Hard Curves (Dangerous Curves Book 2)

by James, Marysol

  King tightened his grip on her hand. “Damn.”

  “It’s OK. I’m doing better. I get better all the time.” She shook herself a bit. “What about your family?”

  “Oh, very boring and very average.” He grinned. “Mom and Dad are both teachers, I’m the middle child. Older brother who’s a teacher too and you know Lori, Callie’s Mom.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was raised middle-class, we had family vacations every summer, usually at some beach house. Played football all through school, but never really wanted to go pro. Delivered pizzas to earn extra cash, got pretty decent grades.” King shrugged. “Just – normal. You know?”

  “It sounds perfect,” she said softly.

  “Yeah, it really was. Not that I knew it at the time, of course. I thought it was all deadly dull and I couldn’t wait to get the hell away from them all and get out in to the real world.”

  “They’re here in Denver?”

  “Nope. Florida.”

  “Wow. You’re a ways away from home.”

  “Yep.”

  “You moved here for the skiing?”

  King laughed. “I’ve never skied in my life.”

  “No? I love to ski.”

  “You’ll teach me?”

  “Sure I will.”

  “You promise to catch me when I fall flat on my ass?”

  “So long as you promise to not crush me to death when you land on top of me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Well, that’s about the best I can expect, huh?”

  “Yeah.” He took a deep breath, trying to get up the guts to ask her something that had been on his mind for weeks. “Can I ask something about your painting?”

  Naomi smiled up at him. “You want to know why I don’t paint anymore, don’t you?”

  “I do. Is that alright?”

  “Of course it is. And the truth is that I was drinking alcoholically the whole time I was painting professionally.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Confession time, OK? I don’t recall painting any of my most successful pieces.”

  King stared at her, stunned. “How’s that possible?”

  “Easy. I’d get smashed off my face at my studio, then paint all night. I’d pass out eventually, and then I’d wake up on the floor to discover a finished painting that I had no memory doing. But my work was good and I got this twisted idea that it was good because I drank. Soon, I couldn’t imagine working without wine.”

  “But you stopped painting three years ago, and you’ve been sober almost ten months.”

  “Yeah, well. About three years ago, alcohol turned on me. Suddenly, I needed more and more to even get drunk, and then I was just messy and weepy. It wasn’t fun anymore, and I couldn’t paint when I was that drunk, anyway. I lost the balance between drinking and creativity that I’d maintained for years and years, and it scared me and frustrated me, so I stopped painting. I should have stopped drinking, of course, but that wasn’t a thought that crossed my alcohol-soaked brain at the time.” She sighed. “By that point, alcohol was the most important relationship in my life – it was my best friend and lover, and no way I could break up with it.”

  “So you set up your organization while you were drinking?”

  “I sure did. I am a very high-functioning alcoholic – and the truth is that the whole reason I’ve been so successful at work is because it’s the only place I never drank. It was the one rule that I never broke. I’d promise myself that I’d only have one drink at the bar, but I’d break it and drink to blackout. I’d swear to go a month alcohol-free and I’d crack after two nights. I’d tell myself to not drink more than one bottle at home alone, then I’d stagger down to the corner store in my pyjamas to buy a second one.”

  King shook his head. So much fucking pain in her voice.

  “But the one thing I stuck to was my decision to not mess around with my organization. I promised myself that I’d never drink at work, never go to a business meeting drunk, never teach a workshop shit-faced. And even though I did all those things so hungover that I wanted to fucking die, I was never drunk. Not once.”

  “Is that why you stopped drinking? Your organization?”

  “Yes. I realized that it meant everything to me and my drinking was starting to make me screw it up. I’d be so hungover that I’d sleep through my alarm and miss an important meeting. I’d forget things, I’d lose things. I had no energy to cope properly when an artist went in to meltdown. I’d lost so much to alcohol already – my Mom and my childhood and my painting – and I just couldn’t stand to lose the organization and art program, too. The day I really got that was the day that I stopped.”

  “And have you tried painting again? Since you’ve been sober?”

  She looked down, pulled her hand away. He looked at her, and he could actually see Naomi shutting down on him, right in front of him.

  “Hey.” His rough voice was gentle. “Look at me. Naomi, look at me.”

  She glanced up, then looked away quickly. He saw the sparkle of tears in those brown eyes and his heart squeezed.

  “You OK?” he said.

  “I’m – I’m terrified to try to paint sober. I have never, never done a great painting sober, not in the whole of my life.” She wiped her eyes. “I don’t think that I’m any good at art without the alcohol.”

  He paused. “Do you want to try?”

  “No.” Her answer was swift, strong. “No. If I did, I think it would shove me close to the edge of drinking again. I’m not sure I’d come back from that edge, either.”

  “I understand.”

  “I want to try, eventually.” She spoke softly, almost like she was talking to herself. “I’ll try one day… but I’m not ready yet.”

  “Will you let me be there for you when you are?”

  Naomi met his eyes again. She blinked at the look on his face: total acceptance and belief in her, and shining pride. She’d never had that look directed her way, not once in her life, and she loved it. She wanted to be worthy of it.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”

  “Me too.”

  They sat quietly for a minute, just looking at each other. Then King smiled a bit.

  “So what do you think? You ready to go try some omelet?”

  She laughed. “I’m going to gain ten pounds at this brunch.”

  “Excellent. More curves for me to check out.”

  Naomi blushed deeply. “Really?”

  “Hell, yeah. You’re gorgeous, honey, and I’ll never let you forget it, trust me. Just to be safe, let’s get you some bacon while we’re at it, yeah?”

  She laughed again and got to her feet, accepting his extended hand. “And dessert?”

  “And dessert.” He smiled down at her, wishing he could kiss her right there and then. “Lots of dessert.”

  **

  December and January passed, and Naomi and King spent as much time together as they could. They met for coffee and they met for brunch and they met for dinner. They exchanged Christmas gifts, and they both celebrated their first-ever sober New Year’s Eve together. They watched movies curled up on Naomi’s sofa; they read books curled up on King’s. They went for walks and Naomi taught him how to ski and he taught her how to change a tire. Every single time he brought Callie and Noah to the Heart Center, King checked in on Naomi, and he gave her a hug before leaving to get to work himself.

  He saw her through some hard times over those weeks. He was there for her after she received abusive and ugly calls from her mother, and he was there when she had some shaky moments after a late-afternoon meeting turned in to an unforeseen boozy dinner.

  When she felt weak or threatened, she lashed out at him; he let her rant and rail, then he calmly told her that no matter what she said or did, he saw her – all of h
er, all her beauty, inside and out – and he wasn’t letting her push him away.

  But he was also there for some really good times, for some triumphs. The one that Naomi cherished the most was the evening that she received her eleven-month sobriety coin: she looked across the room to see Matt sitting next to Mirrie. He was smiling at her, pride and adoration all across his face, and she felt his love even from twenty feet away. That was a good moment. It was the best moment.

  Slowly, surely, they moved closer to each other. Naomi’s walls were coming down one at a time; Matt’s faith in her never wavered, never weakened. And she began to think that she was ready – really, really ready – to take things with Matt a step farther. To climb in to bed with him and let him hold her closer, tighter. She longed to be totally naked with him, nothing between them. No clothes, no walls, no fear. Totally open and vulnerable; totally trusting. She was almost there.

  Then Patrick reappeared in her life… and in a matter of minutes, he damn near destroyed everything that she’d worked so painstakingly long and hard to build up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Naomi hummed to herself as she filed the papers from the accountant away in her office. Just that afternoon she’d signed off on the last of the budget statements for the next fiscal year, and the numbers were impressive. Between Jax and Matt’s contributions and the auction, Art With Heart was in astounding financial shape, and she was determined to get the ball rolling on her plans for expansion.

  She slipped out of her high heels and wandered over to the entrance area. She had just sat down to tug on her outdoor boots when the main door opened. She glanced up and her breath froze solid in her chest.

  Oh, fuck. Oh, God, no.

  Patrick Doyle was standing there, staring down at her. She got to her feet and backed up. He followed, casually looking around the empty room, before turning and closing the door behind him.

  “Hi, Naomi.”

  “What – what are you doing here?”

  “Me? I was just in the neighborhood, you know, and I thought I’d drop by. See how things are going.” His blue eyes were cold. “I didn’t get my invitation to the auction a couple of months ago. It got lost in the mail, I presume?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Anyway! It was a raging success, I heard, so well done you.” He walked closer; she took another step back. “Also? I wanted to see how you are.”

  “I’m – I’m fine.”

  “Are you?” he said softly. “You sure? Getting enough sleep? Taking care of yourself?”

  “Y – yes.”

  “That’s so good to hear. Maybe you’re free right now?” He smiled. “We can go for a few drinks, huh?”

  The memory of the last time they’d gone for drinks crashed over her now, and she felt the urge to throw up. She and Mirrie had talked many times about Patrick and what he’d done to her that night, and she’d thought she was moving past it. But to have him here, in front of her and in her space, showed her that she had to say a few things to him.

  One of the reasons that you drank was to avoid facing things that scare you. No more of that, OK? If it scares you, you take it on. And Patrick fucking terrifies you – which means you have to do this. Tell him what you need to.

  She took a deep breath. “No.”

  “No?” He moved closer again and this time she stood still.

  “No, Patrick. The last time we went for drinks, you raped me.”

  He was too close now, way in her personal space, but she didn't move one inch.

  “Huh. Funny, but I don’t remember you saying no, Naomi.”

  “I did say no. I was also barely conscious, and you know it. You took me back to your place and said you’d sleep on the sofa, and then you attacked me while I slept in your bed.”

  “That’s not quite how I remember it. And I think that I’m in a much better position to remember what happened that night, don’t you think?” His voice was silky. “I mean, my goodness… even the bartenders were taken aback at how much you put away that night. Oh, and of course, the whole bar saw you all over me. Your tongue down my throat, and other such classless behavior.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that I went to bed alone, and you said you’d stay two rooms over.” She glared at him, too angry now to feel any fear. “It doesn’t change the fact that I was asleep when you started to fuck me, without my consent or even my knowledge. And when I came to, you – you shut me up.”

  “Again, I have no recollection of any of these things happening. You were delighted to go to bed with me, couldn’t fuck me fast enough. Perhaps you had a wild, drunken nightmare?”

  “No. I didn’t. You raped me.”

  In one sudden move, Patrick grabbed her by the neck and pulled her up against his body. “Well, you little drunk slut, who the fuck’s going to believe you?”

  Naomi froze. His fingers were digging in to her flesh and he gave her a shake. She muffled a groan of pain and tried to twist away, but he tightened his hold.

  “I mean, all you do is get shit-faced and go home with men, and everyone knows it," he hissed in to her face. "My God, do you think I asked you for drinks that night because I found your conversation so stimulating? Or because I found you devastatingly attractive? I’m afraid not, you pathetic whore. I wanted to get laid and I knew all I had to do was buy a few rounds and you’d spread your legs in no time.”

  “You – you set me up?” Naomi whispered, shocked by this information. For a few seconds, she stopped fighting to get away. “It wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment opportunity? You planned it?”

  “Now, you’ll never get me to admit to that.” Patrick smiled. “As far as I recall, it was two consenting adults having a few drinks and going back to my place together to have some fun. And since I only had one drink and drove us home, I do believe that my version of events would be taken more seriously than yours. You did polish off almost two whole bottles of wine alone, after all.”

  Rage came to her rescue now, corrosive and dark. She hauled back and kicked him in the shin as hard as she could with the ball of her foot. Despite just being in her stockings, it clearly still hurt him and he fell back long enough for her to snatch the letter-opener from the desk. She faced him, breathing hard.

  “Get out or I'll stab you in the fucking chest.”

  “Don’t be like that, Naomi. Maybe a few drinks would calm you down?”

  “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out now!”

  “OK, if you insist.” He turned to go. “Have a nice night.”

  She watched as Patrick left, and she rushed across the room to lock the door. Her knees were like jelly under her now and she sank to the floor, trembling and rubbing her sore throat. All this time, she’d thought that he’d simply taken advantage of the situation – it had never occurred to her that he’d made sure the situation happened.

  He knew that all he had to do was get me drunk and I’d go home with him. Worse, he knew how easy it would be to get me drunk. He knew I’d drink to blackout point, that I’d drink and lose all control. He knew. Everybody knew. Everybody knows.

  Her thoughts began to move in a bad direction, but this time, she wasn’t sure that she the energy or even the will to stop them. Her head pounded and the blood roared in her ears, and all she could think was that she needed a drink to cope with all of this shit. Just one drink. One drink would take the edge off. Bad, dangerous thinking. The kind of thinking that could undo almost a year of good work.

  She got to her feet again, slowly, painfully. She picked up her purse and pulled out her cell phone, then she paused. Suddenly, she didn’t want to do this anymore – none of it.

  She was tired of talking about her feelings, and tired of AA meetings, and tired of the steps. She was fed up of asking for help and fed up of having to be honest all the fucking time. She was done with the constant struggle and the battle an
d – most of all – she was exhausted by the never-ending resistance to what she really, really wanted to do. By the endless denial of who and what she really was.

  I’m so fucking sick of being a recovering alcoholic. I just want to be an alcoholic. God knows, it’s fucking easier. To thine own self be true, etcetera.

  On automatic pilot, she put on her boots, shrugged on her coat. She left the Heart Center, locked the door behind her. Then she got in to her car and she drove to the nearest convenience store, didn’t even pause between the front door and the alcohol counter. And when the bored woman asked her what she wanted, Naomi found herself saying the words that she hadn’t uttered in eleven months and four days:

  “Two bottles of white wine, please.”

  **

  King’s cell phone rang, shattering the silence. He turned over in bed, squinted at the time.

  Fuck. Who’s calling me at midnight?

  He picked up the cell and when he saw Naomi’s number, he sat straight up in bed, instantly wide awake.

  “Naomi? What’s wrong?”

  “Matt.” She was crying so hard, he could barely make out what she was saying. “Matt…”

  “Baby, are you hurt?”

  “N – no. Well, yes. Maybe a little. I’m –” She dissolved in to sobs.

  “Where are you?” He got to his feet, headed for the closet. “Tell me, right now.”

  “Home.”

  “I’ll be right there. Hang tight, OK?”

  “OK.”

  “Twenty minutes. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Hurry, Matt. Please hurry.”

  **

  Twelve minutes later, King was standing outside her apartment. The urge to kick the door down was huge, but he fought it – whatever the hell was going on, Naomi didn’t seem to be in any condition to take a shock like that.

  She opened the door and when he saw her face, he grabbed her without a word. She looked terrible, wide-eyed and afraid, and all he could think to do was hold her until she felt safe again. Shaking and silent, she clung to him, so relieved that he was there.