“Yes,” she breathed.
I kissed her cheek and settled down to sleep, comfortable in the knowledge that eventually—when the time was right—I might get the response that had once scared the hell out of me, but that I now wanted more than anything in the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: CREATIVE VISUALISATION
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke to an empty bed and a silent house. A note from Alyssa rested on the bedside table, thanking me for the previous night, and again for early that morning. She also reminded me to pick her up from her parents’ house, leaving their address at the bottom. I folded it up and put it into my wallet, but not until I had taken an extra minute to read the words a second time.
Taking a moment to relax, I rolled over onto Alyssa’s side of the bed, relishing in the smell of her that clung to the blankets and sheets. I began to imagine what it would be like if—no, when—she was living with me. When I could roll over in the morning and she would be there. Her presence would be stamped on every surface of every room in my house. I could already picture which room I would change to give Phoebe a toy room as well as planning out a dream bedroom for her. It was easy to imagine a swing set beside the pool in the backyard. Everything was going to be . . . maybe not perfect, because nothing ever was, but it would be real.
With those images in my mind, I stood and began to get ready for the day. First, I made a mental list of everything I needed to achieve before the time came to collect Alyssa from her folks’ house. I tried to put the actual reunion with Killer Curtis out of my mind, because when I allowed my mind to brush across that subject, my knees began to quiver, my heart began to pound, and my palms grew sweaty.
Despite pushing it from my thoughts as best as I was able, the worry remained buried inside me, waiting for the worst possible moment to strike me down with panic. Each time I’d thought I was finally free of the panic, it clawed down my throat and clenched my heart in its icy grip.
Getting ready for the day, I grabbed a change of clothes. As I yanked them out of my bag, it struck me that I really needed to get some more casual clothes. Especially as I was planning on an extended stay. With things working so well with Alyssa, there was no need for me to return to Sydney until I absolutely had to for preseason preparation.
The shopping trip Alyssa and I had taken a week earlier hadn’t exactly stocked up my wardrobe. I had two choices: wear the same outfit every few days and learn how to wash my own clothes, or buy more shit. The “buy more” option won hands down.
After I’d set my plan, the first thing I did was ring the dress shop I’d visited the previous day. I asked for the assistant who’d served me and was in luck, because she was on. When I had her on the phone, I double-checked that she remembered me. It was a stupid question really, because how many blokes came in, ordered an Armani tux off the rack plus demanded a dress—which must be available immediately—with only a photo and a borrowed dress to work out sizing.
The clerk asked how our evening had gone, and I politely told her it went well—which was the understatement of the century—then I told her I needed a favour. A new dress, exactly the same size, delivered to a different address. I explained the basics of the type of event it was for but left it in her court to select what Alyssa would wear. I also ordered a new bow tie to match the dress. It was going to piss me off that I couldn’t be completely ready for Alyssa when I picked her up, but there was little I could do about it if I wanted us to match.
I packed my tux back up into the bag it came in, getting it ready to take to the dry-cleaners. With those two items ticked off my to-do list, I climbed into the car for the rest of my tasks. I was halfway down the street when the phone rang. I pushed the Bluetooth button to answer it.
“Declan.” Dr. Henrikson’s voice filled my car.
“Doc,” I replied as I pulled the car over to the side of the road so I could give him my full concentration. “Sorry I missed your call yesterday. I, uh, wasn’t sure whether you’d call back today.”
“I told you I would in my message.”
I didn’t say that I’d told him to fuck off last time we spoke, and that was part of the reason I hadn’t answered when he rang while Alyssa and I were having our lie-in. That and the fact that I was buried balls-deep in the woman I loved. But, now that he was on the phone, I was happy to ignore the issue of our last phone call and the things he’d said. At that moment, I actually needed to talk to him. A moment passed in silence while I tried to think of the best way to raise my problem.
“Did you want me to stop calling?” he asked tentatively, when I still hadn’t spoken.
“Fuck, no, Doc. I mean I was pissed off over your suggestion.” Couples’ therapy. I wanted to laugh, especially considering how well our last two dates had gone.
“I still think it’s a good idea,” he said. “Even if you do it just to prove me wrong.”
“I dunno, but I’ll talk to Alyssa about it,” I conceded.
“I think that would be a step in the right direction. You need to keep the lines of communication open between the two of you if you want to have a stable relationship.”
“I do.”
“Okay,” he said, and I knew the matter was dropped. “Why don’t you tell me what has happened since we last spoke? Are there any new developments?”
I smiled to myself. “Are there ever,” I said enthusiastically. “I asked her to move in with me.”
Although I wanted to be honest with him, I refrained from telling him about the engagement ring I’d purchased. He would be about as supportive of the idea as Alyssa had been when I was down on one knee.
“And what did she say?” His voice was still tentative, as if he was uncertain what to say—or maybe he was just unsure how I would react to his question.
“She said she needs to think about it.”
He breathed in relief. “She sounds like a wise woman.”
“What? Why?” I wondered why her needing to think about it was such a good thing.
“Because, as I said the other day, I think you need to be careful about pushing things too far too soon. You’ve only just come back into her life. You’re still adjusting to the idea of being a father and of being in a committed relationship again. Don’t misunderstand me, I think it’s commendable that you want to make up for past mistakes. I would just like to see that you don’t make an even bigger one in the process.”
“There are no bigger mistakes than leaving Alyssa,” I snapped. Then I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed to calm myself down. “Sorry, I’m just . . . on edge.”
“What about, Declan? Remember you have the ultimate control in our conversations. We can discuss anything that is bothering you.”
“I’m seeing Alyssa’s parents again tonight, or at least her dad. It’ll be the first time since . . . well, since everything happened. I saw her mum, Ruth, the day before yesterday, not long after our last conversation actually, and it went pretty well, but I don’t think a reunion with her dad is going to go nearly as smoothly. He hates me, both Lys and Ruth have said as much.” I had a major case of verbal diarrhoea, but I couldn’t stop the word vomit once it had started.
Dr. Henrikson chuckled a little. “Yes, you do sound a little nervous. What worries you most?”
“You mean besides the fact that he’s a prison warden who knows entirely too many criminals and police? So many in fact that he would probably know how to murder me and get away scot-free?”
He laughed. “Yes, besides that.”
“I guess my biggest concern—besides the fact that I honestly think he may very well kill me—is that I’ll disappoint Alyssa somehow.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I just . . . well, what if I have a panic attack and then pass out or something? I’m going to look like a fool.”
“You’ve been having the attacks more regularly lately?” he asked.
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.
He must have guessed at my answer because
he continued. “Have you been using your mantra when you’ve experienced the attacks?”
“I’ve been trying, but sometimes it’s hard to focus on the mantra with the thoughts and images in my head. I just feel so tightly wound, like someone is crushing every part of me.” I felt the sensation begin to build in my chest even thinking about it.
“Maybe we need to work on some other coping techniques. I don’t think they’ll help you tonight, unfortunately; generally it takes time to be able to exercise your mind to the point where it is able to work logically through the panic.”
“What sort of tools?” I asked. Anything that would help me, even a little, was a good thing. I was sorely tempted to have a glass or two of scotch before picking Alyssa up—just a little something to help take the edge off—but I knew I couldn’t. I owed Alyssa more than that. And I definitely owed Phoebe more than that.
“Creative visualisation techniques.”
“What the fuck?” I asked.
“Imagining that you’re in your happy place,” he explained.
I smiled—and then groaned—when I thought about what I would regard as my happy place. How was I supposed to not panic around Killer Curtis when I was picturing myself between his daughter’s thighs? “I don’t think that will help.”
“It won’t in the short-term. As I said, you need to train your brain to react to stimuli the way you want it to. It’s not an instant fix, but unfortunately there are no instant fixes.”
Typical quack talk to try to leech as much money from me as possible. He spent the next twenty minutes talking about various coping strategies and how I could implement them.
“Doc?” I asked, as he began to wind up.
“Yes, Declan.”
“I just wanted to say thank you. I know I’ve given you a hard time about some things, but I do think you’ve helped me. I just wanted to tell you that.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“And, well . . . I’m not sure if I’ll be needing daily sessions anymore.”
“You don’t want me to call anymore?”
“No, it’s not that. I think, in fact I know I’ll still need to talk to you. Just maybe only once a week for a while.”
“No problems, Declan. I’ll have Lucy arrange a regular appointment for you. Once you get back in Sydney, we’ll make it our face-to-face time too.”
“Thanks, Doc. That sounds great.”
As I hung up, I felt marginally better about the night. Nothing would save me when faced with the wrath of Alyssa’s father, but at least I had a feeling that someday things would be all right again. I would be able to cope with the panic when it built. After all, I could do it on the track—the focus I needed to drive the car usually put all thoughts of panic attacks out the window. I considered what the doc had talked about as I drove the rest of the way to the Grand Plaza before my mental to-do list took over my thoughts.
I found a dry-cleaners and put my suit in, insisting they have it ready for me in no more than four hours. To ensure it happened, I promised them a huge-arse tip if I had it back in time. Then I went through the small collection of surf shops that Browns Plains had to offer. It was a reminder that I hated shopping for clothes. No, I despised shopping for clothes. The only reason my last shopping trip had been bearable was because of Alyssa.
As if things weren’t bad enough—having to trudge from shop to shop to stare at mindless, repetitive fashion—I found I was followed by stares and whispers wherever I went. Everyone seemed anxious to celebrate the return of the small-town boy who made it big.
I was in City Surf, or Beach Biz, or something surfer-wannabe sounding like that, leafing through their meagre selection of shorts, when hands came to rest over my eyes.
“Guess who,” a horrid, nasally voice whined in my ear.
It wasn’t Alyssa, that was clear, so whoever it was had no fucking right to be touching me. Twisting roughly out of the hold, I dislodged the hands from my face. When I spun around, I found an overly tanned face smiling up at me from beneath too-blonde hair.
“Darcy,” I said in greeting.
“I heard you were back in town,” she purred. “I was hoping for a reunion.”
She took a step toward me, and I retreated straight into the clothing racks. When she reached for me, I twisted out of her grasp. Stepping away as far as I could, I watched her constantly. I couldn’t believe her gall. Of course she knew I was in town—I’d beaten her husband to a bloody pulp on my first night back.
Yet she was coming on to me in the middle of their local shopping centre. It said a lot about the state of their relationship.
“How’s Blake?” I asked. I didn’t really care, but I wanted to remind her of her marital vows—not that they’d mattered much to her during the masquerade ball when she’d let me fuck her in the cloakroom.
God, I was a fucking idiot.
She giggled—fucking giggled—before she replied. “He’ll be fine. He has a thick head, so it’s hard to do much permanent damage. But I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about us.”
She lunged toward me again, her hand reaching toward my crotch.
I jumped backwards. Because there was nowhere for me to go, I just smashed against the rack, dislodging a few pairs of shorts. “Whoa! Back the fuck up, bitch,” I said, as the plastic hangers clanged against the ground. “There is no us. There never was, and there never will be.”
She ran her finger down my chest; her nails were like talons and were painted fairy-floss pink. “Honey, you know you’ve never had it as good as I gave it to you. And that was just a sampler.”
Her voice sounded like she was aiming for seductive, but it simply came out sounding needy and pathetic.
I smiled at her—a genuine panty-dropping smirk—before leaning in to her a little. Placing my lips against her ear, I whispered, “You think we were good together?”
Her breathing hitched and she nodded.
“You want a repeat performance?”
She nodded again before tilting her face toward me a little as if to claim my lips.
“What about Blake?” I asked, still in a hushed tone.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Her voice was so breathy it was almost silent.
Her body inched closer to me. I would have felt sorry for her, having delusions that anything was ever going to happen between us again, except I remembered she’d used our one-night random fling as a way to hurt Alyssa. She used me to hurt Alyssa—as if I hadn’t caused enough suffering.
Worse, Darcy didn’t even seem to regret it. She didn’t care that she was hurting her own husband. Any empathy I might have had for her evaporated.
My voice changed from a throaty whisper to a low growl. “You don’t have a fucking clue what good is. You were nothing more than an easy lay who threw herself at me like a slut while I was too drunk to care what I was fucking. Why don’t you just back the fuck off?”
I used her surprise at my words to push past her. Without stopping, I walked straight from the shop without a backwards glance. My heart hammered in my chest and I could feel my blood pressure rising. How dare she come on to me publicly like that? As if she had some kind of claim on me. I huffed out a breath and tried to release the anger with it. There were bigger things, more important things, than Darcy happening in my life. Like seeing Curtis again. If I could remember those other things, anything she did was insignificant.
As I headed for the food court, I heard high heels clicking against the hard flooring at a rushed pace behind me. They were following me. I wheeled around as soon as Darcy’s hand tugged at my shirt. She was red-faced and her eyes flashed with madness. Her mouth twisted into an angry knot, but somehow her forehead didn’t shift. The look on her face was almost too funny, and I had to bite the inside of my cheeks to stop from laughing.
“Blake was right,” she spat at me. “You’re a fucking arse, Reede. I could have given you pleasure unimagined, but you’ve chosen the path of pain. Enjoy
it, wanker!” She turned on her heel and stomped off.
Whatever, Psycho Bitch. I’d seen similar displays from so many women in the past it almost didn’t bother me—except now I was with Alyssa and I knew it would bother her that I’d treated the women I’d been with so badly. Darcy retreated into the distance, her faux-blonde hair swaying around her shoulders. For a moment, I debated going after her and apologising but thought better of it. Alyssa might care if I treated women badly, but I figured even she’d make an exception for Darcy.
As I went about the rest of my day, I pushed thoughts of Darcy and Blake out of my head. No matter what I did though, I just couldn’t shake the dread that was building in the pit of my stomach.
AT THE appointed time, I arrived at the Dawson residence. I’d been cool, calm and collected the whole time I was getting dressed, and remained so right up until I reached the turnoff for their street. In the time it had taken me to drive from the corner to their house—less than a minute—a series of tremors had broken out across my body and sweat dampened my shirt. The ache in my ribs, which had finally dropped to a dull, manageable pain, grew more pronounced—demanding attention.
When I climbed from the car my knees almost buckled beneath me. I took a moment to lean against the Monaro and do some of the deep-breathing crap that Dr. Henrikson had suggested.
I closed my eyes and tried to visualise positive things. Happy things. The problem was the only happy thoughts I could summon involved Alyssa and me in various tangled positions in her bedroom.
My fingers running over the curve at the base of her spine. My tongue tickling the spot right behind her ear—which always earned me the most perfectly sexy moan. Her hands clutching me as I pushed myself inside her. Her fingernails digging in to my arse cheeks as she came.
None of those thoughts helped to calm my breathing or stop my shakes. Instead they just gave me an instant raging hard-on and a rising sense of guilt that I was thinking about her in those positions moments before greeting her family.
Deceive (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #2) Page 29
