Drew's hands clenched into fists at his side, but he didn't say a word. Waiting to see if I'd spew any more horrid memories out onto the bench between us.
If this wasn't enough to make him run, I didn't know what would be.
Another sucked in breath for fortification and I said, trying for a light tone, "So, the Spam is there to make sure I never become like my mother." And in case he needed further explanation, I added, "Dependent on a man for anything other than pleasure."
Silence. It lasted a little too long for comfort.
"And your father?" Drew finally asked.
"That's a story for another day."
"I'd like to hear it."
I finally turned to face him, to see what expression he wore. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't a false façade to humour me. It was full of genuine concern and interest.
"Why? It's fucked up." Like me.
"It's a part of you. A part of who you have become."
"So you can understand me better," I snapped back. Regardless of the fact he'd hit the nail on the head. Just as I had begun to suspect, that time in my life had made me who I am today. Or, more precisely, who I was on Friday.
Today, I'm not sure who I am anymore.
"I already understand you, Kelly," Drew surprised me by saying. "Can't you tell? I know what you need. I know how you get through each day. I'm prepared to give it, too. For now. But what I'd like, is to hear you say it. To have you open up. To watch you make the connection and through that find the answer you've been searching for." He leaned forward and lifted his hand up between us, tapping his finger lightly on my chest. "It's in here," he said, soft grey eyes holding my gaze. "And in here," he added, tapping the side of my head twice. Gently, tenderly, but still making his point. "You just have to want it enough to say it aloud."
I shook my head at him and stood up from my stool. Great. I talk about my past, something I have never done before with anyone, and he pushes for more. As though I haven't just accomplished a miraculous thing. Drew Kline wants all of me, every sordid detail. A snippet is not enough.
I walked to the fridge and threw the soggy packet of peas back in the freezer, then slammed the door shut.
"You're angry," he pointed out.
"Good deduction there, Sherlock."
"Why? Because I want you to stretch yourself? Because I'm asking you to do something that will hurt? Because I know you can do it, but you don't?"
I snorted. Now he was just being self-righteous.
"You're not a coward, Kelly. You're one of the bravest women I have ever met."
"What would you know!" I rounded on him, hands on hips. "How am I courageous? I'm not perfect. I'm not a conformist. I seek pleasure in multiple men's arms."
His eyes narrowed. "Not anymore."
Something snapped inside. "What? You think you can fix me? You think I'm fixable? What if I'm not?"
"You're the one who has decided to start fresh. Wipe the slate clean."
"Not clean enough, obviously. I missed one. Maybe I should just cut you loose too."
"I'm not going anywhere," he announced, as though that was that.
I kept shaking my head, feeling a headache coming on. "I can't do this. I was wrong. This isn't for me."
He stood and within seconds was in front of me, then slowly began crowding me back, step by step, against the bench on the far side of the kitchen wall. His large frame loomed over me, anger evident in his steel grey eyes. They'd darkened, no longer soft, but turbulent with emotion. It was mesmerising. I wasn't sure if it was him, or his beautiful eyes that stole all the air from the room. But it was the sexiest thing I had ever seen.
His hands lifted to rest on the bench on either side of my body, bracketing me in. Trapping me. He held my gaze and said, voice low, "You can and will do this."
I just stood there and said nothing. It was more than his physical presence. It was more than the captivating glint of steel in his eyes. It was more than being surrounded by Drew in every possible way; sight, sound, scent. Touch.
My hands shifted of their own accord, my fingers digging into his chest, then running over his pecs. His lips twisted, it wasn't his usual lopsided smirk, this was almost in pain.
"You need me," he whispered, and although it sounded arrogant, I knew it wasn't. Merely an observation that unfortunately was correct.
I couldn't do this alone. Sooner or later - like how I was, right in this second - I would crave that feeling of letting go, seeking bliss, getting my next hit. Something would tip me over the edge of that desire, whether it was memories I evoked on my own, or an argument with a neighbour across my fence. Irrelevant emotional episodes, everyday occurrences that most people handle in their stride.
But not me. For fifteen years I've responded in a certain way each time my world order was threatened. It had become so easy. Just pick up the phone, pick one of my men, and arrange a get-together. Instant gratification in a male's arms that meant nothing.
And if Drew wasn't here, who would I pick? Video-store-guy or someone like him?
A sound escaped my lips, wrenched from deep inside my chest. I didn't want that. Dear freaking God, I was trying to avoid that. Then what the fuck was I doing here?
Pushing the one man away I think I could trust. Or, at the very least, trust not to physically hurt me. Trust to see me through this transformation without losing more of my soul.
Oh God, I felt so alone, even though I could feel Drew's heat as he stood waiting for me to answer, waiting for me to say something. Waiting for me to push harder, so he could push back. He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't turn away. He would stand fast, be the anchor I needed while I floated on a storm of mixed emotions and fucked up memories from my past. He was my tether, but I was still swinging blindly loose in the breeze.
Panic welled inside, that old familiar sensation. My eyes skittered across to the pantry, knowing that fucking can of Spam was sitting inside. Maybe I'd made a mistake leaving it there. What was the point of reminding myself, if I never let myself remember? Never said the words.
I hated my mother for what she became.
I hated my father more.
But I couldn't even voice those emotions, so deep and cutting and black that they were. They made up a part of me now, that I could never let go. They were rooted into the very being of who I had become, a sickness that had leaked into my psyche and festered until it became rot.
I sucked in air as though I was drowning, and for the second time today I thought I might just fall apart. I was better than this. I was Kelly Quayle. I didn't cry or break down or ask for help when I needed it. I found my own way out of the swamp, crawling if I had to, but I did it... myself. Alone.
I pushed past Drew, vaguely aware that he let me, and slammed the pantry door open, almost pulling the damn thing off its hinges.
There. It sat there looking innocuous. Just a can of fucking Spam.
My body shook, my hands clenched into fists. Sweat broke out on my brow.
This was so fucking ridiculous. A can of processed food had become a symbol of my fucked up life. I reached forward, noting the trembling in my fingers as I grasped the tin and lifted it up. When I swung around he was there, can opener in his hand, soft grey staring me down.
"You don't have to do this alone, sweetheart."
"I don't know how to do it any other way," I admitted.
He reached forward and wrapped a hand around my shaking wrist helping me lift the can up to the opener. He attached the cutting device to the rim and then set both the can and my hand down on the bench.
"Do you want to do the honours, or me?" he asked, hand hovering over the handle, ready to turn.
I stared at the can of Spam, let the images of countless silent meals wash over me. Remembered the dead look in my mother's eyes, as she blindly forked a portion of meat into her mouth. The soul deep dejection, the fact that she'd given up, and all that was left was an empty shell.
I'd been so determined not to become her. To make s
ure I still felt something, anything, to confirm I was still alive. But in all honesty, a part of me would always be a reflection of the emptiness she had inside. A part of me would always believe that was my fate too.
"I don't want to stop feeling," I whispered to the can. "If I stop feeling I'll be like her."
"I won't let you. I promise," Drew whispered back.
He reached up and started turning the handle on the can opener. For a moment I just watched as the lid lifted and separated from the rim. The smell of pork wafted out, the glint of jelly and speckled pink meat peaked beneath the lid.
"I hate Spam," I announced.
"So do I," Drew offered, almost as though we were having a normal conversation. But there was nothing normal about this. I was excising a part of my past by emptying a can of Spam.
I started laughing as the lid finally came free. It wasn't a humorous laugh, more a little deranged, I think.
"One final taste?" Drew asked, lifting the can up off the bench.
I screwed up my nose and shook my head emphatically.
"Oh, well," he added, and then shook the can out over the waste disposal unit. I watched it glug, glug, glug out, that suction sound adding to the horror. Then turned on the water and flicked the switch on the waste disposal unit.
In a matter of seconds it had disappeared down the sink and Drew simply crushed the can in his hands and threw it in the rubbish. The lid on the bin came down with a determined thump.
He turned to me and dusted his palms together, as though it was a job well done.
"So," he said. "I was thinking pizza and some gooey caramel ice-cream for dinner. What d'ya say?"
I was breathing too quickly, staring into shining and reassuring grey eyes, feeling a strange weight lifted off my shoulders. For a moment I couldn't put a sentence together, my mind a jumbled mess of unfamiliar sensations.
He lifted his hand up and cupped my cheek.
"One step at a time, sweetheart," he whispered. "You can do it."
Could I? My eyes flicked to the empty sink, then over to the closed lid of the trash bin. Then inevitably to the pantry door, still hanging open forlornly. The shelf bore a half used pack of pasta shells, some herbs and canola oil, and that was about it.
But no Spam.
A huff of breath left me and I felt myself smiling back at Drew. It was tentative, and definitely not my usual come hither Kelly Quayle smile, but it was a start.
One step at a time. Yeah, I think I could do that.
Chapter 11
There Was Nothing For It, My Shower Would Have To Be Cold
We ordered in. Super Supreme pizza with everything on top and two Gooey Caramel Magnum ice-creams along with a couple of Cokes. We watched TV as we sat cross legged on my couch, the cushions scattered haphazardly across the floor. Occasionally one of us spoke, but for the most part we ate companionably and laughed at the comedy that was on the box.
It was normal. It was... nice.
It was a little frightening still.
When the movie finished and I cleared up our empty pizza tray, ice-cream wrappers and cans of Coke, a heaviness settled over the room. Drew watched me move about silently, tidying up my sparse living room. His arms outstretched along the back of the couch, as though he didn't have a care in the world.
I did. I had no idea of what came next. And the uncertainty of that chilled me, dampened my ardour, if I'd had any ardour at all, and made me fidget, dust when I never dusted, straighten when I'd never cared to straighten before.
Finally, having tidied my lounge as much as it could be tidied, I turned to face him. My mouth opened and no words came out.
He watched silently for a few seconds, then shifted to stand.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
I shook my head. I was exhausted, but sleep would never come when I was so worked up like this.
"Do you want a bath or a shower?" he suggested?
I wrung my hands.
"Kelly," he said on a small sigh. "Do you think I'll hurt you? Make you do something you don't want to do?"
My head shook more slowly than last time, a measure of calm starting to invade my mind.
"I'm tired," he admitted. "I wouldn't mind a shower. It's been a hellishly long day. And then, I think sleep, preferably with you wrapped up in my arms. That's about it. I've got court tomorrow and need to be in the office early, so if it's OK with you, let's just get ready for bed."
I let a slow breath of air out.
"There's towels in the bathroom," I finally managed to say.
"OK," he replied with a soft smile and then headed toward the hallway.
He stopped when he came alongside me.
"Do you want to join me?" he asked, his body was held rigidly still.
"You're tired," I pointed out.
"For you there is always a little more left in reserve."
Something about that amused me and I huffed out a laugh. Then shook my head.
"I think I'll just get ready for bed."
"OK," he said again in that soft voice. He stroked my cheek and then walked out of the room. I was sure he'd find the bathroom easily enough, this cottage only had one off the hall.
Then I remembered the state of my bed. The unmade sheets. The fact that I hadn't changed them since the last hit of bliss I brought home. I couldn't face that room. Or more precisely, I couldn't face that bed. Not with Drew.
He'd been so good to me today. He'd been an anchor, something to tether me to the ground when I threatened to float away. He'd been patient and understanding, even when I'd thrown it all back in his face. He'd shown a determination and dedication to me I didn't deserve. He'd kept his promise. He wasn't going anywhere.
I would not sleep with him in that bed, even if all he did was hold me. I needed a new start. I needed to clean the slate. I was getting rid of that bed tomorrow.
I walked down the hall, bypassing my bedroom and peered into the spare room, where Abi used to sleep. The bed had been made up with fresh sheets after the last time she stayed over. Occasionally when Ben had an all night stake out, Abi stayed here. We'd catch up, have a few drinks and watch cheesy romance movies. No one but Abi and Ben had stayed in this room. It was clean, devoid of my sordid past, only full of the good things. Good friends. Good times. Clean times.
We'd sleep in here.
I closed the curtains and crossed to the dresser, pulling out one of Abi's spare t-shirts, then slipped it on, chucking my tattered uniform in the laundry basket in the corner of the room; I couldn't face it right now. I was between the sheets by the time Drew found me.
His eyes flicked about the room and a small frown line appeared between his brows.
"This isn't where you normally sleep," he declared.
I thought about my answer, coming up with a dozen deflections easily. Then sucked in a breath and said the truth.
"I don't want to be with you in there."
He crossed his arms over his chest, making me realise he was just in a white singlet, clearly his under-shirt. His business shirt was nowhere to be seen. He was bare foot and had on his trousers, but they were undone at the waist, the belt missing. I could tell he didn't have underwear on underneath.
Interesting.
I'd seen Drew in boxers before, I'd seen him go commando. As yet I hadn't found a pattern, but I wondered if the lack of underwear was when he'd been planning to catch up with me, or just coincidence.
"Why not?" he demanded, sounding a little put out.
I frowned back at him. I thought it was obvious. But maybe not to Drew.
"I need to change the bed." Understanding flickered across his face and then was replaced with a scowl.
"Last night?" he asked, jaw flexing.
"What about last night?"
"Did you have someone in there last night?" he clarified, scowl still in place.
Uh oh. Was this how it would be?
I shook my head.
"Then why do you need to change the sheets?"
Oh. "It's not the sheets. It's the whole bed. I want to get rid of it."
The scowl smoothed out slightly.
"Why?" he whispered. Pushing again.
Drew would always push me. I knew this. I'd just thought I'd have a little more time before he began pushing me again.
My fingers clutched at the sheet on my chest and I sucked in a breath of air.
Then opened myself a little further.
"You deserve better than that."
His lips parted on a surprised breath of air. The anger evident in his features wiped cleanly away. Replaced with a sense of awe.
Then he was on the bed, crawling up my body, fisting a hand in my hair and another around my shoulders lifting me up to his lips and kissing me soundly.
It was lust and passion and tenderness and hunger and longing so potent I could taste it on his tongue. It went on for minutes, both of us breathless by the time he pulled his mouth away from mine. He stared at me for a long drawn out moment and then licked his lips, ducked his head, and laid a sweet, soft kiss against my chin, followed by my cheek, then my forehead and back down to my nose, and then finally on my lips again.
He'd never kissed me like that before. There'd been passion and lust and hunger and longing. And there had been tenderness too. Drew always offered a gentle kiss or soft touch so at odds with the illicit engagements we'd had, as though he couldn't help giving me that little bit more of himself, when I only ever gave him a glimpse of the real me.
But he had never taken the time to offer such exquisite and gentle caresses of his lips against my skin. The sort of tender touches lovers might share. Not just fuck buddies who lived life on the edge, grabbing sex whenever they could knowing they might get caught at any second.
This was different and for a moment I lay there and tried to decide if it was wrong.
But how would I know what was normal? How would I know what was right for the average couple to share? What I did know was what it felt like for me.
And it felt like... coming home.
My eyes welled with tears. I fucking hated them. His face softened and he said, voice husky, grey pulling me deep into their depths, "Have you ever made love before, Kelly?"
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