Chapter Thirty-Five Colin
Chapter Thirty-Five
Colin
Seven years ago
Barclay Manor
“Holy shit, Declan,” I mumble as he leads me through yet another hallway in his giant manor of a house. “This place is amazing.”
He laughs. “Doesn’t your dad have like two mansions?”
I shrug. “Yeah, but they’re not old and cool like this.”
His chuckles feel forced as he keeps his back to me. Something is different about Declan this year. He seems more guarded, as if he’s holding something in.
I hate that. I wish he’d just open up to me. Let me in.
“Show me your room,” I say, wrapping my arms around him from behind. He links his fingers with mine.
“Oh really?” he asks, peering at me over his shoulder. “So you’re done with the tour already?”
“I still want a tour,” I reply. “I just want it to start with your room. Specifically, your bed.”
He hooks his hands under my thighs and hoists me off the floor and onto his back. I laugh in his ear as he carries me to his room.
When we get there, everything is great, but everything is off at the same time. There are no good boys and talk of possession. He doesn’t force me to my knees and make me feel like I belong to him.
The sex is good like it always is. We tear our clothes off in a frenzy, devouring each other like we’ve both been starved, but he doesn’t look me in the eyes like he normally does.
When he enters me, he buries his face in my neck and fucks me like he needs it—not like he needs me.
His pleasure is laced with pain, and his fingers interlace with mine painfully as he drives me into the mattress.
It’s heated and wonderful until we’re both coming loudly and collapsing in a satisfied heap on the bed. But it’s different, and that plants a seed of worry in my gut.
I’m lying on his chest, softly toying with the dark patch of hair, and I can’t stop thinking about how we ended things last year. In fact, it’s been gnawing at me all year. The way we both clearly expressed how we want different things.
Declan isn’t interested in a relationship, and I understand.
But I’m afraid he thinks it’s the relationship that’s important to me.
All I really want is him. And not only eight days a year.
I need him in the fall and winter. Over the holidays and on my birthday in the spring.
I want Declan involved in every big moment of my life and not just a text message or a phone call.
I guess that is a relationship, isn’t it?
Round and round we go.
“What do you want to do this week?” I ask, lifting up to stare at him.
“This,” he replies, running his fingers down my spine.
“I want to meet your family,” I say. “I mean, your brothers.”
Declan tenses. “Killian lives here, so you’ll meet him.”
There’s something in his tone that sounds unsure or uncomfortable with that, but I’m afraid to press it. The idea to come to Barclay Manor was mine, but Declan didn’t protest. I wanted him to feel at home. And I didn’t want some travel destination to overshadow our time together.
“And Lachlan?” I ask.
“He’s in New York.”
“Oh,” I reply flatly.
It’s quiet between us for a few moments before he finally says, “Colin, listen…”
I bolt my head up, alarmed at the sound of my first name on his lips.
“There’s something you need to know about my brother.”
“What?”
“He has a tendency to drink too much, party too much, go a little off the rails. I just want you to be prepared. He can get rowdy and a little mean when the mood strikes.”
I squeeze my arms around him. “I’m not afraid.”
“I hoped that having me here for the summer would help…” he says somberly.
“It hasn’t?” I ask.
He shakes his head, so I move from his chest and sit up on the bed. Declan lies on the pillow next to me, and I softly stroke his hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he replies.
“I know, but I’m still sorry that you’re going through this.”
“It’s better when you’re here,” he says, and it tugs on my heart to hear him say that.
After a while, Declan’s eyes close. With his arm looped around my thigh and my back to the headboard, he falls asleep, and I feel content just watching him.
All I keep thinking is that we just need to get through this week, and everything will be fine.
* * *
“You have a horse?” I ask as I approach the stall where a beautiful white mare stands. We decided to take a walk around the property after Declan woke up from his nap. I filled the time reading and rehearsing lines for a part I’m playing in a few weeks.
“Aye,” he replies. “That’s Moire, but don’t ask me a thing about her. Killian is better with the horses and farm stuff than I am.”
I laugh at that as I leave his side and approach the animal. She’s gentle, letting me stroke her head and pet her mane.
“You like horses?” he asks as he comes behind me and touches my back.
“I was trained to ride when I was a kid, but I haven’t done it in ages. We should take her out while I’m here.”
“You’d like that?” he asks.
Turning toward him with a smile, I notice a sense of hesitation on his face. There’s a storm brewing inside of Declan. I can tell. I just wish there was something I could do to help. I’m here. I’m giving him all the comfort and affection that I can, but I can’t scale this wall by myself.
If he wants to be happy, he’s going to have to let me in.
“I would,” I reply softly.
Declan’s hands rest on my hips as he kisses my neck, making me groan and pause my hand on the horse. This intimate affection always throws me for a loop. When did this happen? When did we go from friends to friends who have sex to lovers?
I wish I could pinpoint the moment. Does he still think me his best friend when he kisses me like this?
“You know…” I say as he turns me around and presses my back to the wood fence. Moire loses interest in us and slowly walks away. “I have a big premiere in October. I can bring a date.”
He kisses my throat, licking a line from my collarbone to my chin. “You want me to go to a Hollywood premier, Shakespeare?”
“There’s no one else I’d rather take,” I reply with a whimper as he nibbles on my jaw.
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for that.”
I consider dropping it, because that’s what I always do. I don’t press the issues or argue for more. Never rock the boat.
What has that ever got me?
“It’ll be fun. There’s nothing to worry about,” I say as I hold his body against mine.
“We’ll see, Shakespeare.”
“Please,” I whine.
With a huff of frustration, he pulls away, and it feels like I’ve killed the moment. As he runs his hands through his hair, he turns away from me. “I said we’ll see.”
His voice is tense and uncomfortable, and regret rolls through me. “I’m sorry,” I say, reaching for him.
“What do you have to be sorry about?” he asks. He sounds livid, and I have to swallow down my guilt.
The sound of tires on gravel distracts us as we both turn to watch a pair of cars driving toward the manor. They are expensive-looking sports cars, and Declan lets out a grunt of frustration.
“Not again,” he mutters under his breath.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“My brother’s friends. Look like he’s throwing another party tonight.”
“Parties are fun,” I say, carefully gauging his reaction.
“I don’t want you at these parties,” he replies sternly.
“Okay,” I say, reaching for him. I wish he’d touch me again. I just want to silence all of the demons in his head, even the ones I don’t understand. I’d use my body to do it if he let me.
When he finally looks at me, his features soften, and we just stare at each other for a moment. Then he reaches for my hand, and we intertwine them as we continue our walk. Dark clouds roll in from the east, cutting our walk short when the rain starts.
It’s pouring by the time we make it back to the house. He ushers me in through the back, music and laughter spilling through the halls, but he won’t let me anywhere near it. Instead, he tugs me up the stairs, and we take a quick shower together before getting ready for bed.
When we reach his studio upstairs, I go back to my book, and Declan works on a painting, but I find it hard to relax. I’m restless. And it’s not just about going to the party. It’s about Declan letting me see past this veil he’s putting over my eyes.
It’s like he doesn’t want me to see the bad parts of his life, but that’s not how love or friendship works.
When I can’t take another moment, I climb from the bed and go to Declan, running my hands along his shoulders.
“Come to bed,” I whisper. “It’s late.”
“Go ahead,” he replies. “I took a nap. I’m fine.”
“Declan,” I mutter, kissing his neck. “I don’t want you to come to bed for sleep.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Let me finish this.”
Swallowing down my frustration, I try to fight against the brewing anger in my gut. This need to push back swells inside of me like a storm.
“Fine,” I say with a hint of indignation. “If you won’t play with me, I’ll find someone who will.”
His hand pauses. “You will not.”
“Why?” I ask, trying to remain playful, although this defiance feels more real than it should. “What will you do? Punish me?”
He turns his head to glare daggers at me. “You bloody know I will.” The way he said that definitely was not playful.
I shrug my shoulders, although they feel stiff. “Fine by me. Maybe I want to get punished.”
Dropping his brush, he turns toward me. “I’m not playing, Colin.”
“Well, maybe that’s the problem, Declan. You’re being too serious. So what if it’s a party? So what if there’s alcohol and sex? What are you so worried about?”
“I’m not having this argument with you,” he growls as he turns back toward his painting.
“Then why can’t I go have a little fun?”
“Because you’re mine!” he bellows, slamming his fist on the table. I jolt, heat flushing my cheeks as I stare at him. Tears begin to prick behind my eyes as I fight the urge to cry.
When he looks at me, the anger melts away, and it’s like a switch has suddenly been flipped.
“Fuck, Shelby, I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for me. And when he tugs me into his arms, I let him. Wrapping his arms around me, he kisses my cheek, but I don’t relax against him. “I’m such a bloody arsehole,” he murmurs into my ear. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I mumble before pulling away.
“Come on, let’s go to bed,” he says as he stands from the stool. But I quickly shake my head.
“It’s fine. Finish your painting.”
As I move back toward the bed and climb under the covers, it feels as if I bring a live wire of tension with me. He eventually turns back to his painting, but his movements are slow and melancholy. Nothing is the same as it was a moment ago. And nowhere near what it was years ago.
I let silent tears soak the pillow as I realize that he’s right—I am his. But suddenly, it feels more like a prison than it did before.
Eight days a year was never enough and will never be enough. It can’t bridge the gap we’ve created as we grow and change over time.
And worst of all, I realize that I only matter eight days a year to Declan. That’s all I am to him.
How could I put up with this for so long? How much longer would I keep it up before finally demanding more? I don’t want to waste all of my good years on a love that takes more than it gives.
I don’t know how much time goes by before I sit up on the bed, placing my feet on the floor and facing him.
“Declan,” I say as I place my hands on my knees.
When he doesn’t even turn his head toward me, I feel as if I’m bracing myself for battle.
“Please look at me,” I say.
“I can’t,” he replies sadly.
This sadness grows thick in my throat like a disease, but I can’t keep shoving it down. So when I speak again, I let it all out. The sadness, the regret, the pain. It cracks and shatters my voice, but I don’t care. He needs to hear it.
“I wish you’d tell me why you’re so sad. I’m here to listen. Let me help.”
“I can’t,” he mumbles quietly.
“When I needed you in uni, you were there. When I was in the hospital in Italy, you were there. Please, Colin, let me be there for you. Let me in.”
“It’s not that easy, Shelby,” he mutters.
“Why not?”
He turns toward me with red-rimmed eyes, and still…no tears. “Because this isn’t an arsehole in an alleyway we can punch and make go away. This isn’t a wound that heals with medicine. Don’t you understand? I’m broken.”
“I don’t believe that,” I argue.
“Well, this is just the way I am, Colin. You can either accept it or…” His voice trails and something inside of me shatters.
“Well, I can’t keep doing this,” I say with a sob.
He hangs his head, and it only makes it hurt more. Moments pass by as I wait, but he gives me nothing.
“Declan, say something!” I cry.
“I don’t have anything to say,” he replies.
“Really?” I shout as I stand up. “After eight years, you have nothing to say?”
“Colin, if you want to leave, then you should leave.”
My mouth drops open as I stare at him in shock. This is the man who broke another man’s nose for hurting me. This is the man who called me his. Who told me I was the best thing in his life.
“Well, if you won’t fight for me, then maybe I should.”
The old Colin would have never left. The old Colin would have never walked out that door, but the old Colin is the one who got me into this mess in the first place.
If Declan has taught me nothing else, he’s taught me that I’m worth so much more than this.
So, in an angry huff, I slip my pants back on and throw a shirt over my head. Declan doesn’t even move as I pull on my shoes.
But I see him flinch out of the corner of my eye when I tear open the door and march angrily out of the room.