by Ruby Molloy
I’m trembling.
The envelope is screwed up in my palm. I watch him walk away, knowing I should never have agreed to talk with him. The outcome could have been appallingly different.
I don’t take the Tube to Boyd’s. I’m too shaken. Instead I do what Boyd has been urging me to do for the past few weeks. I take a cab.
I’m home before Boyd. I leave Liam’s unopened letter on the worktop while I fix a mug of coffee. I stir in three teaspoons of sugar. I figure the sugar-hit will calm me.
My mug is half empty before I gather the courage to break the envelope’s seal. The paper inside is folded. I open it and begin reading. It’s a concise and heartfelt apology. In the final paragraph he tells me he’s in a relationship. He says that his partner’s aware of his history and they’re taking things slowly. He signs off by wishing me well.
A choking noise escapes my throat. It’s somewhere between a laugh and a cry. That’s when I hear the front door close. I shove the letter behind my back, but Boyd’s there already, watching me.
I know how I must look. Guilty. Secretive.
My breathing slows as he approaches. His eyes scan my face before dropping to where my hand is tucked behind my back. He picks up the envelope from where I left it on the worktop, his eyes flat.
He wastes time, taking a beer from the fridge, flipping off the cap. His movements are unhurried and the longer he’s silent, the more jumpy I become.
“Can I see it?” he asks.
I bring out my hand from my behind back and offer him the letter. “Don’t jump to conclusions, please?”
He says nothing, simply turns the sheet the right way and starts reading. By the time he reaches the end the atmosphere’s sparking with angry energy.
“How did you get this?” His eyes are frozen green lakes, his voice an icy wind. The letter sits crumpled inside his fist.
“He gave it to me.”
“How? When?!” His voice is sharp, aggressive almost. It’s difficult not react in the same way.
“I went for drinks with Delta and the guys after work. When I left the bar Liam was waiting outside, said he wanted to apologise. We went for a coffee in the diner across the road. I felt safe, Boyd. It was well lit and there were plenty of people around.”
Boyd doesn’t ever lose his temper the way I lose mine. Sure he gets angry from time to time, but he banks it down, keeps it quiet. Not tonight.
“He could have fucking killed you!” His voice is loud as thunder in my ears. “For all you knew he could have had a knife in his pocket. Or a gun. Or maybe acid. Don’t you realise how fucking messed up this is, him waiting for you, following you, after what he did to you?”
“He apologised!”
Right there, I think he’s going to lose it. His jaw tightens and when he speaks each word is blunt and lethal. “I don’t give a fucking shit if he turned up with a marching band and a truck load of flowers. The guy beat you up and went to prison for it. You think he’s not holding a grudge?”
“You saw his letter. Does that sound like a guy who’s set on revenge? He’s taking a workshop, he has a girlfriend, and he wrote me a letter apologising!”
“People don’t fucking change!”
“Really? Does that apply to you, Boyd? Are you still a player?!”
He pulls up short, staring as if he doesn’t know me anymore. “What the fuck?! We’re talking about your ex and you’re throwing that in my face?” He turns away as if he can no longer tolerate looking at me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean―”
“That what you see when you look at me? You see a player?”
“No!”
“Then why throw it in my face, Kayla?!”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I planned on saying it.”
“But you’re thinking it?”
“No! I don’t know!” How the hell did we get here? I scrape back my hair with both hands. “If you’re saying Liam can’t change, then surely the same is true of you?”
“You’re comparing me to him?” His tone is ominous, the way he’s holding his body a message in itself.
“You’re the one who said people don’t change! Tell me how that applies to Liam and not you?”
“Let me get this straight,” he says, quiet now. “You’re happy to believe your ex has somehow transformed into a fucking saint, a guy who did Christ knows what to you, because you still haven’t told me that story, but you’re asking me to defend myself?”
Okay, put like that it does sound a little extreme. I’m trying to figure out how we got here and how I can turn this round when Boyd finally loses it. “I’m not in the fucking mood for this. Get your things and I’ll take you home.”
My body jerks. “What?”
He’s already snatching up his keys from the table and waiting impatiently by the door, his hands in his pockets.
“Boyd―”
“In a hurry, Kayla. Grab your shit and I’ll take you home.”
“You’re throwing me out?”
He ignores my question and crosses the room to pick up my purse. “This everything?”
“Boyd!”
“This everything?!” His hand is gripping my purse as if he’s throttling it, and I know it won’t take much on my part to make him blow.
“Yes.”
He tosses the purse at me. “Then let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I follow him down to the SUV, jogging to keep up with him.
He doesn’t talk on the journey across town. The radio is on loud, two guys arguing about sport as if it’s a matter of life or death. When we reach my apartment he parks in the road with the engine running. He’s out of the car, walking round to my side, not giving me a chance to talk. It hurts. I shouldn’t have compared him to Liam ...
I’ve only just climbed onto the pavement when Boyd kisses me, his hand at the back of my head holding me in place. It’s not gentle; it’s angry and needy and when it’s over he stares at me. His eyes are fierce and there’s a message there, but I’m too dazed to grasp its meaning.
He’s gone within seconds, performing a U-turn and darting out into the traffic, leaving me in a state of raw confusion.
Chapter Thirteen
Two Weeks
KAYLA
Carred’s party is heaving when I arrive. Violet would appreciate the party decor. The theme is black; black oversized flowers, matt black balloons and black branches. Not delicate, twig-like branches, but huge misshapen ones that might possibly have come from a horror movie set.
I’m three hours late. Turns out Mike, the ex-PR guy, is unhappy about losing his job. He’s taken to bombarding social media with posts aimed at damaging our clients’ reputations. There’s no profile photo and he’s using an alias, but the fact it’s only recently begun tells me it’s him.
Delta’s monitoring the situation, keeping an eye on his posts as well as my responses. I’m hoping I won’t become the ex-PR Guru. I had to work until gone ten tonight, working on damage limitation. I’m hoping Delta will see that me working this late is an exception.
There’s no sign of Boyd, but Mace and Tag are talking with Carred. They’re dressed in black, as per the theme.
Tag’s drinking water, Mason has a beer and Carred has a glass of his favourite whiskey. At least, I’m guessing it’s whiskey, but with the black glass and all, it’s difficult to tell.
“Hey, Kayla, Frankie’s in the kitchen,” Mason tells me.
“Thanks.”
I stroll towards the kitchen, keeping an eye out for Boyd. Not because I want to see him or anything. Not after he left me the way he did. And especially not after two weeks of radio silence.
Nothing.
Nada. Not even a measly text.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen is humming. It has amazing views, but I’m guessing that’s not why it’s rammed, it being dark outside. Frankie, Nora and Ella are standing with their backs to the worktop. Nora looks amazing in a black dungaree dress and black Conver
ses. Ella’s dressed in a short black dress that’s patterned with a single, huge pink flower. She’s wearing chunky black ankle boots on her feet and she’s looks stunning with her short bleached afro. Frankie’s plain black dress shows off her slender shoulders and arms. She’s wearing chunky black sandals that give her an extra couple of inches.
Frankie spies me first. She gives up a big smile, which kind of shrinks a fraction when she sees what I’m wearing. The same goes for Nora and Ella, though they hide it way better than Frankie.
I’m wearing my rattiest jeans and a red-checked shirt over an army green t-shirt. Definitely not fitting in with the black theme.
“Hey,” Frankie says. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Uh, no disrespect, but you knew this was a party, right?” Her cheeky smile takes the sting out of her words.
“I know, but I came straight from work and I don’t plan on staying long.” I look over to Nora. “Sorry I didn’t make more of an effort, but I’m not exactly in the mood for partying.”
“Are you kidding me? You can wear what you like. I’m just glad you made it. Did you drive?”
“Yeah. My car’s out front.”
“Okay, well, if you change your mind and want a drink you know you can stay over.”
“Thanks, but I’m bushed.” I glance at all three and ask the question I’ve been dreading. “Is he here?”
They swap glances. “He’s here,” says Ella.
“Okay ...” I can see by their expressions that there’s something they’re not telling me. “Is he with someone?” I’m proud of how I say this without falling to pieces.
Ella glances at Frankie and Nora before shaking her head.
“Oh my God, you’re starting to freak me out. What are you not telling me?”
“He’s drunk,” says Frankie.
“Boyd?”
Their heads bob up and down. I know Boyd likes a beer. We all do, with the exception of Tag. But drunk? That’s not Boyd.
“How drunk?” I ask.
“Whiskey drunk,” says Nora.
I follow their gazes to the other side of the kitchen, where Boyd is standing with four women. He’s wearing a black hoodie over a black t-shirt. He’s big, undoubtedly, but the hoodie emphasises his shoulders.
One of the women is checking him out. He’s oblivious, staring into his glass, looking miserable. The girl, her lips stained dark red, says something to him, her confidence only slightly dented when he stares at her blankly. That’s when his head lifts and his gaze focuses on me. His eyes aren’t blank now. There’s hunger in his narrowed gaze.
I swear the music amplifies and the lights shine brighter. There’s a buzz of electricity, a hum of energy, until gradually it diffuses and everything’s as it was before. Only, I don’t recall that tension in my stomach or the ache in my chest. It hurts to acknowledge what I’ve lost. I turn my back on him. I’m aware that Frankie and Co are staring at me, but I’m still reeling from the sight of Boyd. Two lousy weeks of falling asleep with my phone on my pillow, waiting. I guess when Boyd’s done, he’s done. No messages, no goodbyes.
“Uh, I’ll get you a drink,” Nora says into the silence. “What would you like?”
“Coke would be good, thanks.”
Her gaze shifts behind me.
“Is he still staring?” I ask. Maybe I should get out of here before one of us makes a scene.
“Uh, not so much,” she says, eyes focused just beyond my right shoulder. “He’s kind of standing right behind you.”
I can feel the electricity at my back, that humming sound in my ears again. I turn slowly and there he is. He doesn’t say anything, simply looks at me, those striking green eyes of his lit up against his dark hair. His hands are in the pockets of his hoodie, rounding out its front, pulling the zipper taut against his chest. “You’re late,” he says.
I blink a couple of times. “’Scuse me?”
“Been waiting. Thought you weren’t going to show.”
I stare up at him, confused, wondering if I’ve missed something. “You’ve been waiting?”
He looks impatient, as if I’m deliberately playing dumb. “That’s what I said.”
“I haven’t heard from you in weeks and you were waiting on me?”
“Needed time to cool down.”
I hear Ella’s mumble of “Oh, shit!”, but my attention’s on Boyd as I try to get my head round what he’s saying. “I needed time to cool down?”
He sends me a frustrated glance. “Not you, me.”
“That’s why you didn’t text me or call me? You needed time to cool down?” Maybe he can hear it in my voice. Or maybe he sees something in my expression. Either way, he doesn’t seem shocked when I screw up my face and yell, “Fuck you, Boyd!”
I turn my back on him, but he tugs at my arm so I’m facing him again. “Not polite to turn your back on people, Boots.”
“What, the way you turned your back on me for two weeks, you mean?”
“That was different. You were out of line, throwing that shit in my face about being a player.”
“Hate to break it to you, Boyd, but you are a player. Everyone knows it.”
“Was, Kayla! There’s a fucking difference!”
“Was. Is. It’s the same thing!”
“Fuckin’ hell! Why are you doing this?”
I go to speak, but Boyd gets in there again, only this one’s a killer.
“Don’t wanna be with anyone but you, Boots.”
If they were handing out medals for sincerity, he’d win, hands down. I stare, wondering why he’s going all hazy and shimmery. And now his eyes have gone soft and his jaw’s flexing like he’s clamping down on his feelings. Damn my eyes. They’re filling up and he’s watching me fall apart. “Don’t do this,” I whisper.
His expression tells me he’s hurting too. “Do what?”
“Don’t be nice. Not when it’s two weeks overdue.”
That kind of takes the wind out of his sails.
I walk off and it’s not until I’m in the hall that I wonder where the hell I’m going.
“You okay?” Frankie’s voice floats towards me and I realise that Ella, Frankie and Nora have followed.
“I’m fine.” I want to go home, but it would be rude and I don’t want to be a killjoy. “You want to go dance? I think I need to burn off some anger.”
“Come this way.” Nora leads us into a room that’s swarming with people. Over along the back wall a guy occupies the DJ stand. It looks like he means business. He’s surrounded by equipment and solid-looking guys in white t-shirts and sneakers.
“Oh my God, is that Bryson?”
Nora laughs. “Amazing, huh? Carred asked Mace if he could make it happen. Look at this ...” she spreads her arms wide, gesturing at the packed dance floor. “Isn’t it amazing?”
The mood I’m in, I didn’t think I could smile, but her enthusiasm is contagious. I give up the can of coke and follow them to the centre of the dance floor, but no matter how great the sound, I can’t get Boyd out of my mind. I’ve never seen him drunk before. Or hurting.
A while later I catch sight of him talking to the girl with the dark red lips. Maybe he’s sobered up some, because he sure doesn’t seem to have a problem understanding her now. He’s leaning back against the wall and she’s looking at him like he’s her dream come true.
I last another couple of dances before I make my excuses and slip outside. My keys are still in the car. I left them there knowing there’s a security gate blocking access to the drive. Also, mine’s the oldest car here. If someone was going to steal a vehicle they’d pick that silver Porsche or the navy Jag.
I close my door and I’m about to buckle up when I realise Boyd’s climbing into the passenger seat. “Boyd, what the hell?”
He pays no attention.
I’m about to climb out, but my centre of gravity is off. A simple tug from Boyd is all it takes to have me tumbling towards him, my hand landing on his th
igh to prevent me falling face first across his lap.
“Get out of my damn car, Boyd.”
“Going nowhere,” he says, voice stubborn as hell.
“Damn it, will you get out!”
“I’m over the limit. Need a ride.”
“No way, no fucking way. You need a ride, get it from someone else.”
He’s leaning back in his seat and when he tilts his head my way, even in the dark I can make out their beauty. A jolt rips through me, tingling all the way to the soles of my feet. Reacting instinctively I lash out, thrusting my hands against his chest as if I can somehow manoeuvre him through the closed door. He tries to grab my wrist and misses, but it doesn’t take him long to overpower me. He snags my wrists and pins them above my head.
“You’ll have to let me go at some point, Boyd, and when you do I’ll make you sorry!”
He laughs, as if I don’t stand a chance against him, and the sound ignites the flames of my temper. He’s leaning over me, on his knees. I twist and pull my foot back, aiming for his thigh, only my aim is off. My foot strikes his groin and everything goes crazy. Boyd is out of the car, on his hands and knees in the gravel, heaving and vomiting on the pebbles, his fingers scraping at the dirt like he’s digging himself in for the long haul. I round the car, crying and calling his name.
“Boyd? Oh my God, tell me what to do.”
But he’s unreachable, retching and groaning, his hoodie obscuring his face, his arms flexing as he rides through the pain. I wait, crouched at his side, watching as he spits out a mouthful of saliva. His arms are shaking and tremors run through his body. He rolls to his back and drops an arm over his eyes. Minutes go by, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest.
“Boyd?”
Still nothing.
“You want me to get someone? I could get Mason or Tag if you like.”
“Give me a sec.”
I do as he says, standing upright when my legs begin to cramp. More minutes pass and he pushes up into a sitting position, wiping away the gravel that’s stuck to his palms.