by Jessica Ames
I swallow hard.
I am in so much trouble.
Unaware of the impact he’s having on me, Dean runs a hand over his hair—a gesture I like more than I should
I try to focus on his face.
This doesn’t help because his face is one of his best features. It’s hard to remember it’s only been a month since my grocery bags split and I first met Dean Lawler. It feels longer. It feels like Dean has always been a fixture in my life, and I can’t imagine it not staying that way.
“You ever done any fighting before?” he asks as he shakes out his arms, warming up.
I fought Simon plenty of times; I never won though. In fact, I always came off worse in those altercations.
I ignore the memories nipping at my heels and try to stay focused on the present, the here and now. I am not that Olivia any more. I’m Liv—the woman who rides on the back of near-stranger’s motorcycles, and who recklessly goes to a secure compound to learn to fight with said near-stranger. I’m no longer a victim but a survivor and my past does not define me.
I am strong. I am in control.
My jaw tightens as those silent words reaffirm my desire to be free of the chains of my former life, to move forward. Although I’m not sure this was what Kath had in mind when she said I needed to take risks, rebuild my trust in people and get on with my life.
“Only the basics.”
“Okay, I’m going to show you some easy moves to start with. If I go too fast, or you aren’t sure of anything speak up.”
“Gotcha,” I mutter.
He grins. “Okay, let’s start with something easy.”
Dean walks me through a number of different scenarios and shows me how to defend myself in each situation. Every time he touches me to put me in the right position, my heartbeat starts to quicken. I wonder if he can feel the sparks firing between us or if I’m deluded and it’s all in my head. I’m so hot and bothered I can barely concentrate on what he’s saying, but his patience is infinite as he shows me again and again until I get it right.
By the end of the session, I’m panting like an overheated dog, and it has nothing to do with my temperature. I’m nearly crawling out of my skin. He shoots me little glances here and there as he continues to manoeuvre my arms into place.
Does he feel it too?
If he does I’m in so much trouble, because as much as my heart wants what it wants, it can’t have Dean Lawler.
Shit.
Chapter Ten
“So, he’s giving you private workout lessons?” Holly’s words hold a hint of mischief that makes my eyes roll.
“He’s not giving me private workout lessons.”
It was definitely a mistake telling Holly about my gym session with Dean a few nights ago. She’s been eyeing me over the breakfast trays all morning, and I knew as soon as the shelter’s residents left us to finish the clean-up she’d be on me, giving me the inquisition of my life. I’m glad to know my assessment was correct.
“It kind of sounds like that’s what he’s doing.”
I stop clearing the breakfast dishes from the table to look at her. “He’s teaching me to defend myself, that’s all.”
Holly’s humour flees at my words and the realisation that I’m having lessons because of what happened with Monroe. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I don’t mean to—”
“Don’t go soft on me now,” I mutter. “And don’t feel sorry for me.”
I can’t bear to see her pity. I’m not some delicate damsel that needs to be coddled.
I reach for another plate and balance it on top of the stack I’ve already collected as Holly grabs the butter dish from the middle of the table.
“I need to know how to take care of myself,” I continue. “He’s showing me how to do that, and not some PG-version of how to fight. He’s teaching me how to actually defend myself.”
And he can teach me to fight dirty, not fairly. That’s what I need to know—how to survive. Monroe attacking me in the car park scared me in ways I don’t want to admit. I’ve been so strong in the post-Simon period, so unafraid but this situation reminded me there are demons everywhere, not just in the marital home.
And that is the only reason I’m letting Dean teach me to fight. There’s nothing else there, nothing like Holly is insinuating.
Nothing that I want to admit to myself yet anyway.
And even if I do feel something for Dean—and if by a minor miracle those feelings are reciprocated—I can’t ever act on it because a relationship is not something I can get embroiled in again. Do I like him? Sure. I’ve got eyes after all and it’s hard not to like Dean. He’s a good man with a kind heart, but no matter how much I may want it, nothing can ever happen between us. Dean shouldn’t have to deal with my fucked-up life.
“Sweetie, if you don’t feel safe you can stay with me.” Holly is now looking at me with concern, which is something I really don’t want to see from her.
“I appreciate that, I really do, but it’s not practical.”
“You can stay as long as you like. I’d really enjoy having you there.” And while it does sound fun having an extended sleepover at Holly’s house it’s not a good idea. Running away from my problems or my fears won’t fix them. I have to face them.
And boy, don’t I sound like I’m channelling Kath?
She’d be so proud; the student finally becomes the teacher…
“You have your own life, Hol; you don’t need me cramping your style. And I can’t avoid being on my own forever.” Besides, there’s nothing to be afraid of now anyway; Monroe is safely ensconced in the British jail system.
She doesn’t look convinced but says nothing as she piles more breakfast plates onto her tray.
“So, you and Dean…” she prompts. “Are you going to have lessons with him again?”
I cast a glance in her direction. “Yes.” We have another lesson scheduled for tonight, but given Holly’s reaction I decide to keep that information to myself.
“He likes you, Olivia. There’s no other reason for him to be doing this than him liking you.”
“Of course we both like each other. We’re neighbours—friends, if you want to put a label on it. He’s helping me out with something he knows about—that’s all. Two people of the opposite sex can just be friends, you know?”
A relationship is not on the cards for me. I’m too messed up, too emotionally battered. I have more baggage than the luggage belt at Heathrow Airport. If Dean is thinking in that way then he’s going to be disappointed.
“I know,” she says, her voice light. “Just make sure he knows that.”
“He does know that.” And I’m sure he does. He’s never implied otherwise.
She casts a sidelong glance at me. “I mean… it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he did like you, would it?”
I roll my eyes at her. “Well, even if he does, nothing is going to happen.”
“And why not?”
“Because we both know me and relationships don’t mix.”
She glares at me from under her lids. “That was one relationship. Dean isn’t Simon.”
“I know that.”
Holly stops clearing to study me. “Tell me truthfully: do you like him?”
I pause, consider lying, but then answer, “Yes. There’s definitely something there—on my part, at least. I’m not sure if he feels the same. But it’s not just about me liking him, or about Dean not being like Simon—it’s about me as well. I don’t think I can go there with Dean, with anyone, in fact. I’m fucked up, Hols. I don’t think I can ever let anyone in again.”
And that is the sad truth. Relationships require complete openness; I just can’t do that. Being open was what allowed Simon to gain so much control over me in the first place. Loving him too much was what stopped me leaving. I’ll never be in that situation again, so even if I want Dean, I can never have him.
“Olivia…” She gives me a positively despairing look, which makes me wince.
&nbs
p; “I’m not inflicting my messed up brain on anyone—least of all a man like Dean.” I mentally shake myself. “But he doesn’t like me like that anyway, so it’s fine.” And I hate that saying that makes my chest feel tight and funny.
Holly looks as if she’s going to say something but thinks better of it. Instead, she gives me a humourless smile, and says, “Come on, we’ve got dishes to wash.” She seizes the tray and hoists it off the table.
After I finish my shift at the shelter, I head out to my car and climb into it. I quickly check Simon’s social media page, scrolling over the photographs and updates about him, and Tammy this time, too. There are a few images of them at the zoo with the baby, wrapped up to ward off the cold weather, and some of them in the house, our old house. But I see nothing of concern—just normal family snaps. Relieved, I shove my phone back in my bag and start up the car.
It splutters and then it dies.
This bloody car.
I turn the key again. This time the engine catches, to my relief. I really need to see if I can get my car into the garage on my day off. Fingers crossed it will survive until then.
When I pull into the cul-de-sac, I see Dean’s bike is on his driveway. I park my own car, grab my bag and head into the house. After a shower, I change into my gym clothes and wait for him to knock on for our lesson, but seven o’clock comes and goes. He doesn’t show.
By ten past I’m practically tugging up the blinds to see what he’s doing. The lights are on but there’s no sign of movement at the house. Disappointment claws at me; has he decided the lessons are a bad idea? Surely, he would have told me if that was the case, right?
When half past rolls around, my anger is growing. If he doesn’t want to continue helping that’s fine but the least he can do is tell me.
Before I can change my mind, I cross the narrow road that separates my house from Dean’s. I move up his path at a brisk pace, passing the shining Harley, and the flower beds that look dead but in a month’s time will stir back to life when the last of the frost thaws.
I don’t hesitate or give myself time to question my actions; I push the doorbell and wait. There’s no answer, so I push it again. Where the hell is he? I know he’s home; the house is lit up like Blackpool illuminations.
My thoughts about gardening and bikes and self-defence classes scatter as the door opens suddenly. I twist back to it, prepared to give Dean a piece of my mind for standing me up, but my words stick in my throat.
Because Dean is standing in the doorway and he looks like hell. His eyes are heavy and sunken, his hair, which is now long enough to style, lies flat against his head. He’s not in his vest and jeans but a pair of loose joggers and a V-neck T-shirt. There’s a sheen of sweat covering his face that is at odds with the cooler evening air. Without thinking, I reach out for his arm, intending to steady him because he looks wobbly.
“Shit. Our lesson.” His fingers rake through his hair as he swallows; it seems as if that pains him. “I fucking fell asleep. I’m so sorry, Liv.”
I don’t pay any attention to his apology; instead, my eyes narrow on his face.
Without waiting for an invitation, I push into the house and press my hand against his forehead. He’s hot. And I mean hot.
“Dean, you’re running a temperature. We need to cool you down.”
“Darlin’, I’m fine.”
“You are not fine! You’re literally emitting fusion level heat!”
I close the door behind me, dropping my bag by it and usher him towards the living room. I’m surprised he moves at my insistence but he does.
As I step into the room I can smell the thick, clogging smell of sickness in the air. There are takeaway boxes on the table with food still in, as if he tried to eat but didn’t manage. Glasses and the remains of soft drinks bottles sit on the coffee table, and a half empty ashtray is next to an opened packet of cigarettes.
“On the sofa,” I order, even as I grab for a couple of cushions for him.
He doesn't move, his hands dropping to his hips. And even clammy and rheumy-eyed that makes my stomach flipflop. “Anyone ever told you you’re bossy?”
I stop mid-fluff of one cushion to look at him. There’s a hint of a grin, even beneath his sickly pallor.
“Dean, you’re sick, and you need looking after, so come and get on the sofa.” He doesn’t move straight away. “Please, just humour me.”
With a sigh, he drops onto the sofa and lets me fuss around him. “Do you have a blanket?” I ask, noticing the goosebumps speckling his tattooed arms.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, love, but I don’t need all this fuss. It’s a cold—nothing more.”
I drop my hands to my hips. “So, you have someone else coming to take care of you?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then I’m staying to take care of you.” I soften my voice. “After everything you’ve done for me it seems like the least I can do.”
He stares at me a beat and I think I may have gone too far until he mutters, “All right then, darlin’.”
“Now, a blanket… where can I find one.”
“On the bed.”
That gives me pause. In the bedroom. Dean’s bedroom. Shit. I’m not sure I’m ready to be in his inner sanctum.
I push that aside and ask, “Can I go and grab it?”
“If you really want to. It’s the first door off the landing.”
“All righty then.” Without giving him chance to say anything else, I head for the door and into the hallway. I take the stairs quickly and push the door open he said.
Dean’s bedroom looks like a bomb went off in the middle of it. His covers are piled in the centre of the bed, and there are piles of clothes tossed around the floor. I try not to focus on his personal effects as I navigate through the mess, but I see the rings and chain on the bedside table, and the aftershave bottle on top of the chest of drawers. Photographs of people who clearly mean a lot to him are also scattered around on any available surface. But my gaze is snared by the only thing that is tidy in the room: hanging on the edge of the wardrobe door is his Club vest. I stare at it a beat, the urge to touch the leather overwhelming.
Beneath the chaos, I can tell it is décorated as tastefully as downstairs and I wonder who the heck did his interior design. He doesn’t strike me as the type to lament over paint colours and soft furnishings. I don’t think about that either as I grab the blanket pooled at the side of the bed where he must have thrown it off in the night.
I clutch the blanket to my chest and head back downstairs, before he starts wondering why I was gone for so long. When I re-enter the living room, Dean is still on the sofa where I left him, his head tipped back against the backrest, his eyes closed.
“Dean,” I say softly and his glassy eyes open, seeking me out. “I got you the blanket.”
His smile is tired. “Thanks, darlin’.”
I throw it over him, careful to make sure he’s covered.
“Do you have any medicine in the house?”
He stares at me a beat, before saying, “Kitchen. Above the sink.”
I head through the open-plan living room into the kitchen area and to the cupboard he said. Luckily, he has cold relief powder among the other medicines, so I put the kettle on to boil. Grabbing a clean mug in one of the cupboards near the sink, I rip the sachet open, tipping the powder into the mug. Then I pour the boiling water on top. Hot lemon scent is heavy in the air as the medication changes from powder to liquid.
When I take it into Dean, I’m not surprised to see he hasn’t moved from the position I left him in and I have to admit I’m worried about him. He says it is a cold, but he looks awful.
As I approach he doesn’t open his eyes, which does not seem like a good thing either.
“Dean?” His eyes flutter open and I carefully hand him the drink. “You need to drink the whole thing. As hot as you can, although don’t burn your mouth. Do you feel up to anything to eat?”
He shakes his
head.
“Okay then.” I sink down near to him on the sofa, careful not to crowd him.
“What’re you doing?” he asks.
“Waiting for you to drink it.”
“Liv, you don’t need to stay. I can manage.”
“I’m sure you can, but I’m hardly going to be able to relax at home, sitting there worrying if you’re okay, am I?”
There’s that hint of smile again, the one that does funny things to my stomach.
“Okay, but put the television on or something.”
I do as he asks, finding some mindless movie. He drinks the medication down and I take the mug from him. After a bit he falls asleep, leaving me in front of the television.
Slowly, I get up and tidy around him, careful not to make any noise. Then I reclaim my spot on the sofa, which is precisely where I fall asleep.
Chapter Eleven
It’s the doorbell jangling that wakes me. I come to with a start that makes my stomach roll and for the briefest moment I panic because, as I open my eyes, nothing looks familiar: the television is not mine, the furnishings are not mine, the décor, which is decidedly masculine, is not mine.
“Hey,” a familiar but scratchy voice mutters and I snap my head around to see Dean trying to untangle himself from the blanket.
Dean.
Oh, shit.
I’m in Dean’s living room.
I must have fallen asleep on his sofa when I was supposed to be taking care of him. It was late by the time he settled and I had been at the shelter for near on ten hours before I came over, but falling asleep had not been part of the plan. I glance at my watch and see it’s coming up to eleven o’clock in the evening.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I push up quickly, straightening my thin, Lycra workout hoody, which rucked up while I was asleep, showing a slither of my stomach. Then I brush my fingers through my no doubt wild mane of hair.
“Oh my God, Dean; I’m so sorry. I came over to look after you and what a shitty job I’ve done.”
“You did a perfect job, love,” he tells me, and I’m not sure if he’s just humouring me or not.
