Eternal Temptations (The Tempted Series Book 6)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Fake.

  Manufactured.

  Dropping my fingers, instantly the fake smile falls too and my natural frown appears. Just like the drama masks I keep inside the top drawer of my dresser.

  I tear my eyes from the mirror and pull open the drawer, pushing around my lingerie until I find the masks I keep buried at the bottom.

  For the longest time those masks depicted the person I was, the person I was before I admitted my truth. I am bipolar and those masks are the two sides of Lacey Parrish. The smile is for the girl I am when I’m not fighting for control over my mind and the frown is when my maker reigns over me. Some people call God their maker, believing he controls everything—Heaven and Earth, but for me the only thing that controls me is my mind. My mind is my maker and for most of my life I have been a victim of the vicious villain that lives inside my head.

  I freed myself from the silence and used the only weapon I had against my mental illness—my voice. I sought help and was diagnosed and now I start my day with a daily dose of Lithium. It took some time adjusting to my medication but mostly my maker has been shut down. One would think I’d find relief in that, or it would make my life easier but instead I feel lost—like I don’t know who I am without that voice doubting everything I know and feel.

  I guess I’ve become so used to the struggle I don’t know how to live life normally. My therapist tells me it’s natural but what does she know. To her I’m a textbook, just a case study, she has never lived with my mind, she doesn’t know how I became one with my maker.

  It sounds sadistic, even to my own ears, but I sort of miss that voice. At least I had an excuse for the devilish thoughts that filled my head with doubt. Now, those thoughts are mine, they are pure and they are real.

  I close the drawer, taking the masks and bring them to my chest. I step out of my bedroom and stare at the empty room across from the bedroom I share with Blackie.

  I should be on top of the world.

  I should be smiling.

  I’ve got everything I ever wanted, everything I never thought I’d have, everything my maker tried to keep from me.

  And yet today I’m miserable.

  There is no voice telling me my happy life will be ripped from me. No voice feeding me lies, telling me I’ve conjured the whole thing up.

  The facts that are driving me into a depression.

  Cold hard facts that are dragging me down.

  I’ve avoided reality for so long I have no fucking clue how to deal with it. I don’t know how to make sense of everything I’m feeling because I’m still learning how to differentiate real life from my illness.

  I think people automatically think once someone undergoes treatment they’re healed with a snap of their fingers, but it’s a process, erasing everything and starting fresh. Learning how to exist normally is just as much a struggle as living in torment.

  Add adjusting to living on your own with a man to the mix, and the fact that your father has been avoiding you because you fell in love with his best friend, well, I’m fucked and that’s putting it mildly.

  My stepmother is pregnant and while I’m genuinely happy for Reina and my father, for this new life we’re all going to love to pieces, I can’t help feeling some kind of way.

  What if this new child is born like me? And if I’m asking myself that question, I wonder if my father is too. Is he worried that another innocent child will fall victim to the illness that is generated in his DNA. I become angry because I know how it is to live impaired by my mind and wouldn’t want that for anyone let alone an innocent child. I can’t help thinking that it would be negligent to bring a child into this world, knowing there is an illness he or she may inherit.

  Since I’ve been diagnosed I try to put myself in my father’s shoes. He’s survived mental illness and somehow he doesn’t let it dictate his life. I try to understand his logic and ask myself if I could live like him. I’ve always wanted children, and now that I am with Blackie, I want nothing more than to give him everything he’s ever hoped for but never thought he’d have. I know he wants kids, maybe not now but eventually he wants to fill this house and the blank pages of our story with children.

  I close my eyes and I can see it all so vividly, the life we dreamed of having—the little girl with her daddy’s eyes and her mommy’s sweetness. She’d have a smile so big and so bright that it will melt her daddy’s heart. In my dreams we always have a girl, and she’s the apple of Blackie’s eyes. She’d be his true angel, and I’d be the one who gave her to him.

  I want it so bad.

  For that dream to become our reality but how selfish would that be? Or would it? Am I letting my own fears, my own demons dictate Blackie’s future? On one hand I think it would be cruel of me to have a baby, knowing I could pass down the illness that runs in my family to my child and watch my baby suffer like I have. Then on the other hand it would be cruel to take that dream from Blackie especially when the man just started dreaming again.

  It’s times like this, when I want to talk to my dad, when I wish things were different for us. If there was anyone who might understand my thoughts it would be my father, but he’s not ready for me to discuss babies with him. He barely can handle me living with Blackie.

  Funny how even when I’m not silent—I am.

  I walk into the empty room and lean against the wall furthest from the door, looking around the space. It would be the perfect room for a baby. I slide down the wall, bring my knees to my chest and rest the masks on top of them.

  Happiness.

  Sadness.

  Would I ever find the middle ground?

  I close my eyes and drop my head to my knees, deciding I was done with the torment for the day. All I want is to forget reality just for a little while.

  I was too engrossed in my thoughts to hear the front door close, or the sound of Blackie’s boots pounding against the wooden steps, but the moment I hear him call for me I lift my head and stare up at my Leather.

  “Lace,” he whispers, threading his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face as his eyes dart around the room before they gaze into mine. “What’re you doin’?”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “Nothing,” I say. Advancing toward me, he crouches down in front of me and continues to stare at me, concern etched across his beautiful face.

  “Everything okay?”

  I glance down at the smiling mask and force myself to mimic the gesture. He diverts his eyes to the masks on my knees, gently reaching out to take them from me. I wanted to snatch them back, hang onto them like a child clutches a blanket for security but refrain from it.

  He stares down at them for a moment before lifting his eyes back to mine. He places the masks on the floor beside him before reaching out and caressing my cheek with the back of his hand.

  “Talk to me, girl,” he coaxes. “Did you forget to take your medicine today?

  His question feels like a slap to the face and causes me to flinch. It wasn’t an accusation but a question of concern, yet it angered me he would even ask.

  “Of course I took my medicine,” I snap. “They’re not magic pills, Blackie. I still have the ability to feel, just like every other human being.”

  “Then tell me what your feeling because I’m not a mind reader, girl,” he replies, keeping his voice calm.

  “I’m just sad is all,” I mutter. Frustration chomps at the words, making them sound edgier, meaner and more aggressive than I mean for them to be. If I don’t have a smile plastered to my face at any given time everyone automatically assumes I skipped my meds and unleashed the crazy.

  “I’m allowed to be sad,” I argue.

  “Of course you are but if you’re sad then you need to tell me why,” he demands. “Let me make it better for you,” he adds, softly.

  I shake my head, wishing it was as easy as he made it.

  “You can’t fix every part of me that’s broken no matter how much
you want to,” I rasp, pushing off to stand. I go to walk away, meaning to put space between us until I gather control over myself because Blackie didn’t deserve my demons—not when he had his own threatening to avenge.

  But he had a different plan. Closing his hand around my ankle he stops me in my tracks.

  “Lace,” he rasps, demanding my attention. He rises, his hand traveling up my leg as he stands to his full height. “Don’t underestimate me,” he says gravely. “Give me your broken pieces and let me glue them back together.”

  “You can’t,” I insist, my voice barely audible. “It’s not fair to you.”

  He brings his hands to my face, bending his knees to make his eyes level with mine.

  “I love you, Lace,” he says simply. “And all the broken pieces of you are the missing pieces of me.”

  I understood those words better than anything because I owned the broken parts of him too, claimed them a long time ago when he gave me his fractured soul.

  His gaze burns into me before giving me a slight nod as he lifts me into his arms. I surrender my pieces to him as I wrap my arms loosely around his neck and let him carry me out of the room of broken dreams.

  He carries me into the bathroom, sets me down on top of the vanity before taking my face in his hands and pressing his lips gently against mine.

  “Hold tight,” he murmurs against my mouth. Shedding his leather jacket and hanging it on the door knob he rolls up his sleeves and crouches down alongside the bath tub. He runs the water, sticks out his hand to test the temperature before he turns back to me.

  “Get undressed,” he says softly, crossing his arms against his chest as he waits for me to follow his instructions. I grabbed the hem of my shirt, work it over my head and drop it to the counter, sliding off to stand up and shimmy my shorts down my legs.

  He turns around once the tub is full and closes the faucet. I strip down to nothing by the time he turns back to me, his eyes firmly planted on my face as he extends his hand.

  “Come on, girl,” he urges as I take a step closer to him, dropping my hand into his. He holds me as I lift one leg over the wall of the bath tub and sink into the warm water. Lifting my eyes to his, I see the concern reflected in them. He gently pushed my shoulders back so I lean against the back of the tub. Running one hand over his face, he stares at the water for a moment, drawing a deep breath and reaches for the washcloth.

  “Blackie,” I whisper, wrapping my hand around his wrist and forcing his eyes back to mine. “I’m okay,” I assure, feeling guilty for not rising up and masking my depression.

  “I know you are,” he insists, leaning over the wall of the tub and pressing his mouth against mine.

  His lips are soft as they work mine, slowly easing them open sliding his tongue over mine. I lift my wet hands to his face, dragging my fingers through his hair as I kiss him back, hoping my kiss calms the worry in his eyes.

  “Lean back,” he murmurs against my mouth before easing back from me. He squirts some body wash into the cloth and lifts it to my neck, slowly soaping me up. Intimately, with the gentleness he buried beneath his steel exterior, he takes care of me, calming my thoughts and forcing me to relax.

  I close my eyes as the merry-go-round ride of emotions I was on comes to a halt. He works the lukewarm washcloth over every inch of my body in silence, the only sounds heard are those of our breathing and the water lapping around my body.

  After a while he stops washing me and my body feels the loss of his touch, forcing me to open my eyes and watch as he squeezes out the washcloth and drape it over the mouth of the faucet. He turns his eyes back to mine and tips his chin toward my hair.

  “Do you want me to wash your hair?” He asks huskily.

  I shake my head as he pulls the stopper from the tub and lets the water drain before he rises to his full height and grabs a towel from the rack on the wall. He spreads it wide as I stand up and step out of the tub and into his arms. He wraps the towel around me. I feel his large palms circle my body, through the thin cotton of the towel as he pats me down. I glance down, secure the towel to my body, tucking the edge just above my breasts while I watch him take a step back and hold out his hands.

  Blackie leads me into our bedroom, drops my hands as we reach the edge of the bed and he pulls down the comforter. He glances over his shoulder at me and extends one hand to my breast, unraveling the towel from my body, before looking back toward our bed.

  I climb in and he draws the blanket over my body, bending his head to kiss my forehead.

  “You’re okay,” he whispers, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if he was telling me so or trying to convince himself.

  “Lay down with me,” I plead, watching his Adam’s apple as he swallows. He hesitated for a moment, pulling back from me as he took a deep breath. “Please?”

  He nods, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and bends down to undo his boots. I lift my head from the pillow and rest on my elbows, watching as he strips down to nothing but his boxer briefs. He palms his cock, pressing down on it as he tears his eyes away from me and walks around the bed. His body is a work of art—tattoos decorating every corded muscle on display. I watch him pull back the sheet and climb in beside me, turning on his side to face me before lifting his hand to trace a finger down my cheek.

  “So damn pretty,” he rasps, reaching for me with his other hand, tucking me against him as he rolls onto his back. I lay my head against his chest. I peer at the tattoo covering his left pec, the music notes to our song dance across his skin, reminding me of that first dance he gave me and all the ones that followed when my mind betrayed me.

  No matter how broken down I feel, or how tired I am from the war I battle internally, I rise up because this man gives me the confidence I need to beat my demons. Laying here, wrapped up in his arms, I’m reminded of the hope we’ve brought into one another’s lives and despite all the heartache we’ve endured, it’s our love that prevails. We’re stronger than our demons and we’ve survived the most lethal of temptations. We’ll rise because we have each other and nothing can stop us—we won’t let it.

  “I’ve had a bad day,” I confess, tracing my finger over the music notes.

  “You want to tell me about it?” He asked softly, threading his fingers through my hair.

  “I went by my dad’s today and Reina was glowing, talking about the baby and how she and my dad are already trying to decide on a name,” I pause, lifting my head from his chest to stare into his eyes. “She’s happy, so is he, and I look at them and I wonder how they’re not scared. I sound like a hypocrite because I don’t blame my father for my illness but the facts are there, Blackie. I’m bipolar because it runs in my family, because I inherited this from my father. I know he didn’t want this for me and that it kills him knowing I share his pain but then I think about the baby and wonder if it’s even crossed his mind that the child he’s about to have can be diagnosed too.”

  I quietly watch as he absorbs my words and doesn’t respond.

  “I’m not trying to dampen their happiness but I want to understand how they’re able to push away the fear and embrace the beauty of it…because I can’t. I tried putting myself in their shoes and thought about us having a baby and I don’t know if I could do that, if I could risk an innocent child the burden of my illness.”

  He lifts his hand, brushing away the tears that slide down my cheek.

  “I want kids,” I whisper. “I want to give you a whole house full of babies, but how selfish would that be of me?”

  “Lace, you think for one second your father isn’t tormenting himself, asking himself those same questions? I don’t doubt he’s not consumed by that same fear but he’s got Reina there, hanging on to hope that their kid will be perfectly healthy. And if he’s not, then they’ll deal with it like every other parent deals with a child’s illness. Think about it, baby, there is no controlling what we’re handed. People who are healthy, who have no traces of illness in their gene
s have babies that are born with birth defects and sickness they never even heard of. It doesn’t make them bad parents, if anything it strengthens them, because it takes a special person to care for a sick kid, no matter what the illness.”

  “So, if we had a baby, and she was like me—”

  “We’d love her like we would if she wasn’t like you. We’d give her all we could because we’re those people…the ones that can’t be beat no matter how deep they’re dragged down. If our kid had any illness, bipolar or fuck, I don’t know, if she was born with a heart defect, that kid would have the best life we could ever give her because we didn’t give up on each other and there is no way in hell we’d give up on our baby.”

  He cradles my face in his hands.

  “Our baby could be perfect and grow up just fine, only to turn out like his dad…and then what? We let him rot? Or we drive his ass to rehab until he gets straight? We don’t get a choice in what we get…we grab it and hang on with all we have.”

  “How do you do that?” I marvel, shaking my head as I stare back at him. “How do you always make it better for me? You’re always saving me, Blackie, and most of the time it’s from myself.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s our thing. We’re both our own worst enemy but that’s why we got each other. I’ll keep slaying your demons, keep you smiling because that smile of yours, destroys all the ugly inside of me.”

  “It’ll be okay,” I say.

  “It’ll be okay,” he assures.

  “We’ve got a lot of love to give a baby when the time comes.”

  “A shit ton,” he agrees, smiling at me.

  “And it might be fine.”

  “Either way it’ll be fine, I promise.”

  “Can we name our son Leather?” I tease, feeling the weight fade from my shoulders.

  “No,” he laughs, wrapping his arms around my waist, flipping me onto my back as he leans back and stares down at me. “You’re going to be a great mom someday.” He smiles, bending down to kiss me. “And when the time comes, we’ll work through it, girl.”