One Wicked Week

by Nicola Marsh

  At some point his eyes must’ve drifted shut because when he opened them, what he saw terrified him. Jayda, staring at him with every emotion he’d fought against for so long.

  She couldn’t love him.

  He couldn’t love her.

  How the fuck would he tell her?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  JAYDA’S BODY TINGLED in the aftermath of another sensational sexual encounter with Brock and she realised that every time he held her he made her feel so cherished that she didn’t feel self-conscious about her weight.

  Each time he’d undressed her or caressed her or looked at her she didn’t feel the inevitable panic that he’d see her jiggly bits or the cellulite on her thighs as she had with other guys.

  He swept her away in the moment every time. But as they came down from the high of orgasm, he got that look again. The one that said he’d withdraw before she could reach him. Not tonight. Tonight, she wouldn’t let him off so easily.

  ‘I need a shower,’ she said, watching the shutters descend over his eyes as he withdrew and carefully lowered her legs to the floor.

  ‘Sure, go ahead. Do you need some clean clothes?’

  His cool tone alerted her to the obvious: he wouldn’t be joining her.

  ‘A T-shirt and sweatpants would be great.’

  ‘Done.’ He turned and zipped up, and when he didn’t turn back around to face her she padded to the bathroom. She wouldn’t confront him now, not when she needed to clean up. But later, he wouldn’t know what hit him.

  After the fastest shower on record—she would’ve loved to linger under the massive attachment that simulated being drenched in a downpour of rain—she dried off with a fluffy clean towel he’d left for her and slipped into the clothes he’d placed beside it. Thankfully he’d given her a black T-shirt, not white, because going braless while trying to have a serious conversation wouldn’t have been a good look. She might be in confrontation mode but her nipples had other ideas whenever he was in the vicinity.

  Taking a steadying breath for what was to come, she stepped out of the bathroom and spied him by the far window, staring out at the city lights. He had a glass in his hand filled with an amber liquid. Whisky? Good, he needed a shot of liquid courage with her in combat mode.

  She padded towards the huge open lounge area, spying a small cheese platter on the coffee table alongside a mug of hot chocolate. Not wine, chocolate, which she could interpret in one of two ways: he didn’t want her inhibitions lowered—too late for that—or he anticipated she’d need comfort.

  He’d try to push her away again. She knew it with every cell in her body. But this time, she wouldn’t go without a fight.

  ‘Thanks for the clothes, and for this,’ she said, sitting in front of the table and popping a cracker into her mouth.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Oh, yeah, he’d retreated, big time. His spine and shoulders were rigid, his jaw jutted and his fingers clenched the glass so hard she was surprised it didn’t shatter.

  ‘I’ve got a lot of work to do so when you’re done I’ll call you a taxi—’

  ‘Trying to get rid of me?’

  She stood and crossed the floor to stand in front of him. Coward, he took a step back. Then again, she saw the flare of awareness in his eyes and the quick perusal of her body, so maybe he didn’t want to be tempted when trying to kick her out. Damn, she should’ve worn a white T-shirt after all.

  ‘This has nothing to do with you—’

  ‘Bullshit, you retreating every time we have sex has everything to do with me.’ She jabbed a finger in his direction for emphasis. ‘My IQ may not match yours but I can figure out that you’ve been in a tizz ever since I met your parents tonight and I know why.’

  Surprise widened his eyes imperceptibly. ‘You can’t possibly—’

  ‘They think we’re a couple and you’re terrified by anything remotely resembling a commitment.’

  Relief made his shoulders slump. ‘Yeah, well, I told you at the start this thing between us had an expiration date—’

  ‘What if I don’t want it to end?’

  She flung it out there and he visibly recoiled, making her gut gripe.

  ‘It has to.’ His icy tone made her want to rub her arms for warmth. ‘I can’t give you what you want.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  She hated presumptions but she should’ve known someone like him would think he’d know more about her than she knew herself. Wise-ass.

  ‘You want a long-term relationship and all it entails. Breakfast in bed on Sunday mornings. Moving in together. More...’ He blanched, as if even the thought of marriage made him sick.

  ‘Wow. You can’t even say the word, can you?’ She pointed at her mouth. ‘It’s simple, really. You form the letters and say it. Mar...riage.’

  ‘Being a smart-ass isn’t helping.’

  ‘You expect me to help you make breaking up easier?’ She shook her head, shoving her hair out of her eyes. ‘I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t want all that stuff you mentioned—’

  ‘Stop lying to me and to yourself,’ he yelled, making her jump. ‘Of course you bloody want it. I see it every time you look at me. Like I’m some goddamn knight in shining armour. But I’m not that person. I can’t save you when...’

  He trailed off, stricken, and whirled away from her to slam his palm against the window.

  Had he been about to say ‘when I can’t save myself’?

  What had happened to this smart, sexy guy to scar him so badly?

  ‘I don’t need saving, Brock. I need a guy to like me for me and I thought that guy was you.’

  He stiffened. Yeah, the truth hurts, buddy.

  ‘I rarely take risks but in the last month I’ve managed to walk away from my folks, start my own business and indulge in a fling. And I know that whatever happens between us, getting involved long term is a risk but I’m willing to take it. Why can’t you?’

  She held her breath as he slowly turned back to face her. She’d know if her impassioned plea had got through to him the moment she glimpsed his face. When she saw his stony expression and cold, hard eyes, she knew she’d lost him before they’d really begun.

  ‘You know me, I’m all about the computations so I only take calculated risks. And from where I’m standing I see a woman who could barely look at this poor geek during uni, the dumb-ass she only turned to when she needed a comfort fuck, and who she’s showing an exorbitant amount of interest in now because I have money and you finally see me as good enough for the high and mighty Jayda York—’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  It would’ve had more impact if her voice didn’t wobble, her throat tight with fury. ‘For a genius with a sky-high IQ, you’re an ignorant asshole.’

  As she swept through his penthouse scooping up her dress, panties and shoes, she willed him to stop her, to apologise, to drag her into his arms and never let go.

  He did none of those things.

  So she stormed out of his life, wishing she had a door to slam rather than his stupid elevator doors sliding shut on a soft whoosh.

  She’d meant it. Fuck him and his hateful words.

  So why did it hurt so damn bad?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  AFTER JAYDA LEFT, Brock pulled an all-nighter. The only way he could cope with the numbness was to focus on coding. But even the familiarity of numbers dancing across the computer screen couldn’t soothe him.

  Iciness flooded his body, making his teeth chatter at the oddest of moments, as if he’d developed some kind of tremor. Logic demanded it had to be shock but he didn’t feel like acknowledging logic right now. There’d been nothing logical about the callous way he’d deliberately driven Jayda away, implying she was only interested in him now for his money. Laughable, but he’d been desperate, flinging whatever insults he cou
ld to get her to leave.

  He couldn’t stand her honesty, the way she stood in front of him and talked about taking risks. He was the last person she should take a risk on so he’d deliberately acted like an asshole and his plan to make a clean break had worked.

  But at what cost? He’d hurt the one woman he’d ever really cared about—discounting his mum—and it made him sick to his stomach. Yet she could never understand. If he hadn’t been able to save his mum from the hardship of growing up with an emotionally stunted man, how could he hope to save her?

  He couldn’t put Jayda through that. He couldn’t enter a relationship willingly, knowing that he was more like his dad than he cared to admit. He’d seen the similarities along the way—not being able to communicate with women properly, the impatience with their endless prattle, his inability to express affection—but had ignored the signs. It was why he shunned relationships, because he never wanted to put any woman through what he’d witnessed his father putting his mother through.

  Throw in the similarities he’d noticed recently and it had him in a tailspin. No matter how much he cared for Jayda, he wasn’t built for a long-term relationship. She might be strong and confident and willing to take risks but he couldn’t gamble with her heart, not when his own had been fortified for so long.

  He would end up breaking both.

  As for his parents, he hated how Duke and Pat had been so intuitive to see past the tension and the moods to a strong marriage and he hadn’t. It also annoyed the hell out of him that it had taken him so long to notice the positive changes. Brock never doubted himself when it came to work but with his folks...he’d screwed up, big time.

  He picked up his mobile, scowled, and put it down again. He pushed back from his desk and prowled around his apartment for the next five minutes, trying to avoid looking at all the places Jayda had been. A futile, impossible task because everywhere he looked he could see her. On his sofa that first night staring at him as if she wanted to devour him whole. In his kitchen, wearing his T-shirt and little else. Up against the wall near the elevator, wanton and willing...

  ‘Fuck,’ he muttered, snatching up the phone before he could change his mind.

  If he didn’t sort through the issues with his folks he had no hope of giving Jayda the apology she deserved. They could never be a couple, not in the way she wanted, but he owed her that much. Deliberately insulting her to drive her away had been the coward’s way out. She deserved better. And while he might not be able to reveal the whole truth about his relationship phobia he could give her a polite, platonic goodbye that wouldn’t leave her hurt and him looking like an asshole.

  Yeah, a clean, concise break-up. Much better.

  But first he had to visit his folks.

  * * *

  ‘Thanks for meeting me here.’ Brock gave his mum a hug outside George’s hospital room.

  ‘Your text sounded urgent?’ She scanned his face, worry clouding her eyes. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The lie tripped from his lips the same way it had every time she’d asked him the same question as a kid. When his dad had reneged on a promised visit to a skate park. When his dad had yelled at him for snaffling the last shortbread cookie. When his dad had given him a cuff over the ear after he’d accidentally scratched a used car with a dirty sponge while washing it.

  He’d hated lying to his mum but he’d seen how worn out she’d looked, as if the slightest thing would drive her away, and that was why he ultimately held his tongue and bottled up his unhappiness: for fear she would leave and he’d be left alone with him.

  ‘How was the awards night?’

  ‘Fine.’ His snapped response sounded anything but.

  ‘You look serious.’ She reached up and smoothed the frown line between his brows. ‘Did something happen between you and Jayda? She’s lovely, by the way—’

  ‘Let’s go talk to Dad,’ he said, pushing open the door and waiting until she entered before following.

  George’s eyes lit up. ‘My two favourite people.’

  Brock snorted, the sound not lost on either of his parents as their gazes fixed on him.

  ‘What’s wrong, son—?’

  ‘Cut the crap, Dad. You’ve never been interested in anything I do, so please don’t patronise me by showing concern now.’

  ‘Brock.’ His mum whacked him on the arm as if he were a five-year-old needing admonishment for being rude. Too late for that, Mum.

  Some of the light in George’s eyes faded. ‘You’ve obviously got some bug biting your ass, son, so let’s hear it.’

  Hating what he had to do, Brock backed away to the farthest corner opposite his dad’s bed and waited until his mum had perched on the bed before speaking.

  ‘Why are you still married when for years you couldn’t stand each other?’

  George’s eyes widened, Bette’s jaw dropped and the most startling they reached for each other’s hands at the same time.

  ‘I mean, you hated each other when I was growing up. You constantly argued or sniped.’ He stabbed a finger in his dad’s direction. ‘You put Mum down every chance you got and you hurt her!’

  His voice rose and he lowered it with effort. ‘And, Mum, I know you only put up with his shit because of me but why the hell did you stay after I grew up and left?’

  Remorse twanged his conscience as he took in their stunned expressions. He hated confronting them like this but he needed to in order to purge years of pent-up resentment that they’d created this emotional recluse.

  ‘Then to hear people at the awards night admit they saw all that bad stuff between you yet wax lyrical about your marriage...’ He shook his head, sadness tightening his throat. ‘It made me question everything I ever believed and lived through and tolerated in a house I never considered home—’

  ‘That’s enough,’ George said, his tone low and lethal. ‘You have no bloody right to question our marriage, none whatsoever. So you can shove your opinions up your ass—’

  ‘George, stop.’ Bette squeezed his hand and Brock couldn’t believe when his father actually listened, clamping his lips shut in a thin line. ‘There’s a reason you’ve brought this all up now, isn’t there, Brock?’

  Great, now he’d have to give them a snippet of his personal life if he ever wanted to get the answers he craved.

  ‘I loathe commitment, okay? I hated growing up knowing you only got married because of me and stayed stuck in a bad marriage because of me too.’ He thumped his chest hard, mortified when tears burned his eyes. ‘I never, ever, want to be in a relationship like yours and I don’t understand why you tolerated it—’

  ‘Because he’s my best friend and I love him,’ Bette said, a lone tear slipping down her cheek. ‘We got married too young. I’ll give you that. Late teens isn’t a good time to pledge your life to someone else. But you’re right. You were on the way and I wanted stability for you.’

  She glanced at George, who shot her a lopsided smile. ‘Your father didn’t have to marry me. His mates back then were planning a trip around Australia on their motorbikes, taking a gap year. But your father wanted to do the right thing and provide you with a family.’

  Brock wanted to hell: ‘What kind of a family features the parents hating each other’s guts while not giving their kid enough attention?’

  ‘Yes, we fought. It’s what most couples do as the years pass. But we were financially connected by the car yard so we decided to stick it out.’

  Sadness shadowed her eyes and she gave a slight shake of her head. ‘You’re right. We were both miserable and we took it out on you.’ Her lower lip wobbled before she straightened. ‘And we apologise for that.’

  He bit back his first response, ‘Too little too late’ and waited for her to continue. Though he should’ve known that was why his mum stuck around. Money. It would’ve had to be something big.
>
  ‘Yeah, our marriage was shitty and you shouldn’t have borne the brunt of it.’ She squeezed his dad’s hand again. ‘We discussed separating many times...’ She trailed off and blinked back more tears. ‘But we’re older now and when you left we had a blunt discussion about whether to walk away or stay married.’

  A small smile played about her mouth. ‘Your father’s still a pain in the ass most of the time but he’s making an effort and that’s what I asked of him when I decided to stick around.’

  She pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I’m not perfect either. I’ve been way too subservient over the years and I’ve grown a backbone recently and I like it.’

  She cast a quick fond look at his dad. ‘Our marriage may not be idyllic but it’s ours and we’re making a go of it.’

  Brock remained mute, trying to absorb his mum’s revelations and still confused as to why she stayed.

  ‘I know I’m a grumpy prick, son. Always have been. I have no patience and I don’t tolerate many people. But your mother...’ George touched her cheek with his free hand, his obvious affection shocking Brock as much as the gesture. ‘I can’t imagine life without her so when she gave me a good kick up the ass by telling me she’d leave around the time you did, well, let’s just say I made a decision to change things.’

  He struggled into a sitting position and slipped an arm around her waist. ‘I never had a mother. She shot through when I was a toddler so I was raised by a tyrant.’ He shrugged. ‘I know it’s not an excuse but I guess I never learned how to love a woman properly or treat a kid right.’

  A sliver of pity for his father wormed its way into Brock’s heart. He understood, because he’d learned by observation too growing up: that loving meant hurt and marriage wasn’t for him.

  ‘Your mother threatening to leave helped me to see what I’d be missing out on if she did, so I’ve tried to be a better man since.’ George’s eyes crinkled at the corner. ‘We go out every weekend. Walks along the Yarra, brunches by the bay, couple stuff.’