“Did I do this, did I upset you?”
“No.” The answer barked out roughly. He needed to get out of here. “It’s not you.”
“It feels like it is. I’m sorry about the sketch.”
“It’s not that. I have to go.”
“I see.”
He heard the crank in her voice, but it couldn’t be helped. They were a one night stand and neither of them had tried hard enough to find the other, neither of them had tried Jay.
“Go. Get out if you’re going.”
Half of him was already on the street, walking to Dillon’s, overwriting this with new code, another fake memory, one where he didn’t crack up for no good reason. The other half of him was crawling back into bed with her, telling her everything he missed and feared and sleeping deep, dreamless with her close.
He went to her bathroom, disposed of the condom, washed his face. She was sitting in the bed with the sheet tucked up under her arms and her knees drawn up to her chin when he came out. “You bastard.”
He snagged his jeans from the floor and shoved them on.
“The only thing you liked about me was the money. You were fucking the company, getting off on who I was, and now I’m nothing you can’t stand to be with me.”
That cut, and shit, he couldn’t let her think that. He went back to the bed and sat, hooking one leg up, swivelling to face her. She was glorious, her hair tousled from the bed, from his hands, but fury slicked her skin. And he had nothing.
“I can’t read your mind, Mace. If you want me to think differently you have to talk.”
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
Her eyes swelled to half the size of the universe. Fuuck. A line from every bad romance movie ever made, not even Buster’s Antonio was that lame, and the sound of annoyance that came out of her was a new slash in his side.
“Jacinta, you have to know, what happened then, that wasn’t you, it’s my problem. It’s got nothing to do with what we just did.”
“What we just did was intense.” Her voice softened. “I loved it. I was with you and then you went somewhere else and you’re hurting. It’s okay to tell me why. Is it the business? I know you missed out on getting capital from Jay.”
“No.” No funding and a competitor had surfaced, funding might not matter anymore. Dillon said they were one speeding car off roadkill. Ipseity might not ever be more than a toy he played with endlessly, like a kid so fascinated by dinosaurs they knew all there was to know to an obsessive level.
“Is it work? You quit, do you have another job?”
“No.” But it was time to think about getting one or Buster’s legacy would go to waste. He looked at his hand, the one she’d drawn, balled in the sheet.
“Mace, talk to me or leave and forget where I live.”
“You painted me.”
“It’s a charcoal sketch, but yes.”
He looked into her eyes. “Why?”
“You first.”
He looked away. She was a different version of the old Jacinta, in this tiny apartment, in this boho suburb, with her softer hair, and her brighter eyes, but it wasn’t a complete upgrade, it was incremental change, the kind of upgrade no one but the most familiar users noticed. She still had the fire, the authority, that singular focus that made him wish he could fall into her attention and lie in its comfort. But he didn’t know her that well. He’d spent more time with the virtual version of her than the real one.
“She died.”
“Who?”
“Buster. She shouldn’t have died. She was getting better. I left her and she died alone.” He looked up, caught her shocked expression. “So it’s not you. I just. I can’t. It hits me that she’s gone and I forget myself.”
Jacinta shifted down the bed, dragging the sheet with her, to put her hand on his arm. “Mace, I’m sorry.”
He waved her concern away and her hand fell to her side. Letting her see him like this made him stiff with embarrassment. “She was seventy-five. I don’t know why I thought she’d live forever.”
He should be over this by now. There was something wrong with his latency, the time it was taking him to process this information, this emotion. It left him feeling broken, dysfunctional.
“You left work suddenly, is that why?”
This he could talk about. “I flamed out.”
She frowned. “Happens to the best of us.”
“What happened to you?”
“I didn’t play the politics right. I flamed out too.”
“They pushed you out.”
She tossed her head. “I took the moral high ground. I quit.”
“And now?”
“Now I wait. There’ll be another job, but at my level it’ll take time.”
He reached for her hand and they clasped. “I don’t think waiting is your thing.”
“I get a D for waiting.” A smile curved her cheek. “I called you too. From the office on the day I quit. I wanted to see you so badly. But I got your message bank and I was too chicken to leave one. Then I talked myself out of wanting you. I sketched you because that was a you I could have.” She squeezed his hand. “Do you hate it? I never thought you’d see it.”
He disentangled their hands. “I live two blocks the other way.”
She shook her head at the coincidence. “They only hung it because it’s something they do for students. We all have a turn at having our work in the window for a week.”
“You’re taking classes.”
She shrugged. “It’s something to do while I wait.”
Which is what this would be if he didn’t go now, and he wasn’t up for being left again. “I should go.”
“It’s okay to feel sad and to let me see it.”
He stood, looked for his shirt. “I don’t need your permission for how I feel.” He didn’t need her judgement, or her kindness either. He needed to be alone where he couldn’t make anyone unhappy.
“No, but you seem to need your own.”
He tried not to slam her door like the kid who learns no one cares about dinosaurs as obsessively as he does, but it banged hard and echoed loud anyway.
He gripped the banister and took her stairs two at a time. Outside the cold night air hit him in the chest like the slap her words were. He plunged his hands in his pockets and walked back towards Dillon’s.
He was hungry and frustrated. He ordered the pizza he’d intended to get when the gallery window distracted him and then waited outside the pizzeria for his name to be called. How long had she lived here? How had he never run into her before? Probably because he rarely left Dillon’s place, preoccupied with avoiding the speeding car and cracking a new formula that would rip competitors’ ambitions apart.
Crossing the road to the gallery was a deliberate choice, like not bothering to eat regularly. Standing in front of his portrait was another. The Mace in the simple frame looked relaxed, untroubled in sleep. The one standing on street didn’t sleep like that anymore. Not easily, not deeply or for long; always waking too soon with a stiff neck or a headache. Or not able to get to sleep, staring at the ceiling for hours trying to empty his brain of useless backchat. Yet there he was on the paper, sleeping like he had no worries, in a stranger’s bed, on a day the city was afraid. Sleeping deeply enough not to wake when she must’ve watched him so closely to be able to draw him like that.
He wanted to be that way again, but his life was different. He’d swapped places with the city. Now he was the insecure one. He was scared he was quietly going mad like his mother. There was a hereditary element, after all.
Buster had always said he wasn’t like Mum. Never let him entertain the notion he might have her sickness. For now he’d put his lack of interest in the world down to grief, read up on it. It fitted, but he’d had enough. And what if it wasn’t simply missing Buster and the fear he’d lost his dream to someone lucky enough to find the finance and the connections to make it reality?
His pizza would be ready, but he stood on, the hun
ger gone in the realisation he had another choice to make. He could huddle into his pain and hope it would eventually harden into resilience, or he could open up to it and let it show.
Dillon was worried about him, wanted him to talk to someone; badgered him about it. He simply wanted to feel good again, to sleep like there would be pleasure waking and to have that good banish the sorrow.
He’d felt good with Jacinta, so fucking good, even when she was drilling him; making him uncomfortable, making him talk, to own up to his feelings.
There was no security on her new apartment; nothing to stop him taking the stairs again two at a time, and pounding on her door till she opened it. When she did, relief grabbed him and squeezed the breath out of him.
She stood at the door in t-shirt that scraped her thighs and bare legs, hair still wild, eyes wary. She had nothing on underneath that shirt; he didn’t need superhero powers to know it. He snapped his eyes up from her beaded nipples to her face. She was irritated. She turned her head to look away from him, back inside, looking for whatever he’d left behind. He knew what she’d say and cut her off.
“I forgot you.”
“What?”
“You were going to ask what I forgot.”
She held onto the door with both hands. She had goose pimples running up her arms. If he wanted inside that apartment, to be allowed to hold her again, he needed to be eloquent now. He needed the right words in a sensible order to persuade her to take a chance on him, no matter if the experiment was as short-term as the rest of the night or a cycle of continuous improvement that lasted a lifetime.
She wasn’t going to help him out.
24: Plan C
He had to say it. Mace stood on her doorstep breathing like he’d run a marathon. He’d dressed in a hurry, his jacket flapped open, his shirt was untucked, not enough buttons done up. His hair was longer and looked good on him, like the scruff from a few days of not shaving. But he’d lost weight and the dark patches under his eyes, the lines bisecting his cheeks, were new. He was hurting, but Jacinta could only help him if he wanted help.
He put his hand on the outside of the door to stop her closing it. “I left like this once before. But I went back for you. Then life got in the way for both of us. What we had was bigger than a weekend and it still is. I’m not walking away again. I’m not letting you walk either, without a fight. I’ve come back for you.”
The draught from the stairwell was arctic, but his words were so damn hot. A shudder rippled through her, a fever rising. “Last time you left you didn’t storm out in a temper. What makes you think I want you back?”
“You fucking drew me and you gave up doing that shit.”
She’d sketched him because she’d had no choice, but she had one now. If she let him inside, she wanted him to stay. If she let him inside, he had to know what that would mean.
“You’re a difficult man.”
“You’re not that basic yourself.”
“Basic?”
“You’re more brain fuck.”
“What?”
“Your programming, the language you work in. I might never learn you.”
“You might not get the chance. You have to talk to me. You can’t do this strong silent type crap, or it won’t work.”
He nodded then answered. “Get me comfortable and I won’t shut up.”
She doubted that. She’d never seen him chatty, but if he locked her outside his thinking there was no point. “You need to talk about what’s bothering you.”
“I will.”
“You need to—”
“Kick me out or let me in and close the door, you’re freezing.”
She let the door swing open and he stepped inside. She’d never wanted him to go in the first place, but he’d made her angry, made her think he really didn’t want her now she was jobless and slumming it.
She left the door open. There was one last thing to get clear. “I don’t have money to lend you.”
His lips twitched, his eyebrows shot down. He made an ominous rumbling, growling sound.
She held up a hand. Ironically, after demanding he speak, wanting him to shut up until she finished. “I have enough to keep myself going, but I gave a big chunk of my savings to a marathon victims’ fund.” She dropped her hand, fully prepared to ask him to leave through the open door if this went sideways. “Now you can get all outraged.”
He opened his mouth and laughed. “I banked nearly half a million on the sale of Buster’s house. I never wanted your money and I don’t need it now.”
Not angry with her. She took a step back in surprise and closed the door. Not using her. It was her turn to laugh. He had more in the bank than she did.
“I do need you, Cinta. Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you’ll have me.”
She folded her arms across her breasts, aware her shirt wasn’t hiding much, but his eyes were fixed on hers. “What is this?” Insanely good sex, some kind of connection, still, not something she could define. But she was cold, and he was the promise of such blissful warmth. He took two steps and he was in front of her, touching distance, and she wanted to touch so badly.
“This is two people mucking around together.” He took his jacket off and put it around her shoulders. It was deliciously toasty and it smelled of him.
“Mucking around?” He did mean the sex; well, she could live with that, her very own fuck buddy. She had the time now, and a relationship so casual was a good fit.
“Trying each other out. Seeing if their rough bits don’t scratch too sharp. If their worn bits don’t embarrass too much. Seeing if they can be better with each other than they are alone.”
Warmth crossed the barrier of her skin, like his words soothed her anxiety. “That sounds like a relationship.”
He gave her a raised eyebrow and then he spoke. “The start of one. Maybe.” He put a hand to his head, pushed it through his hair. “New language for me.”
But not for her. Just not one she was fluent in. It wouldn’t be comfortable with him either. It was safer for her heart to stay alone. “We should keep it casual.”
He shook his head. “There isn’t anything casual about us. We’re already past that.”
He was right, they’d skipped past casual and crashed into the crush zone. Why else had she not been able to shake him from her thoughts? But she didn’t want a total takeover, a merger of their lives. “I don’t want to be tied down.” She didn’t want to be so caught up in him she forgot what she wanted for herself. That was never happening again. “I might have to move interstate or overseas for work.”
He didn’t appear to know what to do with his hands, finally folding his arms like she’d done. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“You call the shots. I don’t care what rules you make. I want to be with you, I’ll suck ‘em up. I don’t, l go.”
She stood in the leftover warmth of him and he was close enough to kiss. She wanted to kiss him, but he confused her. Why would he give her control like that? He was a hothead, a rule breaker; she’d seen him in action and he’d admitted he flamed out at work. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I know casual,” he made that rumbling sound in his throat again. “I’m a fucking specialist in casual, and I know alone and I didn’t feel that with you.”
“What did you feel?”
“Different.”
She held still while words he didn’t say chased across his face. He sighed and his reluctance felt heavy, weighed down by his acceptance that if he wanted her, he needed to give up his password, let her access his thoughts.
“I felt challenged, but secure. I want that again, for however long you want to give it to me.”
She was warmer but she still shivered. Get this man talking and he said things that made you want to fall in love with him. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Yeah you do.” He unfolded his arms; let them fall easy at his sides. “You always knew what to do with me. You took me to bed and yo
u made me want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”
She needed him to touch her. “And you let me.”
“Sure I did. Look at you. You’re the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Once.” She broke eye contact. “Not so much now.”
He put his hands to her shoulders. “I have money in the bank for the first time in my life, but only because the woman who brought me up is dead. It’s more than I’ll ever save if I work till I’m dead too. My business dream is over because we don’t have finance, there’s a competitor and they already have investors and markets. I need a job, but I’m obsessed with rebuilding the Ipseity platform, and I don’t sleep anymore or eat properly. I’m a wreck and my prospects are wage slave.” Her eyes snap locked on his. “You’re this pure shining star, this perfect sequence of numbers, just waiting for the right moment to explode with brilliance.”
“Oh my God, when you talk.”
“Told you I’d be hard to shut up.”
“I don’t want you to ever shut up.”
He frowned. “You know when my tongue really gets untied.” Heat stole its way out of his hands and his jacket and into her face. In bed he had no trouble telling her what he wanted, what he was feeling and what he was going to do.
“I’m working on the idea you’re not going to throw me out in the cold, at least not tonight. There’s something I want to do.”
Her body swayed towards his. The pull between them stronger now than it was on the street when she’d thought he might be angry, but he’d looked at her with shock and admiration on his face.
“I want to take you back to bed, get skin to skin and with you, hold you in my arms and sleep.”
She laughed, all her tension resolved into an unrequited lust high.
He touched a finger to her bottom lip, traced it. “Eventually.”
She lifted her hands to his face, his cheeks scratchy. His jacket fell off her shoulders when she stood on her toes to kiss him, tentatively, teasingly. There’d be the rules of engagement to work out, or if not a regime as strict as rules, then protocols, ways to recognise each other and yet not forget their need to be separate, independent people.
Insecure Page 19
