Strung

by Costa, Bella

  I dial up Grace next.

  "Hey girl! How was the wedding?" she asks.

  "It was a wedding. How do you think it was?” I roll my eyes.

  "Mmm. What about the farm?"

  "Grace, it's not a farm; it's a mountain lodge. And aside from being stuck here with a beast of a mountain man for a few days, it looks pretty good. I just have a few details to sort through. How is everything there?"

  "All good. We had a ripping party here last night, strippers and everything. It was great. You should have been here."

  "That quiet huh?"

  "Dead as a door knob," she sighs.

  "Good. I hope to be back tonight; worse case, in the morning."

  "No problem. Hey is your mountain man cute?" she digs.

  "I'm not answering that! Bye Grace!” I hang up, smiling.

  ~.~

  I glance up when Chayton groans loudly in his sleep. He has rested well but the painkillers are wearing off now and it is nearly time for his next dose. I can tell that the growing discomfort is making him restless. I check the clock; it is about midday. I put my book down on the dresser and using the bed for support, hobble around to check on him. The blankets have shifted down to his waist and his upper body and brow are glistening in a thin sheen of sweat. Several strands of hair cling to his face and I reach out to lift them off.

  "Crap!” I yelp as, his arms sweep around my waist and I find myself flying over his body to land on the other side of the bed.

  He rolls onto his side under the blankets and pulls me tight to him so we are spooning and his face is snuggled into my hair. The move took a fraction of a second and caught me so by surprise, the only reaction I have managed since yelping, is to hold my breath. I am about to protest and struggle out of his arms when I hear a soft snore. Fuck, the serial spooning, sleep-snogger, strikes again.

  I lay desperately still, my heart pounding, the blood roaring in my ears. I feel tears prickling at the back of my eyes and curse their untimely arrival but understand their familiar presence. I try to separate the tangled torrent of thoughts and emotions that are rattling about painfully in brain, anxious to make sense of them all. I am grateful that Chayton is asleep and unaware, affording me the time to process a reasonable reaction, instead of forcing me into a rash one.

  His arms tighten slightly around my waist and I feel his breath on my neck as he sighs deeply. Being this close to him, makes me feel safe, welcome, wanted, desired, turned on – and lonely. Yes lonely. It's a raw, sandblasted, sunburned, desolate ache, which his proximity is chaffing cruelly.

  I realise how badly in denial I have been. This is what I need - to the point of desperation. I have been telling myself that I don't want a relationship, that I don't need a relationship, that a relationship is a bad thing. The truth is; I am just scared. A relationship would mean a large portion of my life would be out of my control, and where would I be without that?

  Either Chayton slips deeper into sleep or his dreams take a new direction, because I feel his arms relax. The temptation to stay here, wrapped in his warmth, is appealing but wrong on more levels I can list.

  I slowly unfold his arms from my waist and roll away from him, hopeful not to wake him. When I think I'm a safe distance I sit up and study his face, temporarily serene and stunningly hot, despite the fact that his jaw has almost disappeared under the swelling and stubble.

  If I could, I would walk away now. As far away as possible – and never come back. I squirm uncomfortably on the bed, feeling the unaccustomed dampness between my legs and wipe back an escaped tear as it burns its way down my flushed cheek.

  Get over yourself girl.

  Crutch-less, I head to the kitchen, forcing my ankle to take more and more of my weight, using the pain to blanket everything else I'm feeling. I warm up a bowl of soup, gather some water and push myself back down the corridor to Chayton's bedside. I shake him awake angrily.

  "What? Oh, hey," he grins sheepishly. It is cute and hot and makes me more agitated.

  "Eat your soup while it's hot!" I snap.

  "Okay..." he frowns, but sits up obediently and takes the offered bowl. I busy myself angrily piling empty water bottles into a trashcan by the door and throw the towels into the laundry basket in the large en-suite. I can feel his eyes follow me everywhere but he eats quietly. Finally, I have run out of things to tidy and feeling spare and uncomfortable, stand in the middle of the room, arms crossed and resting my weight on my good foot.

  "Have I done something to upset you?" he asks, his voice strained from the tightness in his throat. Yes everything! Everything and nothing! I shake my head sourly as he places the bowl on the bedside table and gazes back at me. His eyes are glazed and shining with fever, his skin flushed and damp, his expression expectant.

  "You should have a shower so I can change your sheets," I mutter.

  He unfolds himself from the bed, moving slowly and wincing frequently before shuffling toward the bathroom. I hear the water turn on in the shower and quickly strip the slightly damp sheets off the bed, still warm from his body heat. Locating another clean set, I busy myself remaking the bed. Still ignoring my crutches, needing the pain to keep me grounded, I bundle up the sheets and the dirty dishes leaving two painkillers and a water bottle on the bedside table.

  He is over the worst. He can manage on his own now. I load the washing machine and head to my room.

  I've left my book in his room but I need sleep and I just can't face him now. I'll get it later. Crawling into my own bed, I snuggle up and escape into an exhausted sleep.

  ~.~

  It is late afternoon when my Blackberry buzzes, waking me.

  "Hello?” I murmur.

  "Acacia, hi. It's Savannah."

  "Oh, hi Savannah."

  "Listen, I'm really sorry to do this but we've just been told the pass is staying closed; probably till Thursday. Do you need me to come back?" I can hear giggling and music in the background. It sounds like the girls are having fun.

  "What? No. No, it's okay.” I lie.

  "Okay, I'll see you on Thursday before you leave. Thanks and sorry."

  "No sweat." The phone goes dead.

  Great! I role onto my back and stare at the ceiling. It's only Tuesday afternoon.

  ~.~

  27th March

  It's Wednesday afternoon. Chayton is out of bed but still a little rough around the edges. Thankfully, he is spending most of his time closed up in a room at the end of the right wing.

  I decide a proper solid meal is overdue, and hunt through the kitchen stores for inspiration. I find some chicken breasts in the impressive walk-in refrigerator and set about making a chicken casserole. There is plenty of time so I push the dish into the oven and let it cook nice and slow.

  With nothing to do but wait, I make a mug of hot chocolate and settle into a sofa, tucking my good foot underneath me. The skies have darkened early today. Rain, sleet and snow take turns lashing at the mountain and the immense glass walls of the Great Hall offer me a front row seat of the drama as it unfolds. Thanks to the premature darkness and uncomfortable silence, the huge citadel feels stifling, like a coffin.

  I sit like this for ages, just watching, thinking; waiting for tomorrow, so I get go back to my life, back to my comfort zone.

  ~.~

  "Acacia."

  "Mmm?"

  "Acacia."

  "What?” I grumble, reluctantly opening my eyes. "Oh. Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.” I wipe the corner of my mouth, awkward with the knowledge that I've been dribbling slightly in my sleep.

  "It's okay.” Chayton is crouched down in front of the sofa, his face frustratingly inscrutable and close. "I think your casserole is done. It smells delicious by the way. Do you want me to dish some up for you?"

  "What time is it?"

  "It's just after eight."

  "So late!” I glance outside to find night has fallen properly. "Um, yes please. That'll be good."

  I straighten myself out and finger comb m
y hair, checking that I haven't dribbled all over the expensive furniture. Chayton returns a couple of minutes later with a tray and sets it down on my lap. Earlier, before I fell asleep, I had realised that my discomfort was totally my own. Chayton would not know what effect his sleeping activities have had on me, and is probably perplexed at my sudden moodiness. I promised myself that I would try being more acquiescent.

  Collecting his own tray he sinks into the sofa alongside mine, putting us at right angles to each other, and we both eat in silence.

  "You are looking much better, and eating better as well," I say.

  "I am. Thank you. The food is as good as it smells," he replies. Several minutes of silence pass and his attention is split between his food and the fire.

  "You don't talk much, do you?" I study his face as I ask. There is still a slight swelling in front of his ears and under his jaw, but he is almost back to his beautiful awesomeness. He lays his tray down on the coffee table.

  "I talk plenty," his says in low tones, "when I have something to say."

  Chayton remains focused on the dancing flames, his body relaxed and stretched out, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Perfectly still, other than the slight, slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. No nervous twitches, no restless swaying of a foot or tapping of a finger, perfectly still.

  I stare into the fire myself, for a few moments, collecting my thoughts. So far, all attempts I've made at conversation have been stonewalled. I am not as at ease with the silence as he appears to be.

  "So you were married to Robert Jones; how did that work out for you?" I am startled by the suddenness of this very personal question. He is still staring into the flames, perfectly still, the half of his face visible to me, seemingly lost in thought. I wonder if I imagined him speak.

  "I believe that's public knowledge.” I reply a little too harshly. "Everyone knows how that worked out. My notorious downfall from grace, to the realm of financial criminal, is still a subject of many a cocktail party debate and news reporter's wet dream." The corners of his mouth twitch.

  "It's a good thing then that this isn't a cocktail party and I'm not a news reporter." He turns his head to me now and I feel as though I have been stripped naked under his direct gaze; peeled like an onion; layer-by-layer. "So assume for just a moment that I'm unaware of your reputation. What is your story Acacia?"

  I snatch my eyes from his face and try to convince myself that he is no longer gazing at me. It is unsettling and my brain will not function properly otherwise.

  "I am tired of defending myself," I sigh eventually. "Let's just say that Robert is an extreme Narcissist. Nothing happened in our relationship, which wasn't predetermined and designed by him - other than my quick exit."

  "That's interesting.” His voice is still low and measured. "You don't strike me as someone who suffers fools lightly or allows herself to be used. The end prize must have been quite attractive if you were willing to put yourself through all that hardship." My head snaps up at his inference and anger surges through me making my skin prickle.

  "End prize?" I gasp, straightening and grasping the arm of the chair tightly. He is not the first person to assume that I married Robert for the money or to climb the so-called social ladder, but hearing it from Chayton – it hurts like it has never hurt before.

  "Am I wrong?" I stare angrily at him.

  "Have you ever been in love?"

  "Yes." His answer is measured and only just audible.

  "And how did that work out for you?" I spit. His shrug is only just perceptible.

  "It turns out it was one sided. Apparently she had ulterior motives."

  I see a flash of pain flit cross his face, just for a second; then it's gone. He stares back into the flames. Perhaps I was too harsh. I sink back on the sofa. I am tired of constantly needing to defend myself, to explain myself to everyone; yet I feel I owe it to Chayton. I have no idea why.

  "I loved Robert once," I begin, my voice small and hesitant. "I assumed he loved me too. By the time I realised that he only loved himself and that I was just another trophy...it was too late."

  "So he wasn't always a narcissist, as you put it?"

  "I don't understand." I glance at him, confused.

  "He couldn't have been when you met him, when you fell in love. Otherwise surely you wouldn't have allowed the relationship to develop." He looks genuinely interested, his head tilted slightly to one side as he watches me.

  "Oh, he was! A very clever one!" I stare into the flames, remembering our early dates. "Right from the beginning it was there; in the small things." I twist a lock of hair between my fingers. "He would always make a seemingly valid argument for everything, making me feel like a guilty child. Like a silly woman for not seeing the obvious.

  "For example, we would always spend time together at his place...never mine. He pointed out that his place was bigger, there more to do there. He had a pool, games room, bar, cinema. I just had my little one bedroom student flat. It hurt, but he made it seem rational. I gradually just got used to the idea; accepted it.

  "When we went out, he would always keep our destination a secret. I thought he enjoyed surprising me. It was his way of controlling what I wore. After all, if I didn't know where we were going, I could not choose appropriate attire. It did get tiring after a while, but initially it was nice to think that someone would go through that kind of effort for me.

  "I thought he was chivalrous, when he insisted on choosing the restaurants we ate at. Choosing and ordering my meals and drinks. We were already engaged, two days away from our wedding, when he ordered venison for me at a restaurant. I don't like venison." I stare at my hands for a beat. "I tried to change the order with the waiter but the look I got from Robert... That was the first time I felt intimidated and I could not rationalise his motives. Later, I wanted to confront him about it but didn't know how."

  "So he controlled you by stealth?" murmurs Chayton.

  "I guess so," I sigh. I don't want to talk about Robert anymore.

  "What about your friends, family?" He seems to sense my need for a change of subject.

  "My parents passed away in Africa when I was a teenager. My aunt and her daughter, who took me in, still think the earth revolves around Robert and that I must have had some kind of mental breakdown for walking out on him."

  "You walked out on him? That's not the general public story!" And we’re back there again – my fault!

  "No, it wouldn't be the story, would it? Robert would never allow that. Nothing happens in his universe unless he says it should."

  "What about your friends?"

  "I didn't have many to start with. I have never been much of a social butterfly. I had a small handful of close friends. I suppose they may have tried to warn me. I guess I was too much in love to listen.

  "Robert kept me busy every waking moment. He found ways of keeping me separate from them, without me realising, and it wasn't long before I was completely alienated from them. I was becoming co-dependent on Robert. He was the centre of my world, whether I wanted him to be or not."

  "It seems hard to understand the rationality of a relationship like that," he murmurs.

  "It's harder when you're in it. I guess it's gradual and they do say love is blind. I heard once if you put a frog in boiling water it will jump out. However, it you put it in cold water and let the water slowly come to the boil, it will just sit there and boil to death. The frogs need for water is much the same as humanities need for love. I guess it is the need, which blinds us. We think we are in our comfort zone; we make excuses for irregularities and we slowly boil to death."

  I watch a flame on the edge of the fire, flare green for a moment as it eats away at something on the wood. I feel his gaze upon me and return it. His eyes are hooded and shadows illuminate the crease, just above the bridge of his nose, as he frowns.

  "What about the fraud investigation?" he finally asks. "It's been on the news."

  "Honestly? I don't know; it's still on
going. I would have liked to carry out an investigation of my own but everything was seized by the investigators, at the same moment I realised there was a problem." I shift on the sofa, tucking my good foot back under me.

  "On paper, I owned the business. I took care of the creative and operational side and I dealt with the clients. Robert took care of the rest. I had no reason not to trust him. He invested the money to open the business and he knew more about business and running one than I did. I was relieved that I didn't have to. He was my husband.

  "During the preliminary hearings, my legal counsel, argued that the books looked completely above board until our separation and that Robert had instigated the mess out of vindictiveness. The prosecutor pointed out that it only looked worse for me because theoretically, after the separation, Robert was no longer involved to make sure I operated above board, providing me with the opportunity and motive to commit fraud. It never occurred to me that he still had access to the company's accounts after I walked out. My bad!” I shrug.

  "I've heard that Narcissistic behaviour extends to the bedroom as well." He whispers.

  "What?” Shit did I hear him right? Way out of line!

  "Don't be coy Acacia. Did he have a messiah complex in the bedroom as well?"

  "Not that it's any of your business, but our sex life was okay. He didn't complain too much!” I splutter the lie. Robert did nothing but complain.

  "Okay? That's it? Okay?" his lips curl as he watches me and my face feels like it's hovering just inches above the flames, slowly roasting. I hug myself protectively.

  "Well, I don't have a point of reference. Robert is the only man I've ever slept with!" I really do not want this conversation to go on I know if it does, the tears will fall in spectacular style. "If you'll excuse me, I'm turning in for the night!"