Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3)

by Ainslie Paton

  “I’m getting a tattoo too.” That was Jamie, amusement in his voice that changed tenor, he must’ve seen them. “We’re all getting drilled by the looks of it.”

  Damon’s laugh began as a huff of air, but by the time they heard Sam say, “I’m in,” he was shaking with it. Lust gone the way of lunacy.

  He lifted his head from Georgia’s shoulder and kissed her forehead. “I hate these people.”

  Heather looked worried. Angus had the devil in him tonight too. “Damon, you in, or are you a pussy-whipped blind boy who wouldn’t appreciate a tattoo anyway?”

  “That,” Damon said, laughing.

  “At least someone has sense,” said Heather.

  “No one has any sense tonight. There was something in the beer,” said Jamie.

  “Alcohol,” said Sam, straight up.

  Everyone in the room looked at him except Damon who’d gone silent, choking with laughter, his face in Georgia’s shoulder, his body shaking.

  Sam said, “What?” with raised hands, but he was clowning, laughing at himself. “Damon needs a tattoo.”

  “No, he does not,” said Heather. “None of you do.”

  “Too late,” said Jamie.

  “I need one bad and I’m doing it tonight. We’re all doing it,” said Angus. “Come on Dame, you have to be in. You can get a cartoon of bloody Captain Vox on your willy and no one will have to see it except Georgia.”

  Damon straightened up, hand over his mouth coughing, laughing. “I’ll get a tatt, but it won’t be Vox and it won’t be there.”

  Georgia put her palm to his face. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Sense,” said Heather.

  Angus said, “Yeah, he does. It’s a rite of passage.”

  Damon leaned his face into her hand. His eyes were wet and glistening. “Yeah, I do.”

  “One in, all in,” said Jamie. “Where’s Taylor?”

  “I’m not getting another tatt. I’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Best time to,” said Jamie.

  Heather said, “No. God, no. It’ll be something stupid you’ll all regret. Anyway, at this time of night, it’s almost morning, there won’t be anywhere open.”

  “I know a twenty-four hour place,” said Taylor.

  “‘Course you do,” said Jamie.

  “Give me the number. I’ll call a cab,” said Sam.

  “I’m not getting a tattoo,” said Heather.

  Georgia gave Damon a last kiss. She didn’t care about having an audience, they’d almost seen a lot worse. “I’m not getting one either.” She climbed off his lap and gave him a hand up.

  Despite her hand he stumbled. “Whoa. Who moved the room?”

  She made a grab for him, but Angus got there first, steadying him with both hands to Damon’s shoulders. “Not on the willy then.”

  Damon leaned into Angus. “Not unless you do.”

  Heather’s, “No,” was a shout.

  Georgia touched his forearm. “You’re really drunk. Are you sure?”

  “I’ve had too much to drink, but I look worse than I am. My proprioception’s gone to the dogs. My balance is bollocksed, but I can still drive.”

  She slapped his arm and they all laughed. It was only a tattoo. He could afford to get it lasered off if it was too bad.

  “You try saying proprioception when you’re shit-faced,” he said.

  “What the hell is that?” said Sam.

  “He’s lost his sea legs,” said Angus.

  “Oh that,” said Sam. “Happens to me frequently and I don’t even like sailing.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with sailing,” said Jamie, then smacked his forehead, because Sam made a face. He clearly knew that, he was trading off his alcohol quip.

  Damon pulled her into his side. “I’m not too drunk to dance with my girl.”

  “Now he wants to dance,” said Angus. He flapped a hand on his leg, mock exasperation. He elbowed Damon. “Didn’t get enough bump and grind tonight, eh?”

  “Let him dance,” said Jamie.

  “Least you can do, you fuckers. I’d be a very happy boy right now if you’d all stayed outside.”

  “Come dance with me, babe,” said Heather to Angus, but strategy was written across her blonde brows and Angus read it.

  “Dance, then tattoo.”

  “Slow dance,” she held her arms open, “maybe you’ll be interested in something else instead.”

  Angus took her hand and wrapped it over his neck. “The things I do for you. I’m still getting a tatt.”

  Jamie groaned. “What was in the beer?”

  He looked at Sam who said, “Dance with me, baby,” held his arms open like Heather had done and earned himself a slap to the back of the head.

  Taylor said, “Barf,” and was first out the door. The others followed.

  Georgia left Damon’s side to pick up her hair stick and a few pins, then returned to him and put the back of her hand to the back of his. “You knew it was me. Out there when you were surrounded.”

  He flipped his hand and grasped hers. “I’ll always know when it’s you.”

  “How, there were women all over you?”

  He shook his head. His voice crackled, he’d given it a work-out, hadn’t been kind to it. “No one is like you. Your scent, your touch, the way you move. There’s no mistaking that.”

  Her seduction had been cratered. She could’ve happily stabbed Angus to death with her hair stick if it wasn’t lost on the floor when he walked in, but it was hard to stay out of sorts after hearing that. It was almost enough to convince her to get it inked on her skin.

  She put her hand to Damon’s face. “We could go home.” If they went home maybe they could pick up where they’d left off, with the added advantage of tattoo avoidance.

  He took her hand away, arranged her beside him. “The night is young.”

  “And you’re determined to paint it red.” Her disappointment bled through, much against her intention.

  “I want to slow dance with you. I want to get a tatt with the boys. I want to finish up inside you. Only you. Always you.”

  This man could make her breath cease, make her thoughts spin and her insides molten. She could stop him, drag him outside, into a cab and make out all the way back to his place, and he wouldn’t protest. He was waiting for her to call it. She arranged his arm in the crook of hers and watched his face. “You’re leading.”

  She got lifted brows and dimple. He knew she meant in the dance, in the night and in so many other ways. He gave her a nudge and she led him out into the bar.

  Angus and Heather were already on the small floor, the lights were low, only a few diehard patrons left, plus the kitchen staff. Taylor was there, with one of the regulars, and Sam had grabbed a waitresses. Only Jamie sat it out at a table with a new round of beer.

  Georgia led Damon onto the floor to the sound of Elton John’s Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me. There was no one to bash into. She didn’t have to worry about treading on her dress or embarrassing herself. All she had to do was trust him and that was the easiest thing to do, despite the fact he wasn’t his usual self: out of balance and husky voiced, smelling of smoke and beer.

  She shifted up close, getting warm skin under her hands and cheek. They swayed rather than danced, but then Angus and Heather weren’t doing much more. Only Sam was cutting the floor up.

  Damon crooned along with Elton softly, one hand playing with her hair, the other wrapped around her back. He got half the words wrong and either didn’t realise or didn’t care.

  She reached up to brush his hair off his forehead, running a finger gently over the still pink scar above his brow. It was healing nicely but almost in the same place as he’d split the skin once before as a kid; it was going to leave a more pronounced permanent mark.

  “Is it ugly?”

  “It’s good for your badass rep.”

  He laughed and tried to dip her and lost his footing and they both nearly ended up on the floor.
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  Angus lent a hand to right them, almost going down with them. “Yeah, Fred Astaire, maybe sit this next one out,” he said.

  Georgia took the cue and led Damon to the table, but let him capture her on his lap. “Please don’t get my name or song lyrics or something you think I’d like written on your skin. I already like what I see and it doesn’t need enhancing.”

  He moved some hair behind her ear. “Back at you.”

  “I’m glad you can’t see me. I’d have been too embarrassed to—”

  “Don’t make an asset out of my blindness.”

  Oh hell. She tensed because his words were sharp and his body had stiffened. Did she think that? Was she so comfortable with him because there was always a way to choose how she responded to him? Be annoyed but don’t throw a spoon in the sink, be awkward but cover it by keeping it out of your voice. Move things before he tipped them over, sign to others so he wouldn’t know he was in the way. She’d never been able to manipulate Hamish but Damon’s blindness made him vulnerable to it.

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did. You think I wouldn’t give almost anything to see a sunrise, to see green and blue, to see my parents, the guys, to see my own adult face. So don’t tell me you like the fact I can’t see you. It’s offensive.”

  She pressed her feet to the floor and tried to stand. He was drunk and he didn’t mean to talk so sharply, but she wanted some distance. He clamped down on her waist. “Don’t bolt on me. Sound is important to you, how the fuck important do you think it is for me? Talk to me, get angry with me.”

  “I’m um…you, ah.” He wasn’t slurring, he wasn’t incoherent, but his inhibitions were down. How long had he been waiting to say all this?

  “It’s insulting, Georgia. If you’ve been managing me, guarding yourself, then we don’t have anything real together.”

  He might’ve smashed a bottle and held its jagged end to her neck. “If that’s what you think, let go of me.” She could walk on him. He didn’t need her, he never had, and never would. And she certainly didn’t need him.

  Both of his hands lifted and she jumped up, knocking into the table, making bottles wobble. Was she manipulating him, making of him something she could contain and compartmentalise by managing her responses to him?

  Yes, sometimes. Hell.

  He looked straight at her. “I know you got uptight about Liz and Bron. I know that striptease was out of your comfort zone. I’ve had a few beers too many, but it’s my equilibrium that’s impaired, not my judgement. I’ve had women want me so they could mother me, manage me and cure me. I want you to fucking be with me for exactly who we both are, and I’m a blind guy who would desperately love to see you blush and frown and smile and laugh. I want to see your anger and your fear, your bad hair days and your crabby moods. Don’t make it harder for me by only giving me selected highlights.”

  She took a deep steadying breath. “Damon, I’m going to walk away so I can think for a minute. I’ll come back and we can talk.”

  He stood up, the chair barking on the floor as it bounced off his legs. “If you walk away you’ll only prove my point. You’ll edit. You’ll come back with a script. I want you raw, Georgia, as painful and imperfect as that is, that’s what I need from you, not your eyes or your arm, or your protection. You, I need you.”

  He had her trapped between the table and his body, but he might not know that. “Yes, I manage you.” He had her trapped between his disability and her fear of its role in what they had together. And he was well aware of that.

  “How?”

  “Damon, ease up, mate. Come on, it’s tattoo time.” Angus made a signal to her, did she want help?

  “Fuck off, Angus.” Damon’s focus on her never faltered. “God help me if there’s any fucking sign language going on. This is an argument between a man and woman who are fucking crazy about each other. It’s no one else’s business.”

  Angus eyeballed her. “Is that right, Georgia?” She could push the table away, push Damon away. One decent shove and he’d be on the ground. He was crazy about her and she knew that and she wasn’t sure how they’d ended up in this fight, but if he wanted it, she’d bring it, otherwise Jeffrey, Hamish, the men she’d wrecked herself trying to manage, won again.

  “I hold you at arm’s distance because I’m scared I still want to fix you and I know that’s not what you need. I need space from you because I’m worried you’ll become everything to me. I can’t afford to be dependant like that again. It’s not healthy for me. You know that.”

  Angus forgotten, Damon made a come on gesture with the curling fingers of one hand. “More.”

  “I wanted to tear your heart out when I saw you with those women and that’s not a mature adult response. You do that to me and it scares me senseless.”

  His chin lifted as if he was bracing for a hit. “More.”

  “I guard my responses because I care what you think about me and I don’t want to lose you.”

  “More.” His voice was torn up, frayed like his balance, but the tone so uncompromising. He was weaving on his feet but he wasn’t backing off.

  She braced on the table, lifting her face to his, her eyes open and tears threatening. “You can’t see how I adore you, and I don’t have the words to tell you and if I’m not careful I could lose your love so easily. I could just smother it out.”

  “Are you crying, Georgia?”

  “Yes, damn you.” She shoved him away and he staggered. Angus sidestepped, not willing to catch him this time. “I’m crying and everyone is watching us and I hate you.”

  Damon’s legs gave out and he tipped forward, going to his knees, one hand out to the floor. No one moved. Alicia Key’s If I Aint Got You played.

  Every instinct compelled her to go to him, help him to stand or simply fold him in her arms. But she gripped the table and held her ground, her face wet, her sobs now audible. He was not helpless and he’d pitched this battle, made it something bigger than it needed to be, humiliating her in the process.

  He lifted his head, sat back on his shins. He looked right though her. “Now I see you, Georgia. Now I see you, and I’m incapable of forgetting how beautiful you are.”

  23: Voiceless

  The first time it happened Damon couldn’t be sure it was blood. He had this coming down with a cold feeling on and off since he returned from LA, and after the concussion it seemed more insistent. He was hoping the whole tissue dependent catastrophe would finally come on, and he could get sick, get over the constant frog in his throat. It was a good thing he wasn’t working.

  He’d coughed up what he’d thought was mucus and spat it into the sink. He had the house to himself. Georgia was working late and going home to her place. Taylor had a gig. He’d turned the tap on and washed the sink out before he thought any more about it. But now he wasn’t so sure.

  Then it happened again. The night at Moon Blink he lost his shirt, had the lap dance of his life, picked a fight with Georgia and got inked. That time he had the taste of blood in his mouth and coughed the smell of it into a napkin. He was sitting at the bar, waiting for Georgia. A regular bought him a beer and he drank it. It washed the taste of the blood out and stopped him coughing, so he drank another. She didn’t come before they went on, so he drank another and it was nothing then to ask for a fag and dare Angus to make him put it out. The cigarette did a number on his throat, squeezed the frog down a few sizes, the alcohol did a number on his confidence. It wasn’t a lot of blood.

  They had fun that night. He was a bad influence. They were all drinking on stage, something they never did. It got a little wild for a suburban bar that catered to regulars who lived locally.

  And then Georgia arrived at last and rescued him and got mad with him and tried not to show it too much. But it was in her voice, in the unexpectedly rough commands she gave him, in her desire to make him behave while she staked her claim on him.

  They went somewhere new together in the green room that night, testing each other
. Georgia was so incredibly open to him, so uninhibited she might’ve been the one drinking. It was unbelievably hot, nothing in memory to match it and yet they’d not even kissed, he’d barely touched her. He’d wanted to neck Angus for not leaving them alone. And he hadn’t been able to get that mood back dancing with her, and worse, the landscape changed.

  He’d stopped drinking and his throat was silk dragged over jagged rocks. Didn’t matter that he might’ve done that to himself, he lost his footing and then he’d lost his mind. If it was blood it was bad. Another drama to put Georgia though and this time it wouldn’t be accidental, this would be a head-on, better to know if she was up to it.

  Still, pushing her like that and in front of everyone was madness. It was the drink and the fear and the idea he might lose her because someone else—Hamish—had ruined her for harder times.

  But she’d stood up to him, called his bluff, left him sitting on his arse looking like a dumb thug and he could not have loved her more.

  And now it’d happened again. Alone in the house after breakfast and this time there was no mistaking it. His throat was bleeding. He couldn’t pretend this wasn’t happening. He made two phone calls: one to cancel the assessment with the seeing-eye dog people, the other for a cab. In the cab on the way to the local doctor’s surgery, he made another call. This one to Lina. Beyond what the GP could do, he needed a specialist and though it wasn’t her field she’d work her network in a way that didn’t expose his issue to the industry. He didn’t need anyone speculating The Voice’s career was over. He carried one strike against him as the ideal employee, he didn’t need another, even if it was only a scare to feed the rumour mill.

  There were a dozen reasons your throat could bleed, from shingles to strep. Cough enough you could bleed and crack a rib. It could be the result of trauma. That was the most obvious answer, that this was an effect of the stupidity with the truck. Except his throat had been tight for months now, his voice unreliable. He’d put it down to exhaustion.

  Ideal case it was a polyp or a lesion, a singer’s curse. Relatively common, treatable, no great issue so long as the nodes were benign and you had recovery time. He knew a few people who’d had it done. None he trusted to discuss it with. The industry was competitive for a reason. Not even his relative fame could withstand gossip without questions and potential loss of income as a result.