15. JACK
15
JACK
T he moment I open the front door, I know something’s wrong. I don’t know how I know, I just do, and that eerie sixth sense makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
The house is dark, as though no one’s home. It normally smells like exotic cooking, but tonight it smells like furniture polish. It smells the way it used to before Elly moved in and started attacking my kitchen with a flair that I hadn’t anticipated.
“El?”
No response.
I flip on the lights in the hall and make my way to the kitchen, and what I see makes my stomach lurch. Elly is slumped over the kitchen counter, arms akimbo, her head lolling to one side.
Fear swoops in my gut. Fuck . She’s dead. She’s fucking dead.
I rush towards her, catching sight of the empty bottle of wine and the half-empty glass with lipstick on the side that sits on the island next to her.
She groans, and the side of her face distorts where it’s stuck to the granite, and I get a shot of relief. She’s really, really drunk, but not dead.
I put a hand on her shoulder and shake her gently. “El?” She groans again. Responsive, thank God . I drop down beside her, my legs weak with after-effects of the adrenaline. “I thought you were dead.”
“Lansen. You’re home,” she slurs. “Missed you.”
Missed you? The booze must have addled her brain, but I don’t care. I’m practically soaring with relief because she hasn’t died in my kitchen. If she wasn’t so drunk, I’d kiss her.
I keep my hand on hers. “You drank a whole bottle of wine?”
Her eyes flutter open. “Yah.” She makes the word long and slow.
I pick up the empty bottle and check the label. Domaine Leroy . Fuck . She’s polished off a thirty-grand bottle of wine like a teenager downing a litre of peach schnapps, but the hint of irritation I feel dissolves in an instant. There’s no way she got this drunk for no reason. “Next time, wait for me to come home before you crack open the good stuff.”
She waves her index finger indiscriminately in my direction, as though she can’t quite see where I am. She’s probably seeing three of me. “You want to get drunk with me?” She gives me drunk eyes that are obviously supposed to be sexy or seductive or something to that effect, but she only succeeds in looking more violently inebriated.
“That would be safer all round. What happened?”
“Not telling you, Mr Perfect.” She blows a sloppy raspberry at me, slumps back down, and closes her eyes. “Your life is perfect. You have it all. A perfect fucking life. Money, career, looks…”
Where is this coming from? “What happened? Did someone upset you?” An unprecedented flare of rage bursts through me at the idea that someone caused her to come home and drink herself stupid. “Who was it? What did they say?” She shrugs, but that’s not enough of an answer to satisfy me. “Tell me who it was, El. Tell me who hurt you.”
Her eyes are still closed when she slurs, “No one. No one hurt me. I did it. Me. I hurt me. I’m useless .”
What the hell is she talking about? I’m confused, but at least there isn’t another party involved. “No, you aren’t. I won’t let you think that.”
“A perfect body. You have that too,” she says, circling back to her previous line of conversation as if we never deviated.
“You think that’s all you need for a perfect life?”
She stutters a drunken moan, and tears leak from the corners of her eyes; because of the tilt of her head against the island, they dribble down the side of her nose. She’s not sobbing. She’s leaking tears. I can’t tell if she’s really upset, or just incredibly drunk. Probably both.
I wipe the tears away with my thumb, stroking her cheek. Her skin is so soft. I haven’t touched her this intimately since that night at the racetrack when we nearly kissed. She doesn’t react, but when she exhales it sounds like a small, satisfied purr.
“Love,” she whispers. “Love too. Then you’d have everything you need for a perfect life.”
A wry laugh seeks to escape my mouth, itching in the back of my throat. Is that what I need? I’m not sure love is on the cards for me, because the cards all bear the faces of very specific women, chosen by my mother. I’m not going anywhere near that shit.
“Ah. My life is definitely not perfect then.” I wipe another tear from her face, and she stares up at me. If she wasn't so drunk, her eyes half-glazed, the moment would be unbearably intense. In sobriety, it would easily reach a level of intimacy we haven’t shared before.
“You’re sweet,” she drawls, interrupting my thoughts and prodding the island with one finger to anchor herself. “I like you a lot more than I thought I did.” She smiles up at me, and the flicker of happiness that ignites in my heart takes me by surprise. “I like it best when you take your shirt off. One day, I’d like to f—”
I press a finger to her lips. “Shhhh. Drunk talk is bad talk. Save it for when you’re sober.”
Her lips form a sloppy grin against my finger, and she makes that purring sound again. “You’re not trying to win the game.”
Does she think I’d take advantage of her? Or was she about to beg me for sex?
“You mean because you’re drunk? I wouldn’t do that.”
She glances at me. “You’re a good man. Even if you do throw your money around like Mr Monopoly.”
Mr Monopoly? I’m about to make a witty comeback when she groans. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much.”
“Do you want food? Are you going to be sick?”
“Maybe.”
I get her a glass of water and an Alka Seltzer, insisting she drinks it, and then I fry some bacon and make her a sandwich, which she eats with inebriated gusto, licking the grease from her fingers. Afterwards, as I’m clearing up, she falls asleep, snoring gently against the counter.
I watch the rise and fall of her shoulders, and the way her hair shifts with each breath. I can’t leave her here. She’ll fall off the stool and hit her head on the stone floor.
I pick her up, cradling her in my arms, and carry her up to her room. I put her on the bed, and briefly wonder if I ought to take her clothes off, and then immediately reason that I can’t possibly do that, so I tuck her under the covers fully clothed instead.
But she’s so drunk, I can’t leave her alone. What if she throws up? I put the waste-paper basket at the side of the bed in case she vomits, and sit in the chair by the window. I’ll sleep right here, and if she’s sick, or she needs help, I’ll be nearby.
I’m about to lower myself into the chair when I really take a look around the room. Fuck, it’s messy in here. Does she ever hang up her clothes? Put stuff away? I try to ignore the mess, but everywhere I look, something’s out of place. Damn it. Quietly, I fold up the clothes strewn about the room and put her shoes back in pairs near the cupboard. When I’m done, I settle into the chair to wait.
“Jack?”
I spring to my feet, rushing towards her before I know what I’m doing. “Yeah?”
“Will you hold me?”
My muscles seize, and I halt halfway across the room. She seriously wants me to get into bed and hold her? Christ. “What?”
“Please.” Her head is rolled halfway into the pillow, her mouth against it. It’s hard to understand what she’s saying, but she shifts and her next sentence is clear. “I’m so sad.”
Those three words reach inside me, grip on, and start to fucking tug. I hate the idea of her being sad. I knew she was, or at least suspected it after her behaviour tonight, but to hear it spoken so plainly in her own words is haunting.
“Please?” she says again, and a sound like a sob fills the room, making the tension that had taken hold of my shoulders grip harder. I can’t leave her here, drunk and miserable. She wants company. That’s it. I can give her that, can't I? I won’t try to win this stupid game I’ve set in action. We can put all of that aside tonight.
I bend to untie my shoelaces and slip my shoes off. “Okay.” At my agreement, she gives a sweet-sounding sigh that gets me hot in places it shouldn’t. Focus, Lansen. She’s drunk. This is not a moment to get aroused; this is me making sure I don’t need to take her to A I can tell from the breathy exhales sounding at regular intervals and her lack of movement. I don’t want to wake her.
I’m like a fucking ninja, the way I’m raising my arm, allowing it to levitate over her hip before I snatch it away once I’m clear of skin, and rolling backwards off the bed.
When my feet silently hit the floor, I check the time: 6.05 am. I stand and stretch, then walk around to the other side of the bed so I can see her face. She’s so peaceful like this. What on earth could have driven her to come home and get so fucked up? To sit alone and drink an entire bottle of wine? I push a strand of hair off her face, and she murmurs in her sleep. So beautiful.
I should go. I’m drifting into creepy territory here. She’s made it through the night and has a full glass of water for when she wakes up, so she doesn't need me anymore.
And I have to go and handle my morning glory before my dick busts a hole in my trousers.
I let myself out of the room, wondering if I’m annoyed or relieved that Elly is still asleep and will likely never know that she slept all night in my arms.