longer your concern.’

  She releases her shoulders from up around her ears with a sharp sigh. ‘I just thought . . . never mind.’ She hangs Nigel’s lead back, closing the door.

  ‘He has a walker,’ I say gruffly, though she doesn’t deserve the knowledge of either of our day-to-day lives. If she’d cared, she would’ve stayed. She wouldn’t have lied. ‘There’s still some of your tea in the back of the cupboard.’ Fuck it; I’m not supposed to be making nice here.

  Ivy grabs a cup from the cupboard above the coffeemaker, pouring herself a cup from the pot. She rests her hip against the worktop, her gaze fixed on the garden, totally avoiding me. ‘Fell off the wagon,’ she says with a wane smile.

  ‘Chocolate, too?’ I fight against the instinct of my lips turning up. Jesus Christ, I’ll be asking about her period next.

  ‘Dylan—’

  ‘Look—’

  We both speak at once.

  ‘You go first,’ I tell her, setting my own cup down.

  ‘Why am I here?’ she asks softly, her gaze flicking my way momentarily.

  Several visceral reactions happen all at once; my gut clenches, my chest pinches, and my brows furrow. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Where’s the vitriol? The attitude? This should be where I tell her she’s royally screwed.

  ‘Sit down, Ivy.’ I unknowingly use that tone—the one she used to love bossing her around—and remarkably, she does. The metal stool grates against the tiled floor as she pulls it out. Clasping her hands around her cup in front, she tracks my movements as I pull out her divorce petition from a folder by my arm. ‘You want this finalised.’ It’s not a question, and she doesn’t answer. ‘Would you care to tell me why?’

  ‘Why we should get divorced?’

  ‘There you go again, answering a question with another of the fucking same. Just tell me the truth for once in this miserable excuse of a relationship.’

  ‘We’re not good for each other,’ she almost whispers, her eyes studying the contents of her cup.

  This isn’t going as I want it to. So cool and evasive again. I thought the months away, months of ignoring her and her bullshit papers might’ve rattled her a little. Though she chooses not to let many know, she has a temper on her like a rattlesnake. Who knew she was sly like one, too? She goes off like a volcano when pushed; tiny Ivy turning like the Hulk. And I’d know, having pushed her there once or twice. Tears. Throwing things. Doesn’t happen often, but man, the payout is like nothing else. Angry sex is fucking awesome with Ivy but not a helpful thought right now.

  ‘Ivy—’

  ‘Good morning!’

  Behind me, one of the French doors open, but I don’t turn around, my focus caught by Ivy’s response.
She sits straighter, her gaze moving from her cup to the woman behind me. Not as cool as she’d like to make out, there’s more than a hint of green colouring her honey tones.

  ‘Hey, Dylan. I saw your car and thought—’ Melissa’s running shoes squeak against the tile as she halts. ‘I didn’t know you had company. My bad.’

  The perky blonde stands by my side—this couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned it myself. Ivy’s gaze sweeps over Lissa’s tiny pink running kit once more—up then down—before narrowing on me. That’s it, babe. Fucking look at me for a change. I slide my arm around her lithe waist. She won’t mind; she’s made her intentions clear numerous times. Heavy hints I’ve so far paid no mind.

  ‘Hey!’

  Melissa does this small, awkward wave as though it’ll somehow alleviate the tension in the air. Tension you could slice with a knife and serve like pie. My fingers curled around her hip, I squeeze, and her face turns to mine. From my position on this stool, we’re the same height.

  ‘Why don’t you go grab Nigel. We’ll catch up later after his walk.’

  Her eyes flare; a mixture of desire and surprise. Melissa’s hot, but she’s my dog walker, and we’ve never caught up. I’ve never gone there and never suggested I wanted to, until now. It’s not that she’s isn’t cute; it’s just too much of a pain to find someone else to walk Nigel’s woolly ass while I’m in the city where I live these days. A high-end penthouse; white walls, floors, and furniture. Sterile. And like a nut house.

  ‘Sure thing,’ she replies in her super perky L.A. way. Sometimes, this town sucks ass. Though ass sucking does have its perks; depends on which end of the bargain you want to be. Sucker or suckee.

  Fuck, looks like I’ll be hiring a new dog walker soon.

  As Lissa grabs his lead, Nigel lumbers into the room. Usually more than happy to let her fuss and coo, he shows no interest today. Instead, he plants his square snout on Ivy’s lap. My jaw clenches when her gaze moves from my face to concentrate on stroking his head.

  There’s an awkward moment when Lissa needs to fasten the lead to the collar; it yields no result when she calls Nigel over to her.