by Ruby Molloy
She’s weighed down with heavy bags that have to be leaving red welts on her palms, bags that I can’t help her with because I’m on crutches.
Knowing I’m ten seconds away from kicking off, I walk to my room and slam the door. I’ve reverted to being a teenager, but if lying on my bed is what it takes to get through the next couple of weeks, I’ll take that over a permanently swollen dick and a brain that can’t dwell on anything but her.
Christ, even in here there’s no escaping her. I can hear her moving about the apartment, opening and closing cupboards, singing as she stows away the groceries. I fill my time by messaging Mace and Tag and reading sports news on my phone. When I check my watch I realise I’ve been in solitary confinement for more than two hours. I’m about to get up when Kayla’s voice rings through the door. “You want to come out and eat some lunch or are you going to sulk in there all day?”
Shit, if my ex-army friends could see me now they’d be shredding me to bits. Fuck, even Mace would give me a hard time.
Her voice comes again, “I said―”
“I heard you. Give me five.” I don’t need the five, but I can be a stubborn fuck. When I eventually leave my room there’s no sign of Kayla. She’s left a plate of cheese and ham rolls on the dining table. Beside it there’s a sheet of paper.
I’m giving you some space.
Gone to see Frankie – staying late.
Kayla
It’s weird how I thought I needed space, but when I read her note I’m pissed―not at her, at myself. I want her here. I want her in my personal space, loud and crazy, her drama filling the apartment. I screw up the note and toss it across the room. Mace picks it up two hours later when I let him in. He tells me Kayla and the girls are at his having drinks and he felt the need for male company. I don’t believe him for a second. Knowing Kayla, she probably suggested he check in on me.
“Beers are in the fridge,” I tell him, falling back onto the sofa. I’m surprised there’s not an imprint of my arse on the cushions, the amount of time I sit here.
Mace returns with a beer each. I take a long sip while he remains standing, watching as I neck the contents.
“You look like you need that. Bad day?”
“You have no idea the shit I’ve been through lately.”
I catch his flinch and realise it was a dumb thing to say. “Shit, Mace, I didn’t mean that.” He almost lost Frankie in the worst kind of way and I know it’s not been an easy ride for them since her release from hospital. “Shit, forget I said that will you? A broken leg and Kayla for company does not compare to what you and Frankie have been through.”
He takes a seat on the spare sofa. “Forget it. You must be climbing the walls being stuck in here all day. How long until your cast comes off?”
“Another couple of weeks. Can’t fucking wait.”
“I bet.”
“How’s Frankie doing?”
“Shit, I forgot!” He jumps up and fetches something from the kitchen, holding it out to me when he returns. It’s a gift, wrapped in black paper with a gold bow on top, its folds neat and crisp. Definitely not from Mace.
“What is it?”
“What’s it look like? It’s a present from Frankie. She wanted to get you something, you know for the broken leg and the trouble you went to ...”
“Fuck, man, I didn’t do anything. There was no need.”
“I know, but you try telling that to Frankie. She feels bad.”
I take the package and stare at it, amazed she’d be thinking of me when she’s been through so much.
“Shit, just tear it open, Jack.”
I do as he says, pulling back the paper to reveal a box with a deep hinged lid. Inside there’s a watch. It’s expensive. Gold-rimmed with a crocodile strap. Someone must have told her mine got smashed when her ex ran me down. “Fuck, Mace, I can’t accept this.” I know money’s tight for Frankie. Like Kayla, she’s not long been out of uni and she’s never had two pennies to rub together.
“Yeah, you can. She exhausted herself going round every jewellers in town looking for that watch. No way am I going home and telling her you wouldn’t accept it.”
I’m choked. I take the watch out of its box and fit it round my wrist, doing it slow so my throat has time to relax. “Tell her I said thanks. Tell her I hope she’s okay.”
Mace nods. “Sure.” He gazes round the apartment. I know what he’s seeing. It’s clean and tidy. Mace knows that’s not me. He looks my way and I can see the humour lurking in his eyes. “So, Kayla’s living here, huh? How’s that working out for you?”
I scowl and shift into a more comfortable position. “What’s she been saying?”
“Only that you’re driving her insane and I should get my arse round here and sort you out.”
I emit a sound that’s meant to be a laugh, but sounds more like a growl. “You have no fucking idea what it’s been like living with her in the middle of a heatwave. She wears shorts, man. Every day. They cling to her arse, and her legs are on show ... And fuck, she wears these tank tops that leave nothing to the imagination. She’s here all the time, but even when she’s gone for a few minutes I start thinking about all those dicks out there, looking at her tits.”
Mace is leaning back on the sofa, laughing.
“You think this is funny? Try living with Kayla for a month and see how funny you find it. And she’s taken to singing all the time and, fuck, she sings the way she looks. Doesn’t matter where the fuck I am in the apartment, there’s no escaping it!”
Mace tries to pull his features into an expression of sympathy, but fails big time. “You should probably know that when I left home Kayla was on her third cocktail, with no sign of slowing down. Heard her complaining about you to Frankie. Something about boxers and abs and other shit I wish I hadn’t heard. The way she was sipping those cocktails she’ll be smashed when she gets back. God, I remember I had to take her home once after she’d had a few drinks. She was a total lightweight. Couldn’t even put herself to bed.”
My sudden stillness registers with Mace, the wariness forming in his eyes before I speak.
“What the fuck? You were in her bedroom?”
“What? No! Christ, Jack, Frankie was there. She took care of Kayla while I waited outside. Jesus, what do you take me for? It’s always been Frankie for me, not Kayla.”
I rub my fingers over my scalp. There’s hair where there used to be stubble and I’m still not used to it. “Shit, Mace, I’m sorry. See what I mean? I’ve been a fucking wreck since ...”
Mace raises his brows when I stall.
“I, uh ...” I was close to spilling the beans about me and Kayla. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve talked about my sex life with Mace, but I don’t want him or anyone else knowing what me and Kayla got up to. “Forget that. You want another beer?”
Mace looks down at his bottle. It’s still half full. Mine’s empty. I was so focused on talking about Kayla, I don’t remember drinking it.
“I’m driving,” says Mace, “but I’ll get you another.”
“Thanks, but I should probably stop at one. Need a clear head if Kayla’s gonna come back smashed.”
Mace gives me a mocking smile. “Yeah, that’d be wise.”
We get out the X-box and Mace thrashes me every time. In the end I toss the controller to the floor and admit defeat. It’s the icing on the cake of an already shitty day. Mace sees himself out and I roll my head back against the sofa, gazing up at the ceiling. I should probably go to bed, but the part of me that wants to see her is shouting loudest.
It’s late when she returns. I’m alerted to her presence by the scrape of her key against the lock. Her first attempt is unsuccessful―her keys hit the floor. She curses and tries again, her soft hiccups permeating through the door. There’s a fumble, followed by the soft opening and closing of the door. This takes a ridiculous amount of time to complete. She turns and tiptoes into the apartment, coming to a less than elegant halt when she sees me watch
ing. While she’s cursing and holding a hand over her heart, I locate my crutches and climb to my feet.
“Boyd! How are you? Did you have a pleasant evening with Mason?”
She’s prim as fuck and her feet might be stationary, but her body’s moving in circles, leaning first one way and then the other.
“Maybe not as much fun as you had. You have a drink or two, Boots?”
She waves her hand dismissively. It’s sloppier than her usual gesture and I have to bite back a grin when she says, “Jus’ a couple. Maybe three. Or four. I lost count. Frankie wasn’t drinking, so I had hers. But they were little.” She gestures with her thumb and finger, both of us staring as the gap grows steadily wider until it looks like the drinks weren’t so little after all.
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh.” She gives a fake yawn, covering her mouth with her hand. “Well, I’m tired now, Jack. I’m going to bed.”
She takes a few steps, realises she’s heading to my room, turns and says, “Oops.”
I can’t help smiling when her shoulder bumps the doorframe as she enters her room. She turns and pushes the door shut, almost catching her nose in the gap between door and frame. It’s funny as hell until I realise I’m standing alone in the living room, leaning on a pair of crutches, grinning like a fucking moron.
Chapter Four
Lap Dancer
KAYLA
My head hurts. But this is not a virus-induced headache. This is something else entirely. I roll to my back and kick off the duvet with the intention of getting up.
That’s as far as I get.
The will to climb from my bed is weak and I succumb to the call for more rest. It’s wonderful. I smile, praising myself for being such a genius. Why get up when I can simply lay here, warm and comfortable, with a pillow so damn soft it has to be stuffed full of goose feathers.
“Fuck.”
I frown. That wasn’t me. And if that wasn’t me, that must mean ... “Dammit, Boyd, get out of my room!”
I’m semi-naked, which isn’t as bad as being naked, but the way Boyd’s watching me it feels much the same. I’m wearing my bra and panties, thank God, though they’re not exactly covering a whole lot of skin. The panties are actually a thong and my bra cuts real low in the front.
“Out! Get out!”
Boyd isn’t moving. It’s like he’s transfixed by my boobs. And my legs.
“Boyd!”
Finally, he snaps out of it. Kind of. A red tide sweeps up his cheeks and right there, right in front of me, there’s a hard-on developing in his sweats. There’s no way in hell I can pretend I haven’t seen it.
I stumble from my bed and Boyd backs up on his crutches as I walk towards him. Big, tough Boyd – with the muscles and the scary facial expressions – he seems to be afraid of little old me. I can’t help but laugh. Maybe last night’s alcohol is still floating around my blood stream. That would explain why I’m trying to get a rise out of him, though I hadn’t planned on it being there, right in the front of his shorts.
I guess my laughter is too much because Boyd stops backing up and growls, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I think this is what’s known as a standoff. Me, with my hands on my hips, Boyd leaning on his crutches, a deep scowl on his face. His eyes are angry. Not his usual contained, I got this, kind of anger. More of a get out of my way before I explode kind. And there’s suffering too. Or pain. No, actually, it looks more like torment. Yeah, definitely torment, like he’s being pushed to the max.
“Boyd―”
“Come here.”
“Uh, I don’t think―”
“Get the fuck here, right now.” It’s a low rumble and this, combined with his pained expression, has me moving closer. He drops one of his crutches to the floor. His hand fits perfectly in the small of my back and he pulls me in until his erection is pressed against my belly and his mouth is covering mine. He’s not gentle or cautious, but I welcome his tongue with my own, moaning when his hand comes to the back of my neck and holds me tight while he takes what he needs.
His other hand curves around my buttock, running over its fullness. This time his touch is gentle, as if he’s savouring the feel of my skin beneath his fingertips. When his mouth lifts from mine his eyes travel over my face, his gaze coming to rest on mine. “Christ, I wanna fuck you.”
And just like that the mood is broken.
I pull away sharply, almost causing Boyd to lose his balance. I bend down to retrieve his discarded crutch and I guess I give him an unintended eyeful because he emits a curse that’s somewhere between groan and a prayer.
I shove his crutch against his chest, glaring up into half-closed green eyes. “I don’t fuck, Boyd, I make love, though never to a guy who doesn’t know the difference. Now get out of my room. Out!”
“Dammit, Kayla, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You said it, therefore you meant it. Now get out before I start screaming black murder.”
His mouth tilts up and he’s gazing down at me, eyes swimming with a combination of heat and humour. “You mean blue murder.”
“I don’t care if it’s black, brown or pink! Just get out of my room!”
He exits backwards, eyes fixed on my body, his mouth tilted in a cocky smile. I make a sound that’s midway between a scream and a howl and as soon as he’s clear of the door I slam it, hard. I can hear him laughing on the other side and I shove the base of my palms into my eyes. My head is thumping like crazy. So, too, is my heart. “Damn you, Boyd!”
I fling open my door, march past him to the bathroom, and slam that door too. The shower, when it’s running, is hot and soothing, but my temper is still simmering below the surface. I’m no man’s fuck toy!
Clean, dry, and wrapped in a towel because I forgot my clothes, I open the bathroom door and pull up short. Boyd’s waiting outside with a sheet of paper taped to his chest. The word sorry is emblazoned in thick black ink across white paper. If he wasn’t so big and sexy he’d look cute, but all of this is irrelevant because I’ve been here before.
Liam knew how to play the cute card too, though he didn’t look anywhere near as sincere as Boyd. He’d bring me flowers and chocolates and give me that doe-eyed look that would crumble my defences. Or at least it did the first few times. Actually, I’m embarrassed to recall just how many times it did actually work.
Seeing Boyd, and remembering Liam, my temper rears its ugly head once more, though I’m not sure whether it’s aimed at Boyd, Liam or myself. I rip the paper from his shirt and tear it into small pieces, ignoring his “Hey” as I slam my bedroom door.
“Enough with the door slamming,” he yells from the other side.
I scream in reply. It’s pathetic, but it’s the best I can do. My head still hurts, I’m tired, and it’s a Sunday. I hate Sundays and I can tell this one’s going to be a doozy. And it’s not like I can go somewhere. No, lucky me, I get to spend another day caged in Boyd’s apartment.
I dress in jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt that has the logo and image of a fizzy drink splashed across its front. My aqua Havaianas flip flops look pretty against my olive skin and so too do the silver and blue bangles on my wrists. When I open my door, Boyd’s waiting outside. Again. He stares for a few seconds, as if I’ve surprised him, before his gaze drops to my flip flops. “Can you drive in those?”
I walk past him as I speak, still pissed. “Sure. I can drive in anything; heels, boots, slippers, it’s no problem.”
“Great. I need a lift.”
Spinning round, ready to demand a please, I’m caught by surprise when he tosses his car keys at me. I shoot him a scathing glance, somehow managing to catch them before they drop to the floor. “Gee, thanks, Boyd. You’re such a gent.”
He doesn’t answer. He’s already heading out the door.
“You want to tell me where I’m taking you?” I call after him.
“Molly’s.”
Of course. I shrug, as if it’s all the same to me. At l
east I’m getting out of the apartment and away from Boyd for an hour or two.
Now that the heatwave has moved on, the temperature’s bearable. I push my shades into place and roll up my sleeves. Like me, Boyd is wearing a long sleeved t-shirt, though his is grey with darker sleeves. His sweats hang low on his hips and my imagination wonders what it would be like to insert my fingers at his hips and push down.
Of course he catches me staring and I slam the car door. He shoots me a look, about to say something, but thinks twice.
The heatwave might have passed, but I open the windows anyway. It feels less intimate with the sound of traffic filling the interior. Boyd concentrates on his phone while I drive, his not so subtle way of telling me he doesn’t want to talk. When we finally reach Molly’s, I wait on him to exit.
“You too,” he says.
I perch my sunglasses on top of my head and stare, but he’s out of the car already, retrieving his crutches from the back.
“Boyd, I don’t need to go in there. I don’t even know Molly.”
“I want you to come with me.”
“Why? I don’t understand ...”
“Just get out the car, Kayla.”
“God!” I unbuckle my seatbelt and fling open my door, acting like a ten year old about to visit a distant relative. “I don’t see why I can’t wait in the car, same as I always do.”
He ignores me.
“Dammit, Boyd!” I curse under my breath, only hushing once we’re outside Molly’s front door. It’s painted a glossy dark green, decorated with brass ornaments―the ostentatious kind. Boyd presses the bell and we wait a while. I spend the time sending him hateful glances. He seems to enjoy this. Not that he smiles or anything―this is Boyd we’re talking about―but his face relaxes and his eyes grow warm and ... don’t go there, Kayla.
