Chapter Twenty-Nine Colin
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Colin
I rented a convertible for our week in Italy, although Declan insisted we should have no transportation and spend the week in our private rental house in the Tuscan countryside. And as nice as that sounds, I do love getting out with him.
For one whole week, I like to feel as if this is our life. We are a couple who travel together and take romantic drives through the hills of Italy.
We are spending the day in a quaint town where I don’t feel strange holding his hand or standing close to him.
We could do this in LA or London, but at this point, I’m starting to get recognized more and more.
The boundaries of my private life are growing smaller by the second—a sharp double-edged sword to this career path.
We’re perusing the shops when he finally brings up the one topic I was dreading.
“So how was New York?” he asks.
I force myself to swallow and try to stay casual.
“It was great. The shoot took longer than we expected. I’ve never worked such long hours in my life,” I reply with a chuckle.
Last autumn, I took a role that was the biggest in my career. And it meant six months in New York. Which unfortunately coincided with the time when Declan and I were supposed to move in together in London.
He told me he wasn’t upset. He encouraged me to take the role and said he would never forgive me if I passed on it.
But there has been a small part of me since that wonders if he was glad I took that part because it meant he got an easy out from having to live with me again.
He called it like old times when we were roommates. Is that really what I wanted to go back to? At least with these summer rendezvous, we don’t get two different rooms. We sleep in the same bed, and it feels like we are more than friends, even if it is just for eight days.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says, resting a hand on my lower back.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I lean into him. “I’m sorry London didn’t work out this year, but maybe we can plan for something…”
My voice trails with uncertainty.
“Maybe,” he says flatly.
This conversation is starting to depress me, so I turn our attention toward the jewelry in the shop instead. There’s a thick silver chain that catches my eye, and I drape it over my fingers. He stands behind me as he eyes the jewelry.
“Does my good boy want me to buy him something pretty?” he whispers in my ear. My mouth tugs into a crooked smirk.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper. “I would.”
Is it too soon to tell him that I wish this was a real collar? Probably. I don’t think he’s ready for that. Hell, I don’t know if I’m ready for that. These roles of dominance and submission are new to us, and collars are serious. They represent commitment and loyalty.
Not that I need one with him. He knows I’ll be his forever. Or at least I think he does.
Declan nods to the shop owner as he pulls out his wallet. When the woman starts to wrap up the necklace, he waves a hand to her. So she passes it over instead.
“Grazie,” he says with a courteous smile.
Then he drapes it over my neck and fastens it at the nape. It’s perfect. Masculine with a shimmer of silver that complements the blue in my eyes.
Pleased, I look at myself with it in the mirror. Just then, he steps up behind me, and I get a look at him and me together.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, I get that familiar foreboding feeling in my gut. What are we doing? We look and act like a couple, but we’re not.
Why do I just put up with this? Why don’t I demand more? I should tell him what I want.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, noticing my change in mood.
“Nothing,” I mumble in reply as I turn and leave the store.
He follows behind, keeping a hand on my back the entire time.
“Colin,” he says after we walk for a while. He uses my name, which means I must be showing my cards. He can tell I’m upset.
And I’m tired of feeling like this. When we reach the plaza at the center of the city, I stop and turn to face him.
“What are we doing, Declan?”
He looks surprised by my abrupt questioning. “What do you mean?”
“I mean us, Declan,” I argue, keeping my voice down to avoid attention.
“We’re doing what we do every single year, Colin,” he replies. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” I reply. “I don’t understand what you want from me. I don’t understand how you can treat me like your lover one moment and your friend the next. How much longer can we really do this?”
He steps toward me. “Are you telling me you want to stop? This whole thing was your idea.”
“No, I don’t want to stop,” I say, growing louder and more worked up.
“Then what?”
“I want more, Declan,” I reply, exasperated. “I don’t want to be with you once a year. I want to be with you every bloody day of the year. I want to be yours, really. Not just during sex or when it suits you.”
My hands are starting to shake, and I’m worked up. His expression turns concerned as he reaches for me.
And suddenly, a panic starts to set in. Why did I bring this up? Why did I start this? What if I’ve ruined everything?
“Okay, baby, just breathe for a moment. We can talk about this more when we get home, okay?”
“Yes, let’s go,” I shout.
I’m feeling too frantic as I turn away from him and start to march toward where we parked our car. He’s quick on my tail, but I need space. I need to think.
I’m too distracted, and I just keep taking deep breaths to try and calm myself down. Where on earth did this attack come from? What is wrong with me? Why am I like this?
The questions swirl wildly in my head as I scurry to the car, emotion building like a storm inside me. I see the car down the road, and I walk between two parked trucks to cross the street toward it.
Then everything happens so fast. I feel the abrupt, painful slam of the motorbike as it collides with my body. I hear Declan’s terror-filled scream as he calls my name. I surrender to the violent crash of the hot Italian cobblestones as they rise to meet my skull.
And then, it’s dark.
* * *
The hospital smells like lemons, which is weird, and it’s the first thing I notice when I open my eyes. My head is throbbing, and the lights are too bright. When I lift my fingers, I find gauze wrapped around my head, and I remember the traumatic events of the day.
I came to when they were loading me into the ambulance. It’s a memory I couldn’t wipe from my brain if I tried, because Declan was by my side, frantic and emotional when they had to peel him off of me.
I must have passed out again shortly after because I don’t remember anything about the ride to the hospital or being put in this bed.
“Excuse me,” I croak when I notice a nurse scurry by. This isn’t a large American or English hospital with private rooms and million-dollar medical equipment. It’s a small Italian hospital that probably doesn’t handle much outside of concussions and common illnesses.
When the nurse scurries by again, I realize she is the only one.
“Mi scusi,” I call. She rattles off something in Italian before she disappears into another room.
My head hurts so bad, and I realize my odds of getting prescribed the good stuff here are slim to none. There seem to be two other patients separated by thin curtains.
When the nurse returns, she comes to me first. She pulls a flashlight from her pocket and shines it in my eyes.
“Please,” I say. “My friend. Is he here?”
“Italiano,” she replies, and I let out a groan.
“I don’t speak Italian,” I say before collapsing on the bed.
Just then, I hear a commotion in another part of the building and what can only be described as an enraged Scotsman somewhere in the lobby.
“I don’t bloody care!” he bellows as I hear him coming closer.
“Signore, per favore!” a young voice calls, but she is no match for the tall, furious man who barrels through the door a moment later.
“Oh bloody hell,” he says when he sees me. He looks both relieved and horrified as he takes in my appearance.
“I’m fine,” I say, but it doesn’t stop him from rushing toward me and pulling me into his arms. The woman chasing him surrenders and leaves us, walking back up to the front while muttering something under her breath as she goes.
Declan is holding me so tightly I can feel his heart pounding through his chest. He’s breathing hard, and there seems to be a tremor in his bones.
“Are you all right?” he asks as he pulls away to inspect my wounds. I have some bad scratches and bruising on my rib cage and knees, but the worst of it is definitely my head.
“I’m fine, I promise,” I say, just trying to ease some of his worries.
“You gave me such a bloody fright, ya ken,” he says. His eyes are wild, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, although I’ve only been in here no more than a couple of hours.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
He takes my face in his and pulls me close, pressing our lips together.
“Don’t you apologize. I’m just relieved you’re alive.”
“Alive?” I ask with a scoff. “Declan, I was hit by a Vespa, not a truck.”
“Aye, but…” The sentence dies on his lips as I notice something in his expression change. Like sadness spilled over his features, and he’s trying to blink it away.
Then, realization dawns. His parents. They were killed in a tragic car crash.
Oh God, my poor Declan has been alone and terrified this whole time, thinking I suffered the same fate.
I reach for him and pull him into a tight embrace. “Oh, Declan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t respond. Just lets me hold him until I feel the unmistakable shudder of his stifled tears, which he tries to mask by clearing his throat or pulling away, but I feel them. He puts himself through hell just to keep from crying. Sometimes, I wish he’d just let it out.
“I’m glad, Shakespeare,” he whispers into my neck. “I’m so glad.”