Jack & Kayla (Imperfect Love Series)

by Ruby Molloy

  I’m ashamed of my jealousy, honest I am, but sometimes it’s difficult. I mean, it’s not like I have anything to boast about. My career faltered and died before it got started and as for my relationships ...

  Which is why tonight’s dinner has to be perfect. Not for Adam, because he’s a good guy who always takes me as he finds me. It has to be perfect for me. I need to feel good about myself and with no job or relationship on the horizon, all I’ve got to work with is chicken, vegetables and herbs.

  The video entry buzzer rings at five minutes to six. I buzz Adam up and run to the door, holding it open so I can watch him walk down the corridor.

  The lift pings and he saunters towards me with slightly bowed legs and a humungous smile on his face. Already a lock of hair is blocking one eye. He drops his holdall to the floor, picks me up and swings me in a circle before dropping a kiss on my lips. “Hey, bitch,” he says.

  “Hey, douche.”

  Giggling, I step back while Adam retrieves his bag and enters the apartment. I turn to introduce him to Boyd, faltering a little when I glimpse Boyd’s aggressive expression. “Uh, Boyd, this is Adam, Adam this is Boyd, the guy I’m working for.”

  Adam steps forward and holds out a hand. Boyd’s right arm is draped along the back of the sofa and it takes him a while to offer up a hand to Adam. Eventually they shake, Boyd’s greeting brief and curt. He stares at Adam for a few seconds before he turns to me and says, “What’s going on?”

  I’m not sure what his game is, but I’m on the defensive already, my accent thick when I say, “What do you mean what’s going on? This is Adam.”

  Boyd frowns, looking none the wiser.

  “I told you about him earlier. He’s staying the night.”

  His frown deepens and his eyes flash with anger, but I don’t give a damn. I’m battling my own anger, together with a whole heap of embarrassment for Adam. I think I might actually hate Boyd at this precise moment.

  “Oh my God, Boyd, you were watching the Arsenal game, I asked if it was okay if Adam stayed and you said ‘sure’.”

  “You said a friend.”

  My hand shoots out towards Adam, as if he’s an exhibit in a court case. “Exactly!”

  Adam watches our exchange with an uncomfortable smile. “If it’s a problem I can always find somewhere else to stay.”

  “No―”

  Boyd’s voice overrides mine. “Okay.”

  I lean towards Boyd, furious. “Don’t you dare. Adam’s staying. He just got here, I haven’t seen him in six months, and he’s leaving for China tomorrow. No way is he going back out there again!”

  Boyd fixes me with a glare. “It’s London, not the back of beyond. He won’t have a problem finding somewhere else to stay.”

  “Fine! I’ll pack my bags and leave too. Is that what you want?”

  He pins me with his green eyes and makes me wait for his answer. In the end he turns his head and gives his answer to Adam. “Make yourself at home,” he says.

  Adam gives him an uncertain smile and says, “Thanks.”

  I punch Adam’s arm. “What are you thanking him for?! He almost turned you out on the street.”

  Adam shrugs and smiles. “Yeah, but he didn’t, so it’s fine.”

  “You know your problem, Adam? You’re too nice. Put down your bag and come sit at the table. You too, Boyd,” I say, shooting him a poisonous look.

  Adam and I are already seated when Boyd gets to the table. It’s laden with food, glasses and bottles of beer and wine. I may have gone overboard, but I desperate need tonight to be a success.

  I’d planned on Boyd being in a good mood and Adam charming the pants off him―not literally―and for the three of us to have a good time.

  My plans turn to dust. Boyd’s deliberately rude, barely answering when Adam asks him how he sustained his broken leg. In the end it disintegrates into a two-way conversation between me and Adam, with Boyd watching on in sullen silence.

  As soon as dinner’s finished, Boyd scrapes back his chair and returns to the sofa. Adam and I remain at the table talking and laughing now that’s Boyd’s out of the way.

  Adam opens a fresh beer for himself and tops up my wine glass. “How’s the job search going?”

  I pull a face. “I have an interview tomorrow for waitressing.”

  “Oh God, you as a waitress? You’ll be fired in a week.”

  I pretend to be affronted. “I’ll be a wonderful waitress. I’ll flirt with the men and chat with the women. It’ll be fun.”

  Adam puts his hands to his head and groans. “You do know not to flirt with the men if they’re with a woman, right? That’s a huge no-no.”

  “Ha ha, very funny! I’ll have you know I used to waitress at my grandma’s restaurant in Spain.”

  “Yeah, but you were fourteen, babe, not twenty-one.”

  I sweep a dismissive hand through the air. “This is true, but I know what I’m doing. If I get the job I’ll work my arse off and rake in the tips until something better comes along.”

  Adam raises his hand for a high five and I slap my palm against his. I’m pretty sure I hear Boyd snort with derision, though I can’t be certain.

  It’s late when Adam and I finally clear up the mess. Boyd went to bed in a strop an hour ago, but at least he had the manners to say goodbye to Adam.

  While Adam takes a shower I get changed into my PJ shorts and vest top. I’m sitting up, reading, when Adam walks in and shuts the door. His hair is damp and he’s dressed in a Daffy-Duck t-shirt and black boxers.

  He climbs in beside me and suddenly it’s just like old times. We’re sixteen again, sharing a bed, talking and giggling until the small hours.

  “You have to get up early,” I say at one in the morning. “We should go to sleep.”

  “And miss out on this? No chance. I’ll catch up during the flight. Now tell me about Boyd and the chemistry going on between you.”

  “There’s no chemistry. I’m doing his cleaning and chores while his leg’s broken, that’s all.”

  Adam peers at me from over the top of his glasses and says, “Bollocks!”

  Our combined laughter rolls across the room, and with Boyd on the other side of the wall he can probably hear, but just for tonight I don’t care.

  “I thought he was going to punch me when I got here. Men don’t react like that unless there’s something going on, trust me.”

  I flip over onto my belly and hug my pillow. “Boyd’s ex-army, he always acts that way. You should see him in the mornings. It takes an hour before he’s half-way human.”

  “Kayla, I’m telling you the guy has feelings for you.”

  I make a scoffing sound. “Boyd’s into females, full stop. He’s a player. I know this because Frankie told me.”

  “Oh well, if Frankie said so, it must be true!”

  More laughter. I think I hear a thump from Boyd’s room, but Adam doesn’t seem to notice so maybe it was my imagination.

  “Seriously, I respect Frankie’s opinion. She’s not the type to exaggerate or lie. Besides, you only have to look at Boyd to see he could easily be that kind of guy.”

  “Don’t judge a book, babe. You know better than that.”

  “If the boot fits ...”

  “Shoe! If the shoe fits!”

  “Whatever!”

  We fall asleep sometime after two and when my alarm goes off at seven Adam’s already gone. He’s left a small, heart-shaped box of chocolates on my pillow. I text him a thank you and get ready for the day, knowing Boyd will probably be in another foul mood.

  I’m not wrong.

  He’s already up when I go to make a mug of coffee before my shower. He’s reclining against the kitchen units, a single crutch under his arm now that he’s allowed to bear weight on his broken leg.

  I know before I wish him a good morning that it’s not―at least not for him. His expression is dark and scary, and though Boyd always looks a little scary, this is off the scale.

  I’m enjoying m
y first sip of coffee when his voice rumbles across the space between us. “You fucked him.”

  I straighten and brace a hand against the worktop. I’m really not in the mood for this. “Boyd―”

  “You did that, knowing what’s going down between us, in my fucking apartment, with me on the other side of the wall.”

  This is when I realise that quiet and intense can be scarier than loud and angry. “If you’ll just let me―”

  “You a tease? You like sucking guys in, showing them the goods, then offering it to someone else?”

  “That’s not what―”

  He’s in front of me now, his breath hot against my cheek. “Had your tongue in my mouth and your pussy grinding up against my dick.”

  “Oh my God, will you―”

  “He satisfy you? Give you what you needed?”

  The mug is still in my hand. I haven’t dropped it or thrown its contents in his face. I’m still breathing too, though it feels like my lungs are encased in ice.

  I could explain.

  I could lay it all out there, show him the real me. I could do that. Except I can’t. Too many times before, Liam made me pay. I’m not doing that anymore. Not even for Jack Boyd, a guy who makes me want things I haven’t wanted in a long while.

  So I bottle up those feelings and give it to him straight. “Fuck you, Boyd.”

  I walk past him, head high, my pink fluffy bunny slippers – the ones Frankie bought me for Christmas – slapping against the floor as I march calmly back to my room. I collect my expensive shampoo and conditioner. I need them. I need to wash Boyd right out of my hair.

  He’s nowhere to be seen when I finally come out of the bathroom. It’s the first time he’s left the apartment without me. After an hour’s been and gone, I pace up and down, wondering where he is and how he got there. I skip breakfast. And when lunch comes around, I skip that too.

  In the end I resort to housework. What else is there to do in an apartment that’s not mine? I clean the floors and when they’re squeaky clean I start on the oven. That’s how Boyd finds me―on my hands and knees, wearing yellow rubber gloves with my head in the oven. I don’t know he’s home until the sound of his footsteps ring out at my side. That’s when I bump my head.

  “Ouch, Boyd, you scared the hell out of me!” I crawl out from the oven and sit on my heels.

  He doesn’t look remorseful. In fact he looks angry. Not off the scale like he was earlier, but his mouth is tight and there’s that line again between his brows.

  “You’re back,” I say, stupidly. “Where have you been?”

  He stares down at me, his weight supported on both crutches, his hands white against the supports. “Out.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? ‘Out’?”

  “Yeah.” He walks to the fridge and retrieves a Coke, swallowing greedily. “What’s for dinner?”

  I stare at him open-mouthed before deliberately glancing towards the oven that’s currently coated with soapy suds. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I’m not kidding you. I’m hungry. Not my fault you spent half the night fucking Adam and you’re behind on your chores.”

  “I did not―”

  “Don’t fucking care, Kayla. I just want my dinner.”

  I stare at the red bucket that’s sitting between us. Beneath its suds the water is brown with oven gunk. I’m tempted to upend it and watch the tide of water envelop him, but I’m not ready for the fallout.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m halfway through cleaning the oven. You’ve been gone all day, I didn’t know where you were or when you were coming back. And I’m not behind on my chores, I’m simply killing time because I’ve been stuck in this fucking apartment all day, not knowing what the hell was going on with you. You want dinner? Fine. Give me fifty minutes!”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Dammit, Boyd ...”

  Rising awkwardly to my feet, I haven’t quite got my balance when Boyd discards his Coke and rounds on me. There’s nowhere for me to go except back against the worktop. He’s breathing fast and his cheeks are red, as if they’ve caught the sun.

  “Was he good?” he asks, face in mine.

  I rear back, trying to regroup, but he’s not done.

  “Did he make you come?” Closer still, until his mouth is grazing my ear. “I guess he did seeing as it’s not so difficult. I seem to remember a little friction and grinding was enough to get you off.”

  His words burn, though I’m cold inside.

  “I want you gone, Kayla. Want you outta my life, you understand?” His mouth skates along my cheek, hovers close to my lips. “Not doing this anymore. Fucking poisonous.” His mouth hits mine for a final, stinging kiss.

  Tears glide down my cheeks and slip from my jaw. My hands, still in their rubber gloves, curl into fists. Maybe Boyd feels my tears because the kiss ends and I’m able to turn away from him.

  “Kayla ...”

  My tears fall faster, mixing with the streaks of oven grease on my pink t-shirt, and I can’t wipe my face because my gloves are caked in gunk. Everything that’s leaking from my face combines into a stream of slime.

  Boyd’s arms come around me from behind, holding onto me with everything he has, knowing I’ll fight him. And I do. I twist and thrash, but there’s no escaping.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Shit, don’t cry, Boots, please.”

  He repeats these words, others too, promising anything if only I’ll hush. Eventually my tears dwindle and I’m left feeling exhausted. Boyd turns me in his arms, somehow holding me steady even though he’s mostly balanced on one leg.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes sincere.

  I stare at my feet and mutter, “I need to clean up.” My voice, scratchy and subdued, belongs to someone else. I lift my shoulder and rub my face against my short sleeve, though I’m not sure this achieves much. I can only imagine what Boyd is seeing; most probably pink eyes and a face covered in gunk to rival that from the oven.

  Seeing my predicament, he grabs a wad of kitchen towel and wipes my face. He’s not exactly gentle, but then Boyd’s hands are big and I guess it’s the first time he’s ever had to mop up a female before.

  Eyes sombre with regret, he says quietly, “Talk to me, Boots”

  Apparently, my fire hasn’t quite gone out. “What, so you can keep repeating how sorry you are? How it will never happen again? How you’ll get help?”

  I don’t know where this last part came from―except it’s the kind of thing I would have said to Liam.

  Boyd stills and the atmosphere darkens from grey to black. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  I twist away, but Boyd holds my arm and pulls me back. “No, not nothing. Where the hell did that come from?”

  Angry that he’s caused me to remember things I’d rather forget, I break free and push against his chest. “Back off, Boyd!”

  I guess he doesn’t want me crying again. He backs down and lifts a hand to the back of his neck, pacing, though never more than a step or two in one direction.

  He draws level, stops, and asks, “What are we doing?”

  It’s a rhetorical question.

  He stalls, sighs, and starts again. “I’m sorry I made you cry, Boots. I wanted what he got, been wanting that for a long time. I get that you don’t feel the same way, but you should know why I’ve been acting like a dick. That was me wanting you. And I don’t want you feeling bad because you don’t return that. That’s not your problem.”

  I wanted what he got.

  Sex.

  He’s talking about sex.

  He rubs a hand over his hair. It’s grown these past weeks and his fingers are almost lost in its length. “Anyway,” he continues. “The thing is, I was out of line. So if you want to leave I won’t hold you to our agreement.”

  I keep my face blank and fix my eyes on his, remembering to blink.

  “It’s your call,” he says.

  I want to
stay.

  That’s when I know I need to do the exact opposite. I need to pack up my things and walk away before I fall into yet another catastrophic relationship.

  “I think I should go,” I say. Boyd’s right. This – whatever it is that’s happening between us – it’s poisonous.

  I see his relief. But there’s disappointment too. It’s there in his green eyes, buried deep, but visible none the less.

  He takes a step back. It’s my cue to move.

  I strip off my gloves. The oven’s no longer my concern.

  I don’t waste time. I go to my room and fill my suitcase to the brim, collecting my toiletries from the bathroom, faltering at the sight of Boyd’s razor, metallic blue, beside my pink one.

  Stupid how something as simple as a razor can bring emotions to the fore.

  Back in my room, I check the drawers again. It’s a delay tactic.

  When I’m finished, Boyd is waiting. He looks tired. Worn out.

  We stand awkwardly, neither of us quite sure how to say goodbye. I’m not good with silence, me being the kind of person who spills almost every thought. “Don’t hate me,” I say.

  “I don’t hate you,” he says, voice flat, like this means nothing. His eyes say something else entirely.

  I’m not ready to say goodbye. My moronic mouth keeps on talking. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. And I’m sorry for being ... me. I guess you can’t wait to see the back of me, huh?”

  He looks at the floor and mumbles, “Something like that.” We both know he’s lying.

  I think about everything he said earlier. I wish I could tell him I feel the same way. It’s true, after all. But for me it’s more than sex, more than wanting. Somewhere along the line, in between the crashing arguments and moody silences, I fell for Jack Boyd. No use telling him that now, though, not when for him it’s only about the sex. And it’s not like I ever wanted to let him in. That was never my plan.

  I reach up and kiss him.