Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3)

by Ainslie Paton

  She picked a boutique that had a sale sign in the window and then she wasn’t sure what to do with him. “Do you want to wait in a cafe? I can do this quickly.”

  “What, and let you wriggle out of this deal? No chance.”

  “I’m not wriggling. We’re standing outside a dress shop.”

  “Better not be Target.”

  She looked towards the shop. It was an explosion of pink and teal. “You want to come in there with me?”

  “More than I want to be dumped on my own.”

  He wasn’t going to do this quietly, like those incredible boyfriends and husbands who waited patiently, silently with a newspaper or phone screen in hand, out of place with their hefty maleness among the floaty fabrics and feminine shop fittings.

  “You’re not going to behave, are you?”

  “I’m going to manipulate the situation so I get what we want.”

  She could stop right now. What he wanted, what she wanted, they were never going to be the same thing long-term.

  He pulled her hand so she stepped closer. He kissed her forehead. “It’s just a dress and I want to do this. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Let me play.”

  It was a Pretty Woman moment, without the thigh-high boots and the sex. What the hell. “Pay to play, Damon.”

  He grinned. “Music to my ears.”

  The shop assistants fussed over him. Installed him on a plush ottoman, brought him iced tea. They fussed over her as well. Dress after dress being brought to her in the change room. All of them her size, most of them too revealing for comfort, only one of them red.

  The red one was ankle length, a split in the side front seam to her mid-thigh, vee neck and back, ribbon straps. It fit perfectly if she stood on her toes. It was also the simplest and the cheapest. She redressed and went to him with it in her hands.

  “It’s red, it’s long.” She felt awkward describing it, but he was paying. “The fabric is nice.”

  “It’s not the right one.”

  She grunted. “I’m the one wearing it.”

  “And you’ll have chosen the cheapest.”

  “That shouldn’t matter if it’s want I want to wear.”

  “I’m calling in reinforcements.”

  She stood there on display like a vacant billboard while he debated dresses with the older of the two shop assistants. “Something classy, but not too conservative. I don’t care what it costs.”

  Being discussed like she wasn’t there was humiliating. Georgia turned to the woman. “I like the red dress.”

  “The dove grey, it’s much better quality and it’s lovely on you. With your hair up and some sparkly jewels, sliver heels.”

  “Shoes,” from Damon. He bounced his booted heel on the floor. He was writing shoes with painted soles on his interior shopping list.

  She rolled her eyes. “Both of you stop it.”

  The shop assistant held the grey dress out. “If that man was buying me a dress I’d give him whatever he wanted,” she said.

  Damon waved a hand in the vague direction of the change rooms. “Let me see it.”

  She huffed, took the dress and returned to the change room. She’d stay there a few minutes, long enough to convince him she’d tried it on again and he’d have had his fun. She hung the dress on a hook and sat on a padded velvet bench to look at it. It was a lovely creation, but cut too low across her chest, and made from silk satin so watery it clung to her hips in a way that’d made her feel naked. It was twice the price of the red dress.

  He’d ducked through the change room curtain and it dropped behind him before she had a chance to do more than squeal. She stood, and there was barely enough room for both of them. “You can’t be in here.”

  “What does it matter?”

  She pushed him. Mistake. He put his hands on her shoulders. “You didn’t try it. You really don’t like it. We can try another shop.”

  She sighed. “It’s a beautiful dress, but it’s not—”

  “It doesn’t have to be red. I can imagine red, just like I can imagine Hello Kitty pjs.”

  “I’d be too self-conscious wearing it.”

  “Show me.”

  “Are you insane? I’m not putting it on in front of you.”

  “Are you? I can’t see you clearly enough to see anything you wouldn’t want me to.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  He popped that dimple. She pushed him onto the bench. There was just enough room with him sitting for her to put the dress on. “I can’t believe they let you in here.” She kicked her shoes off. She couldn’t believe she was going to do this. Her dress came off and her bare knee grazed his denim one. His bright eyes were on her and she simply didn’t trust him. There was no air in here. “Close your eyes.”

  He laughed and down went his lids.

  She took the dress off the hook. She wasn’t wearing the right underwear; what would the right underwear be? This was silly. His hand on the back of her thigh made her jump. She looked over her shoulder. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

  He folded them across his chest.

  She shucked the dress over her head and it swished down her body.

  He was on his feet, hands on her shoulders, before she’d found the tag in the invisible side seam zipper. “Does it zip?”

  “Don’t even—”

  He’d found it. He eased the zipper closed over her waist. She stopped breathing as his fingers travelled up the side of her ribs. At a complete loss to know how to deal with him, she lifted her arm so he could send the zipper home. His hands kept moving, around her middle, over her hips then back to her waist, ribs, then skimming flat palms over the confined swell of her breasts, knocking her breath into next year.

  She watched him in the mirror, his eyes still closed for her. He was such a liar, he saw her perfectly well. He moved his hands over her shoulders and down her back, her head tipped up and she swayed into his palms.

  “You look beautiful.”

  “It’s too. It’s too…” His hands cupped her backside and she dropped her head to his shoulder.

  “Wear it for me.”

  Eyes focused on the mirror again, she tried to see what he did. The straps and the top edge of her washed-out bra showed. There was a line on both hips where her underwear sat. The dress was too long, too fitted and too short on fabric at the same time. Her cheeks were pink and the flush stole down her neck and across her chest. Her eyes were so big they looked feverish. She’d bundled her hair into a makeshift bun with an elastic, but curls tangled at her neck and around her face. She was barefoot and the dress was a silvery puddle on the floor and she wore Damon like a cloak that made all that bad stuff nearly invisible. She let a breath, six parts shock, three parts unexpected relief, two parts heady expectation, go.

  She was almost beautiful.

  13: Hide and Seek

  Taylor gelled his hair. Slicked it back on the sides and left a piece to fall over his forehead. It would cover the scar where he’d split his brow on an open cupboard door and then Angus split it again.

  She kept slapping him across the shoulder because he wouldn’t sit still enough for her liking. “Fuck a duck, Dame, what crawled up you since this morning?”

  He nearly said a silky dress and the woman too scared to wear it, but Taylor could just as easy gel him a mohawk if he annoyed her. “I could ask you the same thing, Trill.”

  “Make a change from you asking me to move in with you.”

  He said, “When are you moving in?” and braced for another blow. He wanted that argument over, and soon. When the smack didn’t come he swung around to face her, but either she’d moved or the light source in Moon Blink’s green room needed a boost. “Tay?”

  She straddled his lap. “Are you seeing someone?”

  He felt for her waist, stuck his fingers in her belt loops and hoisted her into a more comfortable position across his thighs. “Yeah.”

  She pressed her thumb into the divot in his chin. “Who? When? Why did
n’t you tell me?”

  “It’s only new, real new, last night and today new.”

  She shifted, bony backside corking his thigh and he winced, so she did it again. “Tell me, tell me. Why didn’t you tell me this morning?”

  “Because you were fixated on Dalia.” Dalia was all Taylor wanted to talk about at the gym.

  “Forget her. So long as she doesn’t try getting her claws in Jamie again she’s a cool chick.”

  “Isn’t that up to Jamie?”

  She palmed his cheeks. “Who’s the chick? Someone from before?”

  “Brand new.”

  Her hands came away. “You’ve hardly been back long enough to meet anyone. Ooh, it’s short skirt and legs from Avocado. Ah, she’s a bit young.”

  “Not Lauren. Good legs?”

  “Great legs. How come I didn’t vet this one?”

  “You can’t pimp for me forever.”

  “Why not? That worked. I’ve saved you from all kinds of fuck-ups.”

  True. After a couple of disasters where he’d hooked up with a women old enough to be his mother, and at least one who was mainlining madness, Tay became his wingman. She had explicit instructions to weed out the crazy eyes, the party drug takers, the doing it for a dare and the disabled guy fetishisers he’d have trouble identifying before he was in too deep.

  But she didn’t pick Candace, none of them did. Candace who looked and acted the part of gentle, pretty, yoga teacher and health food store owner. Candace, who’d moved into his life for two years, had done him some damage. She was convinced, despite meeting Lina, he could be cured. All he needed was a bump on the head or enough organic fruit juice combined with meditation and suddenly he’d be 20/20 again. He’d not seen anyone steady since Candace left him because she thought he hadn’t tried hard enough and she simply couldn’t see herself with a blind guy for the rest of her life.

  “You can tell me if Georgia has crazy eyes.”

  “And where did you meet this Georgia?”

  “She was my engineer at Avocado. You probably saw her in reception.”

  “I don’t remember anyone except Legs Lauren.”

  “She’s supposed to meet me here tonight.”

  “Supposed to? Don’t you know for sure if she’s coming?”

  “I’m freaking her out.”

  “What did you do?”

  “You know.” He turned his face away from her scrutiny. “I get a little…”

  “Excited, bossy, full of yourself.”

  “Yeah. She’s thinking about whether she can cope with a differently-abled guy who’s a bit full-on.”

  Taylor snapped his head back around. “She has a problem with you being blind?”

  He grinned at her. He wasn’t sure what drove Georgia’s hesitancy, but a bad marriage to a guy with a head injury might do it. She’d gotten over the hero-worshipping that came with being in the industry, and the physical aspect of him needing to be near her. She wasn’t slow to help when he needed it, and was sensitive to when he didn’t, but she had to be thinking about whether it was worth getting caught up with him too seriously.

  “Nah. I don’t think she likes singers.”

  The impression that he’d blown it with Georgia over by insistence about the dress, and with the stunt in the dressing room that’d led to kissing her like he owned her, stayed with him when he and Taylor joined Jamie and Sam at a table out the front. Angus served them tapas, but otherwise remained behind the bar. He’d started a new manager and wanted to stay close to her. Jamie put a plate together for him, bits of this and that. Damon had eaten a late lunch with Georgia so he wasn’t hungry, but he ate anyway.

  If Georgia didn’t show up soon, he’d have to go on without saying hello. He checked his phone. Nothing in the message bank. If she didn’t come, he’d definitely pushed too hard. He could make it up to her, slow down for a start, let her set the pace. He had all this time off, he could use it wisely. But if she was thinking she’d had enough of gimps, it was probably all over anyway.

  They talked about the song list. Taylor wanted him to sing Marshall Mathers to her Rihanna on Monster, but there was no way he was rapping. They had the same old argument about him being too old school for hip hop, too John Mayer to have any street cred and still Georgia didn’t come.

  It was the end of the month so it was request night and just about anything might get asked for. If the room recognised the song and the band couldn’t play it, Angus had to shout the requesting table a free round. That rarely happened. But the last time Damon had been in town for request night they got asked to sing The Wiggles’ Big Red Car and crashed out. As a point of honour that wasn’t going to happen this time, but if there was any hip hop happening it was all on Jamie.

  “Who is Angus chatting up?” said Taylor.

  The table shifted as Jamie pushed against it to look. “I dunno. She’s on her own. Damon, does your date have mousey brown hair, pale skin and look like she’d rather be home tidying her sock drawer?”

  Sam thumped him on the back. “You have a date, Dame? Go you old dog.”

  “Quit it with the old stuff. What do you mean she looks like she’d rather be darning socks?”

  “Move.” Taylor replaced Sam on his right. “She’s got lot of curly hair, hides behind it, decent figure, but she’s hunched over as if she’s hoping no one notices her.”

  He frowned into his water glass. Maybe that wasn’t Georgia, though Taylor’s description more or less matched Lauren’s but was even less kind.

  “You never went for sex appeal but, if that’s your girl she’s, um, well, hey, it’s none of my business.”

  He grabbed for Taylor’s thigh and dug his thumb and fingers in to hold her still, making her squirm. “Come on, wingman, tell me what you see. You’ve never held back before.”

  “Yeah, but you like this one.”

  He did like her. But he didn’t like to think of her as withdrawn and reticent.

  “Sam.” Taylor could be brutal, Sam had no tact. You went to Sam when Taylor went soft. “Woman at the bar with Angus. Verdict.”

  “He curled his lip,” Taylor said.

  “Give me a sec. I’m considering,” said Sam. “She’s.” He breathed heavy. “Total wallflower. She looks like the kind of girl who should wear those thick glasses. Like she’d rather melt into the furniture. Nothing wrong with her a smile wouldn’t fix.”

  “Ahh.” Georgia had smiled for him, he was sure he heard it in her voice. He didn’t think she hunched either, but maybe she did if she was nervous.

  Taylor forced her face close to his. “You like confident women. Women who know who they are. She’s so not confident she keeps looking at the door as if she’s going to bolt. Do you want me to bring her over?”

  He shook his head, downed the water in a gulp. “If she bolts at least I’ll know it was too much for her.”

  “Fair call. Want a refill on that?” He did. He took it on stage with him. They opened with Rod Stewart and ran through some Johnny Cash and Roy Orbison. He looked out at the blur of movement and wondered if Georgia was there, listening. Taylor took a song break and he sang John Mellencamp’s Life Goes On before they finished the first set with Mustang Sally.

  As he was coming off stage, a hand on his. Light and small. Not Taylor. “I didn’t think you were coming?” He almost said staying, but then she’d know he’d been spying.

  “Thought about it.”

  “Thought you were all right about us.”

  “I’m trying.”

  That sounded like truth, but he was rocked by the physical description of her from people he trusted innately. A voice could only tell you so much. “But.”

  “Can we talk?”

  Not easily, not yet, too many people around. “After the next set.” He’d get her out of here. If she was going to dump him, he didn’t need an audience.

  “Sure. I could listen to you sing all night.”

  Maybe he wasn’t about to get dumped. “Come meet everyone.”
He expected hesitation. He got his hand squeezed and she pressed in and kissed his cheek. “Remember I’m not good with people.”

  “These aren’t people. They’re family.”

  She sat with them, enough of a novelty that Angus abandoned the bar to the new girl. They chargrilled her like a T-bone. A bunch of questions about her accent, living in London, her job. Jamie wanted to know what her first impression of The Voice was. She made them laugh when she said cocky, and again when asked if that’d changed and she said no.

  Damon could hear nervousness in her quick breaths, the slight warble in her voice, but she held her own and it made him smile. If she dumped him now, he’d be out more than the cost of a dress and shoes, he’d be out of luck. Her mystery, her shy complexity did something to him; he wasn’t sure what it was, but he wanted more of it.

  On stage before beginning the second set, Angus took his arm. “I like her.”

  “I like her too.”

  “Can see that.” Angus pinched the back of his neck with a damp hand. “Were we too rough on her?”

  They were proprietary, but then he’d given them that power a long time ago. “I guess we’ll see.”

  He opened with Stevie Wonder’s Superstitious. He was pleasantly buzzed to have one person in the audience he wanted to connect with the best way he knew how—with his voice over words designed to dig into a person’s secret feelings, set to music that spoke to instinctive rhythms.

  When Angus announced they’d play the last four songs by request, he was about fifteen minutes from planting his voice in Georgia’s ear and blowing away any objections she had.

  The first request for Wu Tang Clan got shouted down by the house. Which meant Elvis’ Blue Suede Shoes got up, followed by Mack the Knife, then Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way, which he had to make up half the lyrics for, and then the fun started. Some dude wanted Iggy Azalea and Jennifer Hudson’s Trouble. It had a lyrical chorus but quick rap verses. It was about a tattooed man.

  “Buy the guy a drink, Angus. I don’t rap,” he said.

  That got a roar, catcalls, jeers.

  “‘Cause you can’t.” Jamie, the bugger.