Hidden Hearts

by Olivia Dade

  “I don’t know.” She glanced at her arms stretched in front of her, her thighs resting on his. “I’m built solid. I try to eat right and exercise regularly, but I just don’t have Camille’s body type.”

  His eagle eyes didn’t miss a thing. “I love your arms. They’re strong and soft at the same time.” He ducked his head to nuzzle her biceps. “And your legs make me think things that would shock you, Mary.”

  Goodness gracious, she wanted to ask. But if she started blushing any harder, she was going to burst into flames.

  “You don’t need to lose an ounce or exercise a minute more. Hell, gain ten pounds. Gain fifty. Gain a hundred.” He shrugged. “I really won’t care. I’ve dated larger women before. Which you probably know, since you mentioned my exes.”

  “They may have been plus-sized, but they were still models, Miles,” she couldn’t help pointing out.

  He waved a hand. “Irrelevant. We’ve already established that you’re gorgeous. One final question, Mary. What’s this about your hair falling out?”

  Damn. She’d hoped he’d missed that stupid, telling reference. If she ever snagged another TV-star boyfriend in the future, she was going for a dumb one.

  She gulped a little, and then told him what he wanted to know. Heck, what he needed to know. “When I was in California, I had some issues with disordered eating and compulsive over-exercising. My hair kind of, um…fell out.”

  He didn’t visibly react, but he didn’t look away from her, either. “Tell me more.”

  So she did, sharing the most distressing period of her life with him and answering his many questions. If she’d had her druthers, she’d have done it all with her hands over her face. Every time she tried, though, he gently pulled them away.

  “Usually, I think that’s cute. But this is important. I want to see you,” he said.

  And how could she argue with that?

  When she finished her story, he sat silent for a minute.

  “I’m so sorry you went through that,” he finally said. “I don’t understand why you can’t see how beautiful you are, but I promise to support you the best way I know how. And in return, I want a promise from you. Please promise to tell me if something makes you feel bad about the way you look. Right away, so I can help fix it, or at least make you feel better.”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip.

  After a moment, he tugged on a stray lock of her hair. “Promise.”

  “I promise,” she muttered.

  “Now it’s time for the hands-on portion of this conversation.” This time, his expression only twisted a little. “Hand-on, I should say.”

  She leaned back. “What does that mean?”

  “I’ve told you how perfect and gorgeous I think you are, but you still don’t believe me. I can see it in your face.”

  The words spilled from her lips without her approval. “Well, you haven’t asked me to…you know. Spend the night. And we’ve been dating for a while now.”

  This time, he let her cover her face.

  “What would you say if I did ask you?” His voice had become breathless, and his body had turned tense beneath hers.

  Polite evasion wouldn’t suffice. She needed to tell him the truth. “I’d probably say no. I don’t do, um, that outside of a committed relationship.”

  At that, his body went from tense to rocklike. “You don’t think we’re in a committed relationship? Because from my perspective, it certainly feels and looks like one.”

  Oh, goodness. He was clearly offended.

  “We are. Kind of.” She forced herself to drop her hands and meet his eyes. “But I still think you might decide to return to California and get back on television. I mean, assuming you don’t have enough money saved to retire now, what are you even going to do for work here?”

  He shifted beneath her, his eyes going over her right shoulder. “I was thinking I might write a book. Maybe.” His shoulders drooped. “Okay, so I’m not too sure what I want to do for a living yet. But I know I want to stay here. With you. I’m not cut out for life in Hollywood anymore.”

  Because of your arm? If so, you might change your mind once you’ve had more time to recover. She wanted to speak the words, but she figured they’d had enough painful honesty for one evening. She needed to let it go, at least for now.

  “If you’re not ready to spend the night, that’s fine.” He looked away from her again. “That’s why I waited to ask. I didn’t want to rush you, and I didn’t think you were there yet.”

  Something about those statements rang false to her. But once more, she didn’t have the fortitude to press him. Not right that second. Not when he was moving his hand to the back of her neck and tugging her close.

  He captured her mouth with his, his typical caution transformed into flagrant carnality. His tongue staked a claim, masterful and skilled, all gentleness gone. And for the first time, she understood just how tightly leashed he’d kept himself for weeks and weeks.

  His breathing became ragged, his body exuded heat, and he turned restless beneath her, running his hand up and down her back, along her side, and down to her bottom. He squeezed there with a low groan. And somehow, he maneuvered her into straddling him on the couch, her legs bracketing his hips as she buried her fingers in his hair and abandoned all thought.

  For endless minutes, they sat entwined and kissing, so close she could feel every shift of his muscles, every rise of his chest. So close she could forget all her misgivings.

  When he finally ripped his mouth from hers, she felt the loss like a slap.

  He captured her hand and pressed her palm to the zipper of his jeans. Beneath it, he was hard. So hard that her breath hitched in shock and desire both.

  “You’re not ready.” He was panting, color high in slashes across his cheekbones. “But for God’s sake, Mary, don’t ever doubt that I want you.”

  12

  Enough with the treadmill. Miles was taking his exercise outside that morning.

  The day had dawned sunny and a bit cool. Perfect running weather. He lived in an area with seldom-traveled roads edged by beautiful forests, so the view should be great. And if a car or two passed him on the road, a ball cap should suffice to keep him anonymous.

  He stretched a bit, drank a bottle of water, ate a snack. All his normal routine. Then, unlike every other day, he opened his front door and locked it behind him, shoving his key into a little pocket in his baggy shorts. Down the driveway he went, breathing in the fresh air of the morning as the gravel crunched beneath his feet.

  Nice County really is lovely. Not crowded. No one else nearby. Just me, nature, and—hopefully—Mary. Maybe a family at some point, if things keep going well.

  A family would require sex, a nasty voice in his brain reminded him. And you haven’t had the nerve to get naked in front of her. Not even close.

  It’ll just take time, he argued back. I just need a little more time.

  He walked for a couple of minutes. Then, when his muscles felt warm and loose, he kicked out his stride and broke into a run.

  It felt a little weird, he had to admit. He’d become accustomed to the safety of the treadmill’s frame, the knowledge that if he lost his balance, he could quickly clamp his right hand down on a piece of the structure and support himself.

  His center of balance wasn’t what it used to be. Removing something like ten pounds from one side of his body would do that to a man. He didn’t like to think about it, but that didn’t change the facts at hand.

  At hand. He snorted and ran a little faster.

  This patch of pavement was pretty narrow, a two-lane road with gravel on either side. Rutted from long-forgotten snowstorms and all the salt the county dumped for traction afterward, it could use some patches. It looked rough, but it was still functioning.

  He sympathized.

  The trees loomed over him on both sides of the road, leaves bright with the yellowish green of spring. The evergreens sto
od watch patiently, unchanging and dignified. A welcome breeze blew through his hair and rushed in his ears as he pushed his muscles and stamina to the limit. His chest heaved, and his lungs burned with the effort.

  God, he missed being outdoors. Missed running alongside his brother.

  Don’t think about your old life.

  The sound of a distant engine made him slow and move to the edge of the road. A rusted-out truck eventually overtook him with a friendly beep, and Miles waved in response.

  Trying not to inhale the truck’s exhaust, he began to speed up again. And then his foot hit something. A loose rock, possibly. A slippery patch of gravel, maybe.

  It didn’t matter, not right then. In a flash, he was airborne and headed straight for the pavement. Instinctively, he threw out his arms to catch himself.

  The next thing he knew, he was lying curled on the gravel shoulder, his nose a fireball of pain, wetness dripping from his nostrils, and his right palm and both knees covered in road rash.

  He laughed, the sound harsh and loud.

  He’d thrown out his arms to catch himself. Arms. Plural.

  In his mind, he still had two. He could still feel his left arm every minute of every day, after all. At one time, that invisible arm had caused him so much fucking agony he’d cried for his mother alone in his cabin. Now it didn’t hurt, but he could still sense it. Smaller and less defined, but not gone. Never gone.

  Only it was gone. Forever. And the one arm he had left hadn’t broken his fucking fall. His nose had.

  In the distance, the truck’s brake lights flashed, and through bleary eyes, Miles saw the vehicle make a U-turn. He didn’t want help. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. But as with so many unpleasant things these days, he wasn’t going to have a goddamn choice, was he?

  The truck came to a halt on the opposite shoulder, and a man wearing a John Deere cap peered through his open window. “You okay, son?”

  Slowly, every inch of his body raw from either gravel or humiliation, Miles levered himself to his feet. When he swiped at his nose, his forearm came away bloody.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  The woman in the passenger’s seat leaned way over to poke her head out of the window too. “You should go to the hospital. Your nose might be broken.”

  “We can take you,” the man offered, his gray brows drawn together in concern. “We weren’t doing anything important.”

  God, why were these people still parked? He’d said he was fine. “I don’t have my wallet. Once I’m home, I’ll go somewhere to get my nose looked at.”

  The woman poked out her head further. “Why don’t we drive you home?”

  The last thing he wanted to do was accept a ride from random people, like a child who’d wandered too far from his house and hadn’t heard of stranger danger. But his head ached. He didn’t even know exactly how far he was from his cabin. And really, what could they do to him that he hadn’t already done to himself?

  So it appeared he’d be relying on the kindness of strangers. Which made sense, since he sure as hell couldn’t rely on himself anymore.

  He climbed into the passenger’s side of the truck bench as the woman scooted to the center. After giving them his name and address, he occupied himself with not dripping blood on to the vehicle’s ripped upholstery. The woman smiled at him, but she let the conversation lapse after Miles merely nodded at her introductions and didn’t respond to any of her other overtures.

  They reached his driveway in silence. When the truck had parked near the cabin, Miles finally spoke again. “Thank you.”

  “Be careful getting down,” the woman warned.

  For just a moment, he wanted to bellow at her, to shout that he wasn’t a child. But instead he simply nodded, slammed the door behind him, walked up to his cabin, and unlocked the door. Once the sound of their truck faded, he went inside and shoved tissues up his nose.

  And then, because he didn’t want to ruin yet another necessary part of his body, he got in his car and headed for the nearest urgent care.

  * * *

  No concussion. And an X-ray revealed that his nose wasn’t broken, just swollen and ugly. He supposed that was good. A few days, some strategically applied ice packs, and over-the-counter painkillers ought to take care of the problem entirely.

  He wasn’t bleeding anymore. His nose only hurt a little bit. But he didn’t feel any sense of relief.

  Instead, his skin had become too tight, his muscles so tense he was trembling. He felt like a man holding the pin in place on a bomb, knowing one false move would result in bits of him scattered everywhere. But despite his best efforts, his grasp was loosening moment by moment.

  Nothing helped him get a good grip. Not TV. Not the internet. Not even the months-old beer he found at the back of his fridge. And he didn’t understand why. Why now, after all these months?

  Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong. But telling himself that didn’t help either.

  He stood under a hot shower and let the water sting his cuts and abrasions. He let his mind wander for just a moment. And in a flash, the memory he’d suppressed for so long burst free, exploding into his consciousness.

  He shuddered, his hand braced against the slick wall of the shower.

  The blue sky above him, the rubble and sharp tools below as he hurtled toward the ground from the bare-bones scaffolding. Screams all around. Then agony and blackness.

  Another rough laugh ripped from his throat, and his knees threatened to buckle.

  Now he knew what was happening. He could even put it in Hollywood terms.

  Today’s fall was simply the PG version of what he’d experienced months ago. A sequel of sorts, the events of the original story driving the plot of the next one. His initial punishment, a lost arm in the first film, begetting more punishment, a bloody nose in the second.

  All because of that fatal hero’s flaw, hubris. He was such a fucking cliché. His pain today, his agony then—he’d earned them both months ago, years ago, with his cockiness, carelessness, and stupidity. He deserved them both.

  He repeated that to himself, shivering under the now-cold spray. He deserved what he’d gotten, more than he’d deserved his charmed life before the accident. And the reality, the permanence of his punishment had literally smacked him in the face today. The least he could do was acknowledge it.

  No more pretending everything was fine. No more ignoring the obvious. No more aping normality.

  He needed to rub his face in his own mess.

  Leaving the water running, he stepped out of the shower and in front of the small mirror over the vanity. And for the first time since his accident, he deliberately raised the end of his left arm toward that mirror and examined its reflection.

  The stitches had long since disappeared, but the skin there still looked new, pinkish under the fluorescent lights. And the doctors at the rural clinic hadn’t given him a flat or rounded terminus. Instead, the end of his arm now had topography. Peaks and valleys. Maybe they’d been trying to save as much of his arm as they could. He didn’t know. He’d been unconscious, then sedated. And then he’d been rushed to an American hospital, his severed arm left far behind.

  So he didn’t know why the area wasn’t smooth. But he did know he could barely make himself map the terrain. To his eyes, it looked unnatural. Unnatural and disturbing.

  In the shower, he only touched that arm to keep it clean, soaping and rinsing with as much speed as he could muster. He dried it off with quick dabs of the towel and did his best not to notice it at any other point during the day. To help him in that effort, he’d pinned the left sleeves of all his shirts shut. For others, yes, but mainly for himself. The last thing he needed was an accidental glimpse of his amputation site.

  He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  He still didn’t. But he wasn’t giving himself a choice anymore.

  His muscles clenched, his breathing harsh, he
forced himself to take hold of what remained of his arm, the ragged remnants of what had once been whole, the unsettling shape of what had once been familiar.

  “Your arm is gone, asshole. It’s never coming back,” he told himself through gritted teeth. “Never.”

  He explored every ridge and hollow. Touched every millimeter of skin and muscle and the tendons underneath. He peered at the sight in the mirror until he could close his eyes and still see it clearly. And then he opened the cabinet under the sink and took out the prosthetic arm he’d gotten after the accident.

  Everyone had told him getting a prosthesis was a normal part of the process. But he hadn’t really wanted it, and he sure as hell hadn’t worn it.

  The prosthetist had taken a mold of Miles’s remaining hand and created a mirror image in painted silicone. It was almost entirely ornamental, just a prop to assuage the sensibilities of anyone who couldn’t handle the absence of something in place of his elbow, forearm, wrist, and hand.

  To Miles, it was a reminder. A creepy, uncanny-valley reminder of what he’d lost.

  And right now, he was going to use it for the first time.

  He took his prosthetic left hand in his flesh-and-blood right hand and gripped it tightly. Then, with months of suppressed rage and despair detonating within him, he swung that motherfucker at the mirror.

  The initial blow shattered the glass. But it wasn’t enough. He swung and swung, knocking over his toothbrush holder and the vase of flowers he’d placed by the sink to impress Mary. Splintering the porcelain soap dish. Destroying everything, the same way he’d destroyed himself.

  The last pristine items in the bathroom—the shelves on the wall, the gentle watercolors he’d had Jessie install for Mary’s sake—crashed on to the floor. And when everything breakable had been smashed to pieces, he flung down the arm, climbed back underneath the frigid shower spray, and huddled in a tight ball in the corner. Keening and rocking like a child, the same child he’d claimed not to be with such defiance earlier that day.