Regret (Twisted Hearts Duet Book 2)

by Max Henry

  As my breaths even out and my climax-induced euphoria dies off, it dawns on me that Duke’s fallen deathly quiet.

  I open my eyes, expecting to find him watching me, waiting. But I don’t.

  My heart picks up pace for an entirely different reason when I find instead, Duke still kneeling between my legs, only his focus isn’t on me anymore.

  “Duke? Everything okay?” I push up on my elbows, scooting back so I can shift to my knees, same as him.

  He doesn’t answer; his eyes are hard, his brow pinched as he stares off into the dark field beyond.

  “What is it?” I whisper, searching the grass for whatever he’s seen. “Duke? Talk to me.” What the hell is he looking at?

  His gaze slides back to mine, but I’m met with an entirely different man to the one who made me forget where I was mere seconds ago. His jaw clenches, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

  Yet still, he says nothing.

  “Duke, you’re scaring me.”

  What have I done?

  TWENTY-ONE

  Duke

  “Duke. You’re scaring me.”

  Cammie’s eyes go wide as she starts to back away from where I kneel frozen in my fear. I’ve ruined her. Wrecked what we had before it started.

  “Cam …”

  “Thank Christ,” she sighs. “Talk to me, would you?”

  I pat the pockets of my jeans, ignoring my rapidly deflating hard-on, and pull my phone out. Slamming my finger across the screen, I switch the torch on and lay it between us.

  “What’s going on?” Her gaze flicks from the phone to me, before her face falls.

  I see the puzzle come together in her softened eyes: my fear of sleeping in the open, the fact I make sure she goes to bed before me, the fact this isn’t the first time I’ve used my phone as a torch when it wasn’t really necessary.

  “You’re afraid of the dark,” she says on a whisper.

  I’ve never told anyone, and for good reason. What kind of a man is crippled by a fear that only small children keep?

  My mum—she knows about the nightmares. My brother—he knows I don’t sleep well, but not why. At home, my bed is pushed into a corner of the room with no windows adjacent, the tallboy beside the bed so it boxes me in. At home, I cope, however miserably.

  “I didn’t think when we left the house.”

  “It’s okay.” She scoots forward, setting her hands on my thighs.

  The simple gesture grounds me, the basic action of her touch doing so much for me right now that I don’t think she could possible comprehend how amazing she is. I literally made this woman come and now I’m an anxious mess, yet all she thinks about is how I feel.

  “I’m sorry.” She opens her mouth to say something in return, yet I silence her with a raised hand. “I know. Pathetic, huh?” God, what does she think of me? “I wasn’t always like this.”

  Lame comeback, Duke.

  “Since the incident overseas?” she asks, her hands massaging my thighs.

  I nod. “It was night time when they attacked. I guess the fact they caught us off guard, hit the place by surprise, triggered something in my subconscious. I’ve been told by doctors in the past that my brain made a connection to the fear of the attack and the fact it was during the night. That’s why I’m afraid now when it’s not light; I can’t see the threat my brain tells me should be there.”

  “Ghosts,” she whispers. “You were looking for ghosts from your past.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Cam takes my phone in her hand, careful not to obstruct the light. She rises to her feet, one hand outstretched toward me. I take it, allowing her to coax me up as well.

  “We can’t keep doing this,” she says as she guides us toward the house. “Letting our pasts dictate who we are today.”

  “How do you change everything about who you are, though?” She has a life outside of her fear to feed off, to give her strength. Me? All I am is the broken vet who can’t hold down a job to save himself.

  “One step at a time.” She nods, resolute in her answer.

  All I can do is squeeze her hand in reply. There aren’t any words that could adequately voice how thankful I am to have found her. She’s done what others couldn’t, and all without a second thought or the slightest ounce of frustration.

  I’ve only ever known one other woman like that, and the fleeting thought that someday, I could lose this one, too, threatens to have me sitting immobile once more.

  I couldn’t go through that again. Never.

  “Well,” Cammie says, breaking the silence between us, “I had fun for the most part. What about you?” She laughs, cementing the fact I don’t deserve her. What have I done to merit this kind of unwavering happiness in my life?

  I tug on Cam’s hand, bringing her to a stop so I can swing her to face me. Her smile shows nothing but a genuine ability to look for the best in the situation. “Unwanted panic attack aside, I think we can agree we both had a good time.”

  She tilts her chin up as I lean down to take her lips with mine. Her kisses are a salve I can never have too much of.

  “I’m thinking,” she says with a grin as we resume our trek to the house, “since we’ve wasted a whole heap of time running around like two raucous kids, how about we start the diet another day and have pancakes for dinner?”

  I huff out a laugh as I smile, hanging my head between my shoulders. “You’re really something, you know that?”

  “I’ve been told.” Cam bats her eyelashes. “Come on. Admit it: you’re secretly excited at the idea of a sugar-overloaded feel-better-now dinner.”

  Not particularly. My gut churns simply thinking about all that syrup and butter. “How about I just cook again? It can be my way of paying board.”

  “Deal.” She snaps her fingers. “My rear end has already gained a kilo thinking about all that refined sugar, anyway.”

  I bark out a laugh while pulling my hand from hers and promptly slapping it across her arse. “This thing is hardly fat, woman.”

  “It’s hardly size small, either.”

  “It’s sexy,” I insist. For fuck’s sake, I’ve barely been able to keep my eye off the thing. “You women and your bodies.”

  “Come on,” she exclaims. “Men can hardly critique how harsh us women are on our bodies when it’s your gender that set unrealistic expectations of what ‘pretty’ is.”

  “Fuck me,” I groan. Knew she was too good to be true. “Don’t tell me you’re a feminist as well.”

  “I prefer realist. You can’t deny that there’s a real inequality when it comes to the expectations society sets on women over men. I mean, it’s totally accepted for an overweight guy to score a hot, fit young woman, right? But if an overweight woman bags herself a hot, fit young guy, she’s suddenly a cougar, or he’s a chubby-chaser. It’s bullshit.”

  “I don’t know,” I say on a sigh as I guide her up the stile. “All I know is that if a woman has hips and tits, then the primal part of a man can’t help but notice. Cut it whichever way you like, but men are built to hunt and provide, and they’re attracted to the fact women are built to breed and care for the young.”

  “Yeah?” Cam says quietly. “Well, some of us obviously failed at the breeding and caring part.” She storms off ahead as I hustle over the stile with my foot in my goddamn mouth.

  What the fuck was I thinking saying that? Douche, Duke. Fucking douche move, that was. “Shit, Cam. I didn’t mean that.”

  She shakes her head, pushing on ahead.

  “Cam.” I jog to catch up, determined to fix this. “Wait up, would you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she blurts as she stops and turns to face me. “It’s just … you struck a chord, you know? You’re right to a degree, and that’s what hurts. I’m a woman, and yet I’m a shit mum.” Her brow twitches. “I was a shit mum.”

  God, no. Never. I take her shoulders in my hold and bend a little to level our gazes. “You are not a shit mum.”

  “How can you say tha
t when my negligence caused my daughter’s death? Do you have any idea how many different ways I could have stopped what happened? I could have locked the door before I dozed off; I could have put up with the blocked sinuses and just dealt with it; I could have waited until Jared got home to feel sorry for myself and wallow in my head-cold-induced misery. Jesus, Duke, the list never ends.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But what the fuck does beating yourself up over again and again achieve now?” I ask.

  She stares into my eyes, her brow hard as she seems to search for something—who knows what? A sign that I’m lying, telling her what she needs to hear?

  Not going to find it.

  “Answer me, Cam.” I give her shoulders a gentle shake. “What the fuck does any of that achieve now? Can you go back and change what happened?”

  “No.” She pouts.

  “Does hindsight help you deal with the grief at all?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Exactly.” I drop my hands to my sides and straighten up. “So let it go. You were no more able to foresee what would happen when you took those drugs than I was when I re-deployed thinking I’d still have a wife when I got back.”

  “So why do you still beat yourself up over the past as well, Duke?”

  Damn. She’s nailed it on the head with that question. Why do I blame myself for not being able to do more after the attack, for not being able to stop my wife driving that day? I couldn’t prevent either of those events any more than she could prevent hers. What would one more scorned soldier running off into the desert with a loaded weapon, or being home the day family died, have achieved?

  It wouldn’t have changed what happened, that’s for sure.

  It may have been her daughter’s door we opened last night, but as I look at Cam patiently waiting on me to answer, it becomes obvious that it was never her issues we were bringing into the light.

  It was mine.

  This was never meant to be about me.

  “Come inside, Duke.” Cam holds her hand toward me, her head cocked slightly to the side. “Let’s go eat. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  “You go ahead; I’ll be in soon.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You don’t like the dark.”

  “I know that, Cam,” I snap a little too harshly given how she whips her head back. “Perhaps I feel like a good old shock to the senses might help.”

  I can’t explain it, but the way she turned the conversation around, pointed out that my observations about her inability to cope come from having the same faults in myself, makes me want to face this last demon head on.

  “Now isn’t the time.” Her fingers thread in mine. “We can deal with this one together, later.”

  “I’ve got to do it—face my fears,” I say, turning back to face her. “Like you said, we can’t keep living like this.”

  “No, we can’t. But like I also said,” she says, “we have to change our habits one step at a time.”

  I don’t answer her, my focus on the dark fence line, the trees, and the parts of the yard that are blackest of all. Somewhere out there is danger. Somewhere out there is the ghost of my past waiting to be banished for good.

  “I’m reverting back to the original idea of pancakes,” Cam states. “With maple syrup.”

  Now isn’t the time to do this, Duke. “Jam,” I answer. “Do you have jam?”

  She giggles, handing me my phone and tugging me toward the house. “Jam is for pikelets, silly.”

  “Is a pancake not an over-sized pikelet?”

  She lifts her eyebrow as her mouth twists in thought. “I suppose you’re right.”

  I gesture for her to go inside first as I switch the torch off and pocket my shame for later. “Thank you.”

  Cam glances back over her shoulder as we make our way up the hall. “For what?”

  “Not making fun of me.”

  “Why on earth would I do that?” Cam says as she busies herself pulling ingredients from the pantry.

  I retrieve a mixing bowl and whisk, heading to the fridge for milk. “A guy my size, my age, scared of the dark?” I snort. “Don’t tell me you didn’t laugh a little on the inside. You were probably disgusted you let a wimp like me touch you.”

  “Nope.” She measures flour and then baking powder as I try to figure her out. “I might have felt sorry for you when I worked out why you flipped like that, but I don’t pity you.”

  “Why not?” Isn’t that human instinct? To pity those weaker than yourself?

  “Because, Duke, pity is what you feel when someone is pathetic and unable to help themselves. You’re neither of those things.”

  “You barely know me,” I say setting the milk down and leaning a hip into the counter.

  “I know enough to let you touch me.” She taunts me with my own words as she adds the final ingredients to her bowl and then whisks it into a smooth batter.

  I hold my position as she moves around me, warming the skillet and pouring the first pancake in to cook. Her focus is on the batter as it bubbles, but the look in her eye says she’s about as mentally present in this room as I am.

  Less than a week, and this woman has managed to steamroll a path through my bullshit to rip the core of my issues wide open. I can’t change, can’t fix myself if I continue to hide the worst of me and pretend I’m doing okay.

  I’m not okay. I’m a fucking mess, and while I clearly acknowledge that, I also keep those around me at a protective arm’s length. My mum? Shit, she’s done nothing but stand by my side, and what have I done for her in return? Become as much of an emotionally shut-off arsehole as my old man.

  All in the name of “saving face”. What good is it, though, upholding this ridiculous ideal that real men don’t cry if inside it’s breaking me apart and turning me into a bitter man who’s on a fast track to a life lived alone in a forest cabin, spitting at anyone who dares step foot on his property?

  I’ve got to let her in, show her my weaknesses knowing that she’s so far proven to be the kind of person who won’t take advantage of them. I’ve got to try and make this work between us. I have to let go in order to hold on.

  “You’ve got your show tomorrow, yeah?”

  Cam looks up from plating another fluffy pancake on the stack, and shakes her head. “No, Thursday. Tomorrow I’m doing a fundraising event, remember? That’s why we’re supposed to be eating healthy, because I won’t have much time for dinner between leaving work and getting there.” She snorts a supressed laugh.

  “Can I come?”

  Her eyebrows lift as she carefully answers, “If you want to. I mean, I didn’t think that would be your thing, but if you’re sure. I could probably put you to good use. They always need people to help corral the kids when they get overexcited and out of hand.”

  “Kids?”

  “Kids.” A soft smile spreads across her lips. “It’s the annual disco at the kindergarten.”

  “Kids and dancing?” Kill me now …”

  “Aw, Duke. You’re not afraid of a few ankle-biters, are you?”

  “Of course not. I’m just … I don’t know many people with kids, so I’m not that good with them.” I was never gifted the chance to see my own.

  “You were one once, right?” She gives the remaining batter another stir while continuing to smirk at me.

  “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

  “Never.” She wiggles her eyebrows and returns to cooking the pancakes.

  Subject closed. Damn it.

  I set the table for us as she finishes the last of the batter, reminding myself that I’m at T-minus approximately five days and counting. Maybe if I tell the therapist that I stepped outside my comfort zone and helped a woman I just met with kids, they’ll go easy on the exercises they give me? Unlikely. Still, letting them know that I volunteered to help at a kindergarten disco can’t be—

  Shit. “Is this fundraiser at night?”

  “Well, yeah. I said it’s after work.” Cam�
�s eyes go wide as she dumps the empty batter bowl in the sink. “Oh. I’m sure it’ll be fine, though, Duke. Heaps of lights and plenty of people around to reassure you everything’s okay.” She looks about as convinced as I feel.

  “I thought you meant it was a late afternoon thing. I didn’t think it through properly before I offered.” Idiot.

  “The dark is a hard limit for you, huh?” She doesn’t ask to criticise; her tone tells me she’s genuinely concerned.

  “Can be a pain in the arse, yeah.”

  “How do you cope, normally?”

  I laugh bitterly as she sets the stack down on the table. “I don’t—clearly.”

  “You know what? Don’t worry about it.” Cam takes her seat. “Stay here and kick back. I’m sure it’ll only be a couple of hours, tops. You can pick out a movie for us to watch when I get home or something.”

  “If you’re sure?” Quitter.

  She sighs, holding my gaze across the table with her fork poised over her plate. “Small steps, remember? I’m thinking a crazy busy kindergarten car park that’s lit up with only a few strings of fairy lights probably won’t be the best idea. You might get a few funny looks if you’re wandering around with your phone out like you’re about to take pictures. You know, some strange guy with no kids of his own there and all.” She laughs it off as a joke, but it’s anything but. It’s my life: the story of a fully-grown man who can’t attend a harmless fundraiser because it’s at night, and it involves kids.

  All the reminders of what I lost rolled into one.

  Some hero …

  TWENTY-TWO

  Cammie

  “Oh, Cammie. I’m so glad you’re here. I had a couple of mums lined up to help me get the tables set out, but one’s stuck in the traffic, and the other has a son who won’t stop vomiting.” The manager of the kindergarten, stands with her arms full of streamers and her eyes full of panic.

  “Point me in a direction, Jacinda, and I’ll have them laid out in no time.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  I set my bag down with the boxes of decorations and activity supplies and get to work laying out the trestle tables in the closed off car park. By the time the sun goes down and the parents return with their children, we have six stations set up with various activities for the kiddies to try out to get spot prizes and crafts to take home. I get comfortable at my face-painting station as Jacinda rushes past again, a huge tub of swollen water balloons in her hands.