by Ruby Molloy
“Are you still hurting?”
He shakes his head. “It’s the fallout from the pain. It’ll pass in a minute.”
I nod as if I know what he’s talking about. “Okay.”
There’s a trace of a smirk when he asks, “Since you shattered my balls do I get a lift home now?”
I’m too traumatised to find that funny. “Will you be okay? I mean, there won’t be any long term damage will there?”
“If my balls are still attached come morning, I should be fine.”
“Real funny, Boyd.”
He climbs to his feet, leans against the car, and unbuttons his fly. His hand disappears inside his boxers and I stare at where he’s cupping himself. It’s not like he’s doing it in private or anything, and I should look away, but I can’t.
He winces and rebuttons his fly.
“I’m really sorry, Boyd ...”
His hand, the one that wasn’t just buried inside his jeans, reaches for my face and brushes aside a bead of moisture from my lower lashes. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. It’s not the first time I’ve been caught in the balls, though I hope to God it’s the last.”
“If I hadn’t lost my temper like that ... I don’t know why I do these things, why I react the way I do.”
“Hey, I forced my way in your car and refused to leave, remember? You had a right to be angry.”
Him being nice after I almost emasculated him is too much. To counteract the imminent threat of tears I grasp at the olive branch he offers. “That’s true. You were being an arse.”
“I didn’t exactly say I was being an arse―”
“Well, you were.” I sniff and scratch around in the gravel with the toe of my trainer. “You want to get in the car before I change my mind?”
Boyd looks like he’s struggling not to laugh. He’s drunk, I know this, but he’s a cute drunk. Also, I’m not entirely sure Sober Boyd would find much humour in this situation.
His movements are slow when he gets in the car. I walk round the front and sit behind the wheel. His scent, musky and male, has me aching with need. Instinctively I open the window and take a deep breath of Boyd-free air while he reaches for my phone. Scrolling through my music he chooses One Eskimo’s Kandi. It’s chilled and sexy. I refuse to let it cast its spell over me.
I drive down unfamiliar roads with no other vehicle in sight, the lights from my car picking up the back legs of animals as they scuttle into black hedges. Boyd still has my phone. I think he’s searching through my music until I catch sight of its reflection in the glass. He’s reading something. Dammit, he’s reading my messages. My foot hits the brake and I grab for my phone, but Boyd holds me off.
“What the hell, Boyd? That’s private!”
“You wrote me a message,” he says, a hint of awe in his voice.
I struggle some more, but he holds me off with barely any effort. “Give it back! You have no right going through my messages.”
“Why didn’t you send it?”
“None of your damn business.” I’m not entirely sure what the message says. I composed and deleted a dozen or more. I wasn’t ever going to send them. It was simply my way of dealing with not seeing him.
He quotes from my message. “You want to try again?”
“What?”
“That’s what it says. ‘Can we try again?’”
“Boyd!” I snatch at my phone again, but he’s too fast, too strong.
“Also says, ‘you miss me’ and I like this part, ‘love the way you fu―’”
“Okay, enough! Give me back my phone before I punch you in the balls!”
He’s laughing now, holding me back as he reads through the remainder of my message. I know what’s coming.
“Knew from the moment I laid eyes on you, you were the one.” Midway through reading, his laughter fades and everything goes quiet. Except for the stereo. Heavy metal starts blaring from the speakers until Boyd kills it dead. That’s when I open my door and flee the embarrassment and humiliation.
“Kayla...” I hear him call my name, hear the slam of the door too. Footsteps follow in my wake. I run down the middle of the road, the moon weak, offering scarcely any light. Boyd snags my waist and pulls me to the grass verge just as an SUV comes hurtling round the bend, its bumper frighteningly close.
I’m still in shock when Boyd yanks me round and thrusts his face in mine. “Are you trying to get yourself killed, pulling a fucking crazy stunt like that?” His eyes are throwing fire and his mouth hurls expletives. He spins away to kick at a fence post and when that fails to dispel his rage, he punches it too.
He whirls towards me again, seeming not to notice the blood that’s seeping from his hand. “Swear to God, Kayla, if you don’t do something about that temper of yours you’re gonna get yourself killed.”
“Says the guy who just punched a post!” I storm towards the car, but I don’t get far. Boyd yanks me back around, his hands coming to my upper arms, gripping hard.
“Say it, Kayla!”
I glare at him, struggling to get free. “Say what exactly? That you’re a dick?”
“That you want me back. Say it.”
I laugh in his face. “I’d rather be with Liam than have you back!” It’s a stupid thing to say; a deliberate incitement.
His mouth comes crashing down on mine and he holds me steady by threading a hand through my hair. I fight and push with all my might, but I’m no match against Boyd’s strength. And when I finally succeed in twisting my head to the side, he chases and recaptures my mouth. It’s a battle; one that Boyd wins. I whimper when his mouth leaves mine to trail lightly towards my ear.
“Say it,” he says.
“No ...”
“Fucking say it, Kayla!” His breath teases my inner ear, urging me towards submission. “Say it!”
“Go to hell!”
He stills. I may not be able to see his expression, but I can feel the anger tracking through his body. “That what you want?” he asks. “Me suffering coz I left you hanging for two weeks?”
I shake my head.
“You get a kick out of seeing me crawling in the dirt, vomiting at your feet?”
“No!”
His voice, when it comes, is quiet as the night breeze. “Last chance, Kayla.”
His body is warm, his t-shirt soft beneath my hands. I can feel him breathing, feel the faint beat of his heart. My hands glide down and curl at his sides, bunching his t-shirt in my fists. It’s my way of saying I want him.
Now, if I can only say the words.
“I.”
A tremor skates down my spine.
Boyd reacts, draws me closer.
“Want.”
His breathing quietens. Stops.
“You.”
Suddenly vulnerable, I stumble backwards. “There, I said it. You happy now?”
“Fucking ecstatic,” he says, mouth coming down on mine, wild and needy, hands roaming freely. A car’s headlights, bright as a search beam, captures us in its glare. Laughter and catcalls trail from the open window as it rounds a bend and we’re alone once again.
Boyd takes my hand and walks me back to the car. “In you get, Boots.”
“Uh, Boyd ...”
He stops, his expression belligerent. “What?”
“I’m driving, remember?”
Confused, he looks down. He’s backed me up against the passenger door. “Shit, yeah.” He grins, a little abashed, and climbs in, saying, “Take me home, babe.”
“Dork!” I say, slamming his door and rounding the car. Back behind the wheel I realise he still has my phone in his hand. “Oh God, what are you doing now?”
“Sending that text you never sent. Might need it someday to remind you what we got.”
“You won’t need to remind me, Boyd. I know exactly what we’ve got. You’re the one who maintained radio silence these past two weeks.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not always easy to be around.”
I stare at him, su
ddenly scared, but needing to say it. “You want easy, Boyd, you need to look elsewhere.”
He returns my stare, his eyes more sharply focused than they’ve been all night. “I don’t want easy. Thought I did, but now I know different.”
“Took you two weeks to figure that out?” I can’t help my sharp response. It hurts.
“Knew after the first couple of days.”
“Then what took you so long?”
“You have a temper.” he says.
“Uh, yeah, I think we already established that.”
“Well, I have a stubborn streak.”
I hold back the grin for as long as I can, but it’s bursting to get free. “Buckle your seatbelt, Boyd. I think we’re in for a bumpy ride.”
Chapter Fourteen
Dinner, Candles & Single Beds
KAYLA
Boyd’s working late tonight.
There’s a beef casserole in the oven, Rag’n’Bone Man on the stereo, and I’ve opened a bottle of white.
I bought some tea lights on the way home to Boyd’s. Nothing too girly. They’re black with gold stars, subtle enough that Boyd won’t wince when he sees them. I bought a New York cheesecake too, though I’ve no idea if Boyd likes cheesecake. It’s one of a thousand things I still don’t know, but we’re getting there.
A month has passed since Nora and Carred’s party. Or, as Boyd likes to remember it, the night I shattered his balls.
I stay at his most nights. His bedroom is ten times better than mine―it has a double bed for starters.
Seems like I’m on a permanent high these days. Liam hasn’t put in any more appearances and Boyd and I seem to be working out just fine. I’m becoming accustomed to his dominance, both in and out of the bedroom. Not that I’m a walkover. I’ll never will be that girl again. And Boyd’s never aggressive, least not towards me.
I guess the guy he shoved against the wall last night might say otherwise, but then again, he shouldn’t have pinched my rear or propositioned me. And Boyd didn’t have to hear his comment to know it was gross. The way the guy was looking at me said it all. He was lucky to escape with a split lip. Not that I’m an advocate of violence, but as Boyd said, he should have known better than to mess with his girl.
The timer on the oven starts bleeping. I have to pause and recollect what it’s reminding me to do. Ah, yeah, veg. The beans and carrots need to go in the steamer. I’ve just put them on the hob when Boyd’s house phone rings. Only one person uses that phone and that’s Molly.
I think about ignoring it, but then I worry that Boyd would never forgive me. I pick up on the fourth ring, inserting a friendliness into my tone that hopefully rings true. “Hey, Molly.”
There’s a pause. I’m beginning to learn there’s always a pause with Molly.
“Hi Kayla. Is Boyd there by any chance?”
She does this a lot. No ‘how are you?’ or ‘are you having a good day?’, just straight to the point.
“Sorry, Molly. He’s working late, but he should be home soon. You want him to call you back when he gets in?”
“Yes please. As soon as possible.”
“No problem.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I hang up, stabbing at the button way harder than necessary. Anyone other than Molly, we’d be friends by now. I really thought there was a connection when we first met, but now it seems like her sun only shines for Boyd.
She’s becoming a problem. For Boyd, I mean. He’s not said much to me, but I’ve heard via Frankie that he, Tag and Mason have discussed the situation. The way I see it, it’s Boyd’s problem and I’m not about to interfere.
I check the dining table for the hundredth time. Deep purple place mats, white plates, steel cutlery and wine glasses, though I’m pretty sure Boyd only drinks beer. I’ve stocked the fridge with his favourite, just in case.
I’m minutes away from dishing up when he finally gets home. He aims straight for me, hands reaching for my hips, his mouth landing on mine. If I hadn’t worked so hard getting dinner ready, I’d let him take it where he obviously wants this to go.
I draw back slowly, letting him see my regret. “Baby, I have to dish up. There’s wine on the table or beer in the fridge. Help yourself.”
He heads for the fridge. Definitely unimpressed by the wine! “Before I forget, Molly called and asked if you could all her straight back. Dinner’s in five, by the way,” I say, subtle as a brick.
I hold out the phone and he stares at it for a good few seconds. I can almost hear his silent cursing. He shoots me a look and stalks towards his bedroom while I begin dishing up the casserole. The scent of garlic and ginger fills the kitchen and I can’t resist popping a morsel into my mouth. It’s good. I think Boyd’s gonna like it. I plate up the veg and rice and I have to admit it looks amazing. Thick slices of bread go on a smaller plate for Boyd. I don’t want to sit down until he joins me so I kill time wiping down the worktop and stacking dirty pans.
Eventually he comes out of his room, face thunderous. “Gotta go see Molly. She’s have another fucking meltdown.” He tosses the phone on the glass dining table, his eyes taking in the food and the candles. “Looks good, babe. Do me a favour? Keep mine for later?”
He stoops, gives me a quick kiss and leaves.
Five minutes.
I got a paltry five minutes before Molly dragged him away. I sit in my chair and take a sip of wine. It’s cool and delicious. I tell myself he’ll be home in an hour. What’s an hour? I’ll drink some wine, clear away the mess, and when he returns we can eat together.
Two hours later the kitchen is spotless and dinner is cooling in the fridge. There’s no sign of Boyd. I pick up my phone and scroll through my birthday messages. I’ve read them already, but I feel the need to torture myself. Twenty-two years old and I’m celebrating alone.
I take the cheesecake out of the fridge and leave half for Boyd. I take the other half with me; the wine too. I’ve left a message for Boyd. It’s on the table with the extinguished candles.
I’ll see him tomorrow.
Or the next day.
Whenever.
Back home, I pay no attention to the presents stacked up beside the TV. There’s three parcels from mum, each wrapped in pink and gold paper and topped with a gold bow. There’s also a larger parcel from dad. His paper’s white, embellished with large silver owls. My brother, Matias, emailed me some music vouchers. I spent half of them earlier today when I downloaded Rag’n’Bone Man’s album at Boyd’s.
Frankie’s out, probably staying with Mason. This means I can choke back the tears of self pity in complete privacy. I sit cross-legged on the sofa, fork in hand, demolishing the cheesecake as if it’s a food eating competition. It’s creamy and rich and when I’m done I feel sick.
Curling up with my second or maybe third glass of wine, I watch my favourite detective series. It’s hard-hitting and fast paced. The star’s craggy and tough, kind of sexy for an old guy. I’m watching a gripping interrogation scene when my phone lights up with Boyd’s name.
I debate answering for two seconds, but I’m halfway to drunk and even though I’m angry, there’s a big part of me that wants to hear his voice. I inject what I feel is the perfect amount of ice into my voice. “Hello.”
“Where’d you go, Boots?” His voice is warm and mellow, and I’m feeling sorry for myself all over again. I’m angry too. Angry that he left me to go see Molly on my birthday, even though technically he doesn’t know it’s my birthday and I’m damn sure if he did know he’d have stayed and eaten dinner and we’d be making out on his couch right now. And bugger. I’m totally drunk.
“I left you a message―”
“I read the message. Now I’m asking.”
“I’m at home, Boyd.”
“Why?”
“Are you serious? You were gone two hours. Seemed like I might as well be home.”
“Molly was having a―”
“You know what? I’m really not in the mood. I’ll call you tomo
rrow.” I hang up.
Ten seconds later my phone rings again. I hold down the button until the screen goes black.
Damn. I just hung up on Boyd. Twice.
I pace up and down my tiny living area, mumbling and cursing. He’ll come over, I know he will. I should call him back. I turn my phone back on, pacing some more while it rings. It goes to voice mail. I hang up and try again. And again.
Damn!
The detective series is forgotten now that I have Boyd on my mind. I refill my glass and take another big sip. It’s my birthday, after all.
The banging on my door is loud enough to disturb my neighbours. It comes a few minutes after eleven o’clock, the timber rattling with its force. I open the door, a sour greeting ready and waiting, but Boyd walks straight into the living room. I roll my eyes and let out a near silent curse.
“Really? We’re doing this tonight?” I forget I still have hold of my wine glass and slosh wine onto the carpet. Excellent. Way to look like a drunk, Kayla.
Boyd doesn’t answer. He’s staring at my unopened presents and birthday cards. His gaze shifts to mine. “It’s your birthday?”
There’s no sense in denying this when the evidence is right in front of his eyes.“Yeah.”
He turns to stare at me and I can tell from his expression what he’s going to say next. “You didn’t think I might want to know?” Yep. Exactly as I thought.
“It’s no big deal, Boyd. It’s just a birthday.”
Now there’s scorn and recrimination mixed in with hurt. “You’re a rotten liar, Kayla. If it’s just a birthday why’d you go out and buy cheesecake and candles?” He shoves his hands into his jean pockets, his shoulders rising towards his ears. “Christ, you think I’d have gone to Molly’s if I’d known it was your birthday?”
“Actually, yes, I think that’s exactly what you would have done.” I don’t. I’m lying, too cowardly to admit when I’m in the wrong. But there’s truth in my next words. “Molly calls and you go running.” I shrug. “That’s what happens. Doesn’t matter what time she calls, or what our plans might be, you go.”
“Not on your fucking birthday, I don’t.”
“You just did!”
He leans in, eyes flashing with anger, jaw tight. “How many times, Kayla? I didn’t know it was your birthday! You think I’m a mind reader? You think the fact that you cooked dinner tells me it’s your birthday? I didn’t fucking know!”
