ELEVEN
Gigi
I haven’t seen much of Harry. Allowing me into his home gave me a teeny-tiny insight into his life, but that was evidently too much. For a guy who doesn’t seem to scare easily, the morning after our incident he’d up and left for work without so much as a goodbye. Mia begrudgingly dropped me back home even though my parents weren’t due back for a few more days.
It’s now been a full week since I was at his house, and all my morals are in shatters. Work has been grating on my last nerve so much that I find myself reluctant to even turn up. Mia is begging me to stay at hers, but I’m not even entertaining that idea. I’m sick of being someone’s burden. Greg has been calling non-stop and I’ve ignored him with each ring, no matter the pang of guilt I’ve suffered with each rejected call. And still nothing from Harry – not that that I expected anything less.
When my parents do finally make it home from the Cotswolds, they’re buzzing to speak despite my mood being far from chatty. For once Dad even looks up from his plate while we tuck into dinner.
“… and there was a beautiful little village in the countryside that we went to. It was stunning. Fields as far as the eye could see. Not like those busy London roads.”
“Yeah,” I say .
“All the villages were like that, really. Everything was so picturesque. We might move to the Cotswolds. We talked about it – didn’t we, Husband? It would mean you’d have to find your own place, though, sweetheart. Couldn’t expect you to suffer that commute to work.”
“Right.” I stab at my steak, struggling to find an appetite.
In my peripheral Mum’s body stiffens, and she lifts her nose in a huff. Entertaining their relocation to the countryside isn’t on my agenda today.
“So …” she says, grating her steak knife into the plate. “Who else was in my home while we were away?”
“I didn’t stay here.” Not completely a lie.
“Oh,” she huffs, surprised. “Where did you stay then?”
“Just with some guy.” I chance a glance at her. She hides her true emotions behind the shredded piece of meat she’s chewing on. “I did find out something interesting though.”
“What’s that?” she asks, the disinterest evident.
“His friend said he knew Jack … before everything happened.”
She stills.
Despite the uncertainty of her emotions, I add, “Said he was a bit of a badass.”
Mum smashes her glass against the table, causing the piece to shatter. I persist and finally raise my head to meet hers.
“A lot of people knew about him, actually. Caused quite a lot of trouble in the city by the sound of things.”
The slap echoes across the room before I feel the sting against my cheek. Clutching the sore part of my skin, tears dominate my vision as I watch my mother, her nostrils flaring.
She’s never slapped me. Not once. Not ever. Not until today.
A tear threatens to fall, but not from pain. It’s from my pure stupidity.
She stands, trying to evoke her authority by towering above me .
A bitter laugh slips from my lips as I drop my hand. “Touch me again and I promise you, you’ll regret it,” I say, the knife on the table suddenly looking very appealing.
“Get out,” she says through gritted teeth.
“There’s no going back from this,” I warn her. “Not only have you lost one child, but now you’ve lost two.”
Before she can think about upping one of the pieces of cutlery and throwing her weapon at my head, I leave the house and charge to my car in a fit of fury and adrenaline. As soon as the vicious cold air attacks my cheeks, panic engulfs me in hot flushes.
Hiding in the comfort of my car and letting the tears finally fall, I call Mia – my lifeline – instantly, but it goes straight to voice mail.
“Fuck!” My voice cracks as I slam my hand against the steering wheel.
I scroll through my contracts, hating the only option my mind spirals towards.
Then another name stalls me.
Harry St. James.
I’m not even sure when he would have had the time to put his number in my phone, but I’ve embarrassed myself enough tonight without running into his arms like some weak damsel in distress …
Which leaves me with one option.
When I dial their number, they pick up on the second ring.
“I’m not ready to accept your apology yet, but I need you.” I choke back a sob. “Please.”
I walk through the front door with nothing more than my phone in one hand and my car keys in the other, so the only plausible idea is that I wear Greg’s T-shirt overnight. And the next night. And the night after. And the one after that.
It isn’t my favourite clothing option, but I’m limited in choice. I’m thankful for the fact the length covers my underwear since we’re forced to share a bed, afraid doing so could encourage more intimacy between me and him. That’s the last thing I want right now. Come to think of it, I haven’t been in the mood for anything since Harry arrived on the scene – not that we’d ever go there with one another anyway.
Greg pesters me to talk things out so we can go back to the way we were, but I’m not one to forgive easily, so I think it’s best to pretend the issue never happened. I soon lose track of how long I’ve been here, but one thing I’m certain of is that Harry has dropped off the face of the earth. No late-night visits. No pop-ins for groceries. Nothing.
The aftermath of my argument with my parents forces me to struggle with sleep. I stare at the ceiling unforgivingly from Greg’s bed, eyes boring into the cracked paint.
I let at least a couple of hours tick by tonight before I slip out from under the sheets and exit the room silently. My footing falters on the stairs as I feel the presence of someone incredibly intimidating yet … strangely comforting.
My bare feet pad against the last few steps, and then my eyes clash with Harry’s. He’s pulled a wooden chair from the dining table and he’s sitting in it, resting his forearms on his thighs.
There’s silence between us – except for the dull hum of the refrigerator and the droplets inside the sink from the faulty tap. His gaze is overpowering, so intense I fail to notice the line of blood trailing from his upper chest down his stomach. My eyes dare to flicker to his naked torso, taking in the devastating sight .
While a part of me wants to help, I have the growing suspicion I’ll be rejected. And I’m not sure how much rejection I can take from Harry. Each time, it pushes me a little closer to the edge, and I’m scared I’m close to free-falling.
Instead I go to the sink, retrieve the first-aid kit, and hand him the box without a single question.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice low.
A volt of electricity shivers up my arm from where his skin brushes mine, and I try really hard to ignore it. His long fingers fumble with the contents of the box, but it’s evident he’s clueless about what he’s doing.
Fuck it.
Fighting against all morals, I decide this will be a huge testament to my character, and I pray I’ll remain composed. Walking over to the sink, I fill up a bowl of warm water and place it on the table beside the chair he’s occupying.
“Sit,” I tell him.
He spreads his legs wide, inviting me in. “Yes, ma’am.”
I walk closer and kick his legs closed with the inside of my knee. While I would love to embrace his heat, I’m not allowing myself to fall into that trap. Not after he rejected my advances the last night I saw him.
Taking the box out of his hands, I place it on the table and submerge the cloth in warm liquid. As I wring out the excess water, my eyes drop to the wound carved across his chest. It’s hard to see the extent of the damage with all the blood surrounding it.
“How’d this happen?” I ask, pressing the cloth against his skin.
“Work,” he says, not thinking twice about the answer.
I’m no fool. I know the photography business is a fa?ade for something much darker.
“Do you want to know what’s funny?” I ask, retracting the cloth and leaning over to submerge it in the water again, rinsing it clean .
“I imagine you’re going to tell me anyway.”
The abruptness of his tone makes me frown. Purely out of spite, I return the cloth to his chest and push it directly into the wound, causing him to hiss.
“I never knew photography could be so dangerous.”
“Whatever you’re thinking – don’t.” He maintains eye contact, the pools of green like a trap to stop me from prying.
I jolt when I feel the pad of his thumb running gently over my thigh. Without realising I’ve sunk into his embrace, my legs now resting comfortably between his parted ones. With each stroke of his thumb, goose bumps trail down my legs, decorating my skin. White-knuckling the cloth to ground my emotions, I ignore the body heat radiating off him, enticing me in. Slowly, I bring the damp cloth back to his chest and wipe the affected area.
Forcing a swallow, I train my eyes elsewhere, and when I scan the art littering his skin, I say, “I never knew you had so many tattoos.” The markings and a mixture of symbols cover his chest, his toned torso, his shoulders, and his biceps, until they cut off dramatically at his elbows. “What do they all mean?”
“I’ll tell you one day,” he says.
“Is that a promise?”
He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and I watch the motion slowly. “On my honour.”
Trapped in a lust-filled haze, I didn’t even realise I’d cleared the blood fully from his chest, giving way to a sore wound. While it’s clear of crimson, the gash looks extremely painful. Reaching over to grab a clean cloth to pat it dry, my eyes catch something prominent at the back of his neck. A distorted ring of skin encircles his otherwise smooth neck and shoulder blades.
Is that … a burn?
It’s white, scarred, circular, and it has a terrifying amount of precision … almost like it was deliberately placed there. My heart feels heavy at the realisation, and my throat grows thick with all the words I struggle to say. When I bring my body back a few steps to distract myself, I spot Harry scrutinising the mark on my cheek that’s still healing from my mother’s slap. A shadow of a cut remains, practically impossible to see unless you’re in my immediate vicinity.
“Who did this to you?” he asks, bringing his hand to my cheek.
The comfort of his touch instinctively makes me lean into him. When his eyes darken, demanding answers, I say, “Tell me about your wounds and I’ll tell you about mine.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not asking again, princess.”
“Neither am I,” I reiterate. “Who branded you, Harry?”
The fury in his eyes is unforgiving.
“You can’t expect to protect my back if I can’t protect yours.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then let me in,” I plead.
He tears his eyes away. “No.”
This man will be the death of me. He is torturous and damning.
Yet … perfectly imperfect.
As if the realisation impales me straight in the chest, I don’t want him to be the death of me. I want him to be the making of me.