Undone by the Ex-Con_A BWWM Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  “Why?”

  “To match the rest of me, of course.” She smirked. He was still walking, and she was still spinning.

  “Oh,” he said. “So they’re supposed to be… flesh-coloured? Not pink?”

  She shrugged. “Unless your flesh is pink.”

  Over their voices, the music still played. As it swelled into yet another crescendo, Lizzie lowered her leg, bringing it behind her in an angle that seemed at once impossible and perfect.

  “This is an arabesque,” she said, because somehow she could tell that he wanted to know. Had Isaac always been so easy to read? Was he slipping? Or did she simply see the things no-one else could?

  “Dance for me?” He asked.

  Just like that, the music stopped.

  No; it was still playing. But the swirl of magic that surrounded her, the beat that seemed to hum through her very body, was snuffed out like a flame. Lizzie sank onto flat feet, her hand slipping from his.

  “No,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t dance for people to watch.”

  Fuck.

  But then, as quickly as it had come, her dark mood seemed to pass. She shook her head, smiling up at him. And even though it was weak, it was real. She meant it—or she was trying to.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “It’s not you. Just… a decision I made.”

  Ah. He nodded, because he understood that. And because he’d achieved his goal: whatever she was feeling right now, it wasn’t fear. That was all that mattered.

  “So,” he began, searching for a way to clear the awkwardness between them. “Need to eat?”

  She bit her lip. Which, he already knew, meant yes.

  “ Lunch?” He offered.

  “I need a shower.”

  Lizzie, naked, hot water cascading over her body as she scrubbed herself, soapy bubbles foaming over her slick skin—

  “Be quick,” he said gruffly. “And we can meet at the uh…”

  “La Pièce Verte?”

  “Yeah. That one.”

  “Okay,” she said softly. “It’s a date.”

  Oh. Damn. A date.

  Isaac felt himself smile.

  Seventeen

  He waited for her in the bright, airy space of the restaurant, the mountain sunlight glowing gently through the windows. When she came, she was as glorious as the view. He watched her make her way through the maze of little tables with unconscious elegance. Even in casual clothes, she stood out like a queen amongst subjects. And some time in the last few days that had stopped making him resentful.

  Now it made him hard.

  He rose to greet her, and she inclined her head slightly, the thick coil of her hair gleaming like a crown. But it had been even more beautiful last night, loose and wet and swinging around her waist like stolen ocean. Which was an awkward memory to latch onto at this precise moment, because it made him even harder, and if she didn’t sit down soon he was going to disgrace them both.

  “How very gentlemanly of you,” she murmured as she finally sank into her seat, allowing him to follow suit.

  He shifted in his chair, rearranging the inconvenient bulge in his jeans. “Mam raised me proper,” he said gruffly. “Just didn’t make it easy on her.”

  “I’m sure.” She smirked as she rearranged her napkin, and he copied her movements because he had no idea what the fuck was expected in a place like this. “She must be a formidable woman.”

  “She was,” he said quietly. Then he waited—waited for the sensation of drowning to take over; waited to feel as if he was forcing his lungs to take in briny water. But just as the twin spirits of regret and loss rose like the tide, she leaned forward to rest her hand on top of his.

  “I see. I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, her voice softer than ever before. He hadn’t even known she could sound like that.

  There’d been no-one to say those words to him, when it had happened. Some people found them cliche, or cheap. Isaac never could. He’d been absolutely desperate for condolences—for someone to acknowledge the depth of what had been stolen from the world, when his mother’s light went out. No-one did. Because the pricks he’d thought of as friends had all disappeared when he’d gone straight, when he’d made it clear his priorities had changed. When she got sick.

  He swallowed, shook his head. Was unspeakably grateful when a waiter arrived, interrupting the moment with drink orders and menus.

  Lizzie greeted the guy in French—that much Isaac could understand—and the waiter must have assumed they were both fluent, because he reeled off the rest of his spiel in a language Isaac had never even begun to learn. He sat in silence, preparing for the feeling of woeful ignorance that often overtook him in places like this. With people like the ones sitting in this room, people who probably didn’t notice that the tableware was silver, and the china was real—but would sure as hell notice if it wasn’t.

  But then Lizzie interrupted the waiter with another incomprehensible stream of words. "Je suis désolé. S'il vous plaît, parlez anglais pour mon ami."

  The waiter said, “My apologies, Mademoiselle. Monsieur.” And he began again. In English.

  Isaac stared at Lizzie as the waiter spoke. She studied her menu avidly… Until the moment when she slid her gaze shyly up to his. Like a baby playing peekaboo, she looked down the moment their eyes met. But a smile curved her lips. He liked that smile. He liked it a lot.

  “I’ll have the ratatouille and the Niçoise, no dressing,” she said at last.

  Crap. He should’ve been listening. “Uh… I think…”

  “The same?” She suggested innocently.

  He looked up gratefully. “Yeah. The same.”

  The waiter nodded and moved to leave, but a thought struck Isaac suddenly. “Hold on, mate.” He looked to Lizzie. “You want anything now? Something small?”

  She bit her lip. Looked firmly down at the bright white tablecloth. “Yes, please.”

  Isaac nodded. “Alright. Can we get some bread or something, please?”

  “Of course, Monsieur,” the waiter nodded.

  “Cheers.”

  They were left alone again, or as alone as they could be in a room full of people. But at least the tables were set metres apart. With Lizzie, that felt like enough space to constitute a safe little bubble. If he only looked at her, it was easy to forget everyone else in the room.

  “Why didn’t you ask?” He murmured, suddenly curious. “You don’t mind asking for what you want.” He knew that well. Knew it and loved it.

  She shrugged, and though she rarely seemed as small as she was, something about the movement made him conscious of her size. Of how little space she took up, despite both her strength and softness.

  “Weakness is private,” she finally responded. Shocking the shit out of him.

  “Weakness?” He echoed. She nodded. Now it was his turn to reach for her hand. He slid a palm over hers, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. “No weakness here,” he said, even as he felt the delicacy of her bones beneath her skin. He meant it.

  She sighed heavily, with the kind of exhalation that spoke of a thousand thoughts that had nowhere to go. “How did you guess?” She asked. "About..."

  “My dad was diabetic,” he told her.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And an alcoholic. Not a good combination.” Ah, crap. Why had he said that? Only now the questioning tilt of her head was making him want to continue. “Sometimes he was good. Mostly he wasn’t. He always seemed… angry. With himself. With his body.”

  He watched her closely. And he wasn’t at all surprised when she murmured, “I know the feeling.”

  Sadness took over her features, her whole body. Sometimes she was a brick wall, others she was emotion itself, living and breathing. He could never guess which Lizzie she’d be at any given moment. But he found himself wanting to learn more about her, wanting to be the one who could predict this unpredictable woman.

  “Hey,” he said softly, determined to chase away the shadows in her eyes. �
��My mam always said, no point being angry about something you can’t change. Sometimes, you’ve got to adapt. Move forward. For your own good.”

  She took a deep breath, biting her lip. But then she offered him a weak, shaking smile. He took it gladly, held it close to his heart like a candle in the wind. Thought that he’d do anything to help it grow.

  “Most people tell me it’s not that bad,” she said. “All the doctors I’ve been to, anyway. I have Type 1. They say I'll learn to manage, the first year is the hardest, it’ll get better or I’ll get used to it.” She shook her head. “I've done enough learning in my life. Enough trying. I had everything under control. And now I'm back to square one."

  He shook his head. "You should be kinder to yourself."

  She blinked up at him, clearly surprised. But then she shrugged. "That's not how I operate. It's just... I’m far from perfect. But my body was perfect. It was the only thing I could rely on. And now even that has failed me."

  "That why you left Paris? Can't perform anymore?”

  She snorted. "I should never have left Paris. I should have powered through. Made a fuss. But the truth is I..." She swallowed, her gaze flitting down to the tablecloth. "I was weak. I wanted an excuse to leave because I wasn't strong enough to stay."

  "It was... too difficult?" He frowned.

  "Something like that," she answered. But it wasn't the whole truth. He could tell. She was holding something back.

  Ghosts haunted her, clinging to her happiness like parasites. He swore they hadn’t been there the day they’d met. Or maybe she’d just hidden it better. Maybe he’d been too wrapped up in his own feelings to see it. Didn’t matter. He saw it now, and he wanted it gone.

  “What’s wrong?” He asked. He’d asked before. Been denied an answer. But now—surely she’d tell him now. Surely she felt the thing growing between them, rising like the dawn. Surely…

  He knew, the moment before she spoke, that she would lie to him.

  “Just…” She sighed. “Thinking about Ellen.”

  “Ellen?”

  “A friend. In Paris. I… didn’t treat her very well.”

  “Ah.” He leaned back in his seat as the bread arrived. Lizzie thanked the waiter before grabbing a soft roll and nibbling on it delicately, no butter. “One of the bridges you burned?” He asked.

  “Yes. She… tried to help me with something. But I was too proud to be helped.”

  He shrugged. “If you’re sorry, you should tell her. Even if it’s not enough.”

  “Even if she doesn’t forgive me, you mean?”

  “Yeah. People deserve apologies. We don’t deserve forgiveness. It's not an exchange.”

  She chewed thoughtfully. “That’s true.” And then, a moment later: “Maybe I’ll talk to her. At some point.” She gave him a teasing smile. “Is this the kind of sage advice that’s gotten you where you are today, then?”

  Isaac shook his head, a smile of his own threatening to break free. “Nah. You really haven’t read ‘em?”

  “Your books? God, no. You look so intimidating on the cover.”

  “Had to.”

  “Oh, don’t act like that isn’t your resting expression.” She laughed, and he found himself joining in. Because really, he looked miserable as fuck on both of those bloody covers. And he had been. Photo shoots weren’t his thing.

  She leaned forward, her brown eyes sparkling now, all hints of sadness gone. For the moment. “What do you write about, then?” She asked. “I imagine it’s all very dramatic.”

  He shook his head. “‘Gritty realism.’”

  “Who said that?”

  “The Times.”

  “And you think?”

  He shrugged. “Just life.”

  “Life in prison.”

  “In prison. After prison. The shit that leads up to prison. For some people, that’s just life.”

  She leaned back, her gaze assessing. And then she said, “Maybe I should read them.”

  “Don’t think you’d like it.”

  She shrugged delicately. “Some things aren’t meant to be liked.”

  Well. If she hadn’t hit the nail on the fucking head. The gleeful enjoyment of his books by people who would never walk that path had been turning his stomach for the past few years. He’d take their money, sure. He was no saint. But he didn’t have to like it.

  “How did you end up published, anyway?” She asked.

  Huh. She really hadn’t read a damned thing about him, beyond a few screaming headlines. That was… interesting.

  “I left my diary,” he said quietly.

  “I’m sorry, pardon?”

  He cleared his throat, spoke louder. “I left my diary. When I was released. Warden read it. Cousin’s brother-in-law worked in publishing.”

  “Really?” She blinked. “How… fortuitous.”

  “Something like that.”

  “So you keep a diary? Is it that little book I’ve seen you with?”

  He shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. Technically, the whole world knew he kept a diary. When his first book was published, that had been a huge part of the marketing. True stories. Real perspective. Blah blah fucking blah.

  But telling Lizzie felt different. It wasn’t that he still clung to the bullshit he’d bought into as a kid—that there was a certain way to be a man, and writing shit down wasn’t it. He knew better than that. It was just that everything he said to this woman seemed to mean more than it usually would. Everything between them was… intimate.

  Still, he found himself finally saying, spurred on by her questioning stare: “Yep.”

  “And what do you write about now?” She asked. “How to spend a fortune in ten days?”

  Ah. So she’d read some things.

  He shrugged. “That was an experiment.”

  “An experiment?”

  “Wanted to see if… If it really helped. If money really helped.” One year, on the anniversary of his mother’s death, he’d spent a fucking fortune in a single week, doing his best to emulate the lifestyle of the rich and witless, blazing a trail through the tabloids at the same damn time. Dark Angel Rebels, they’d said. That had cemented the bad boy angle more than his fucking record.

  The thing was, his tactic hadn’t worked at all. Spending all that fucking money had only made him feel worse.

  She gazed at him as if she knew. “And did it?”

  “What do you think?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea of the impact of money on happiness. I have never been without money. I have certainly been unhappy; but I imagine I’d be even more so if I had to worry about bills on top of everything else.”

  He blinked. “…Yeah.”

  “Have I surprised you?” She laughed. “Most dancers aren’t like me, you know. Not the ones who make it. Privilege encourages laziness, and laziness doesn’t sell tickets. So I’ve seen enough of the way other people live to know that I’m lucky.”

  He nodded, digesting that information.

  When their food finally arrived, the conversation turned to lighter topics for a while. His attempt at skiing—never to be repeated, he assured her. The royal engagement— “My brother adores Harry. It’s funny; we have friends marrying in the Spring, too.” And Audrey’s twisted ankle, a topic dogged by uncomfortable silences. Perhaps Mark’s appearance that morning weighed heavily on both their minds. Though in her case, he couldn’t imagine why.

  Finally, after a bite of her ratatouille, she asked the question he’d been quietly anticipating.

  “So,” she murmured. “You mentioned the things that lead up to prison.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t suppose you’d tell me what… What led you there?”

  He didn’t know if he should be happy she’d asked. On the one hand, it might show that she saw him as a person instead of a statistic. On the other, she might just be hunting for tragedy porn in an attempt to justify whatever it was that made her want him.

  No. That wasn’t fair. That was
n’t Lizzie.

  He chewed slowly, his food turning to lead in his mouth. But eventually, he forced it down past the lump in his throat and began.

  “Never had much money. Dad was a piece of shit. Used to make my mam steal for him.”

  She put down her fork with a precise click.

  Clearing his throat, Isaac continued. “Food, fags, booze. But eventually she got spooked. Said she wouldn’t do it anymore. So when she was out at work or whatever, he’d… He’d ask me. Send me out to go and get whatever he wanted. Made me swear not to tell her.”

  He still remembered the look on her face, the day she found out. The day the owner of the corner shop caught him red-handed and dragged him home by the ear. Shame. Shame deep enough to reach hell itself.

  “It all came out soon enough, though. Got caught. Never been a good thief. So she left my dad. Never occurred to me that she would. In fact, I don’t think she would’ve, for any other reason. But… It made things better, in the end. We had more without him leeching off her all the time. Not a lot, still, but more.

  “We moved, though. Because it was his house. The council put us in these flats…” He could still see them now, four huge, hulking blocks grazing the sky, barely a stone’s throw apart. “She had to work a lot. So I was left to my own devices. Fell in with the wrong people. Thought I could make things better for her—for us. All she ever did was work, and we had fuck all. So I thought, work isn’t the way then, is it? Gotta do something else.

  “Started working for one of the dealers in my area. Just delivering. She knew something was up, and she begged me to stop, but I wouldn’t. I had money to give her now, so why the fuck would I stop? I told her she could reduce her hours. Stay at home. But she wouldn’t. We were always arguing. And then… Well. Then she got sick.” He shrugged, as though it was nothing. As though they were just words. As though he wouldn’t remember the day of her diagnosis for the rest of his life, like a kick in the fucking gut that had ploughed straight through to his spine.

  “What was it?” Lizzie asked. She wasn’t eating. He should remind her to eat. He nodded towards her fork, still abandoned on the table, and she looked down as if she’d forgotten it was even there. But she nodded and picked it up and poked at her food as if it were rotten.