Jack & Kayla (Imperfect Love Series)

by Ruby Molloy

  When Monday morning finally rolls around I’m first in the office. It’s always a busy day, catching up on what’s been happening over the weekend. I still post messages when I’m not in the office, but these are schedule during the week so I don’t have to give up my free time. Or at least not too much. I do still monitor the feedback and view-counts.

  I leave cupcakes on Violet and Charlie’s desks. A strawberry one for Violet, decorated with slim rolls of chocolate and a vanilla one for Charlie, with white chocolate frosting.

  They show up at around eight thirty. Together. Violet’s head is bent low and Charlie’s saying something for her ears only. Her gaze is intense and when she nods Charlie gives her hand a squeeze before they separate.

  Powerful stuff for a Monday morning.

  It’s not until lunchtime that I get an opportunity to discover what went down. Me, Violet and Charlie are sitting together in the canteen downstairs, me and Violet chomping on chicken salad while Charlie bites into a baked potato with melted cheese.

  “Okay. What gives?” It’s not like they weren’t expecting my question, but they gaze at each other, silently signalling who should answer.

  Charlie speaks first. “My dad has cancer. It’s terminal.”

  “Oh my God.” I drop my fork to my plate and reach out, my hand squeezing his. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

  “It’s okay.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Actually, fuck that, it’s not okay, it’s fucking cancer.”

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “He’s had it a while now and I knew it could lead to this, but it doesn’t make it any less shitty.”

  “No.” I’m not sure know what to say. Everything that springs to mind is lightweight and clichéd. “If you need anything ...”

  “Cheers.”

  My gaze skitters between him and Violet. Their hands are linked beneath the table.

  I don’t say anything. Now’s not the time. But at some point I intend to speak to Violet and find out the latest news.

  I return to my desk with a full belly and get straight back down to work. Since I’ve been PR Guru our figures are up, with a twenty percent rise in followers. It’s a ludicrous number over a relatively short period of time. Delta puts it down to my posts being upbeat and informative. That and the fact I incorporate visuals that hook people’s attention. My degree may have been in History of Art, but art and social media aren’t so different; both aim to capture people’s attention and imagination.

  On the down side, we’re still receiving malicious posts from the unknown source, aka Mike. His screen name – a combination of letters and numbers – is unpronounceable and though there’s nothing to identify who he is, I’m still convinced it’s him.

  He posted over the weekend, issuing yet another spiteful complaint, though this time my name was mentioned. That’s a first, but trolls like to be noticed so there’s nothing to be done except ignore it.

  My brain is frazzled by the time I head home at five. Boyd’s working late and I plan to catch up on my laundry. I also need to go food shopping. My cupboards are bare, with the exception of a couple of tins of chickpeas that I bought when I was on a health kick.

  Frankie’s home when I get there. She has a lolly in her mouth and she’s dancing to something obscure, something that has my eardrums begging for mercy. I suffer in silence and wait for the song to end. Frankie, unaware of my presence, whirls round and round, the lolly almost falling from her mouth when she finally sees me. “Jesus, Kayla, you scared the shit out of me!”

  Least, I think that’s what she says. It’s difficult to tell, what with the music and her mouth being full of lolly. “Hi to you, too.”

  “What?”

  “I said hi to you, too.” I’m still shouting when the music dies.

  She pulls the blue lolly from her mouth and smiles. “Sorry. I was feeling restless.”

  Frankie has more energy than anyone I know―even Boyd, who’s always playing football or rugby or bench pressing his own body weight.

  “Don’t worry about it. You know your tongue and lips are blue, right?”

  “Shit!” She pokes out her tongue, checking her reflection in the toaster. “Oh my God. I’m seeing Mason in an hour. How long will it take to fade, do you reckon?”

  I shrug, enjoying her momentary panic. “I don’t know. I haven’t sucked one of those things since I was a kid.”

  She runs to the bathroom and not long after I hear the sound of an electric toothbrush. While she’s busy getting rid of the blue I unload my shopping, do my laundry, and grab a can of Coke. Boyd’s cooking dinner later, but I need sugar now.

  “Any better?”

  Frankie’s standing just outside the bathroom with her tongue on view.

  “Not perfect, but it’s better. Do we have any lemons? Maybe the juice would bleach it away?”

  Her grey eyes round out. “You want me to suck on a lemon?”

  I laugh. “Uh, maybe not. Anyway, with everything you and Mason have been through, he’s not gonna be put off by your blue tongue.”

  “True, but it’s not about that. I don’t always want to be the dork. Sometimes I wanna be more like you; you know, sexy and together.”

  I toss her a look. “You know I trashed Boyd’s apartment, right? How’s that for being sexy and together?”

  “Yeah, but that’s sexy in its own way, you being part-Spanish and having that kind of temperament.”

  “You ever think that maybe I want to be more like you?”

  She gives a scornful laugh. “Yeah, right!”

  “I’m serious. You think I’m not envious of your figure? Plus you’re sweet and sexy without being over the top. Me, I wear a pair of shorts and suddenly guys’ eyes are popping out like I’m naked or something.”

  Frankie laughs. “I guess that could get kind of tiring.”

  “Believe me, it does. Now go clean your lips some more. You look like a corpse.”

  “You just said―”

  “Yeah, I know, and it was true but it won’t hurt to tone it down a little. You want to share some pasta? Boyd’s cooking tonight, but I’m starving.”

  “No, thanks. I’m eating with Mason. What time are you seeing Jack?”

  “Eight. In the meantime, I’m gonna paint my toenails and wax whatever needs waxing.”

  “Oh, did I tell you that Ella wants to get together. We’re thinking a week on Saturday if you’re free?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Great. You okay if I use the bathroom for ten minutes?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m just going to munch on a carrot or something. Go do what you need to do.”

  I eat my carrot and flick through the pages of a magazine. It’s one of those high fashion ones, with skinny girls draped over chairs, showing off their super-skinny thighs in semi-erotic poses. I’m not overweight, but when I compare myself to their curve-free shapes it’s like comparing an apple to my carrot.

  When Frankie has finished I head to the bathroom and begin the hateful task of waxing. It’s relatively pain free, but the mess I create is something to be seen. I drop one of the opened strips on the floor and it lands facedown, leaving its pink goo stuck to the tiles. This takes five minutes to scrub clean, by which time my face is purple from where my head’s been upside down. That’s when I stupidly pull a strand of hair from where it’s caught in my mouth and end up smearing pink goo in my hair.

  After which I spend ten minutes scrubbing goo from my legs with so much vigour, it feels like I’m putting myself through some kind of decontamination process. I convince myself it’s worth it when I’m hairless in all the right places and my skin is super soft. I have just enough time to paint my toenails before I need to dress. I end up smelling like strawberries and vanilla, with a hint of coconut from my body cream. It’s overkill to add a spritz of perfume, but I do it anyway.

  I dress in my current favourite outfit, a sheer black top with a black camisole underneath and a pair of skinny black jeans that hug my derri
ere like they’re the best of friends. Slipping my feet into a pair of flat black pumps I check my appearance one last time before leaving the apartment.

  Boyd’s still not home when I get there. The table frame has gone to the recycling plant, but the carved-up sofas are still here, an unpleasant reminder of Molly’s lies and my loss of control. They’re covered in throws now, but I know what lies beneath the wool and I can feel it too when I sit down.

  When Boyd’s a no-show after ten minutes, I turn on the TV and catch up on my favourite shows. After thirty minutes have passed I send him a text, and when there’s no reply, I call him. It goes straight to voice mail. I’m a little freaked, though I know his work is unpredictable and he can’t always answer his phone on the job.

  When it hits ten o’clock I scramble around in the cupboards, searching for something to eat. There’s a small carton of chocolates I bought a week ago. I munch on them, thinking about Boyd, hoping he’s okay.

  At ten thirty he sends me a message that simply says ‘working late’. I relax, glad to hear from him and when it gets to midnight I head to bed. I’m just dosing off when I hear the click of the front door. I wait for the bedroom door to open and when it doesn’t, I slip out of bed and go investigate. Boyd’s standing in the kitchen, drinking from a carton of juice. I approach from behind and go to link my arms around his middle, only Boyd grunts and pushes me away.

  He lowers the carton and turns slowly. He looks tired. No, more than tired, he looks done in. There are purple smudges beneath both eyes and his mouth is set in a straight line. It’s only when my eyes drift down to his t-shirt that I get the full picture. There’s a vertical slit in the t-shirt, about ten centimetres long. It’s stained red. Blood red.

  “Oh my God.”

  Boyd winces at my reaction. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

  “Have you been stabbed?” I ask, scared he’s going to say yes.

  “No, babe, it’s just a graze.”

  “Show me.”

  “Kayla ...”

  “Show me!”

  He searches my eyes and eventually lifts the hem of his shirt. There’s a line of a dozen or more stitches to the left of his belly button. The stitches are neat, the scar straight, but the surrounding skin is red and bruised.

  “Boyd?”

  “There was a situation,” he says, as if he’s describing a situation involving a grazed knee or a snagged nail.

  “At work?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I’d finished for the day. Stopped off to get supplies for dinner. A guy was attacking the shopkeeper with a knife. I intervened.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “The shopkeeper’s worse.”

  “Is he gonna be okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so. The guy with the knife’s in hospital too. I broke his jaw and knocked out a few of his teeth.” He says this with pride.

  “You could have been killed.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, but you could have been. God, I can’t even hug you.”

  “Sure you can, if you do it from my right side. You hug me full-on I’m likely to squeal like a pig.” He’s trying to lighten the mood, but it’s not working. He sees my expression and cups my cheek. “Hey, don’t get upset. I’m gonna be fine.”

  “I’m not upset,” I lie.

  “Sure you’re not.” His thumb comes up to brush my cheek.

  “Why didn’t you call me? I would have stayed with you at the hospital.”

  “Didn’t want to freak you out and I wasn’t sure you’d be up to seeing me get stitched.”

  I think about the time Matias got stitches in his knee and how I blacked out. “I would have been fine,” I say, though I’m not sure Boyd believes me. “You want to sit down or will it hurt?”

  “Let’s just say it’s not easy. And just so you know the doctor told me sex is off the menu.”

  “I don’t care about the sex.”

  His expression is doubtful.

  “I don’t! As long as you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine. The stitches will start dissolving in a week, so we should be good to go in seven days.”

  “Really? That soon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. That’s good, coz I was lying when I said I don’t care about the sex.”

  Boyd laughs and winces simultaneously. “Shit, don’t make me laugh.” He leans back against the counter, his hands and arms supporting his weight. “You mind if we go to bed? I’m wiped.”

  “Of course not. Why didn’t you say something? Here, lean on me.”

  “Kayla, it’s just a few stitches. I don’t need to lean on you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  He follows me to the bedroom. I sit cross legged on the bed and watch him undress. It’s his boots that cause a problem. I’m worried he’s going to split his stitches when he reaches down to untie them.

  I don’t ask if he’d like me to help him take them off. He’s so stubborn he’d probably say no anyway. I simply kneel at this feet and take them off―socks too.

  He offers me a quiet thanks before discarding his t-shirt, jeans and boxers, all of which are coated in blood. He exchanges them for a clean pair of boxers and a t-shirt. I guess he doesn’t want to snag the stitches.

  It takes a while for him to lower himself to the mattress, but once he’s on his back I curl up at his side, not quite touching him.

  “Maybe I should sleep in the other room,” I say. “In case I hurt you when I’m sleeping.”

  “Stay where the hell you are. It’s just a few stitches.”

  I think about this. He says it like it’s nothing. “Do you get injured often?”

  Boyd huffs out a laugh and then groans. “What kind of question is that?”

  “Well, you know, that crazy guy ran you down and broke your leg, and now you’ve been stabbed.”

  “I wasn’t stabbed, I was cut. And no, I don’t get injured often.”

  “Good. I don’t want to spend my time worrying about you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “I think about you a lot. Sometimes, too much.”

  “Yeah? What do you think about? The sex?”

  “Sometimes. But mostly it’s stupid things, like I’ll remember how I made you laugh or how you wrapped your arm around me when we were watching TV.”

  “You think about the sex?”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “Sometimes.”

  “What part do you think about?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that. Your head will get too big and your neck will snap.”

  “I have a dozen stitches in my belly, the least you can do is try and make me feel better.”

  I laugh quietly, but I also give him what he wants. “I think about the sound you make when you come. And the feel of you inside me. And sometimes I think about your expression when I take you in my mouth.”

  “Fuck! You have a dirty mind, Martinez.”

  “If I do, it’s really your fault. If you weren’t so sexy I wouldn’t be having these shameful thoughts.”

  “Shameful?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His arm comes down, seeking room beneath my head. I lift up and rest against him.

  “It’s gonna be a long fucking week,” he says, groaning.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lenox

  KAYLA

  There are photos spread out like placemats on Boyd’s new dining table. The paper is glossy, the prints colour. They’re good. Really good. Whoever took them knows about composition. And editing. Violet’s black hair has been lightened to dark brown. Her pale skin, what can be seen of it, is now olive.

  Violet has become me. Or I have become Violet.

  The photos are of me and Charlie kissing. Only it’s not me, it’s Violet, but Boyd doesn’t know that. He’s
standing on the other side of the table, watching me closely, the way he has been since I let myself into his apartment.

  “That’s not me,” I say, pointing. “That’s Violet. She works in my office. She and Charlie are dating.” I could go on, but then I’ll sound desperate and I don’t want him to think I’m desperate, though I am.

  He traces the scar along his belly. It’s been one week. The stitches have begun to dissolve and the skin is meshing together. In time it will become a white scar. I want to be around to see that, but these photos ... whoever took them and posted them to Boyd, they want to destroy us.

  “These photos ... they’ve been edited,” I say. “Violet’s a Goth. Black hair and pale skin. Whoever took these has lightened her hair and changed her skin tone, but that’s definitely Violet.” My voice has tightened. I’m waiting for Boyd to accuse me of cheating.

  He pulls out a photo that was hidden beneath another. It’s a close up of me and Charlie, me leaning in, my hand squeezing his, both of us looking distraught. I begin to question my own sanity because there’s no way this one could have been doctored. And then it comes to me. Violet was seated on Charlie’s other side and she’s been cut out of the shot. It’s the day he told me about his dad’s cancer.

  “That one’s real,” I say.

  “I know.”

  I’m no longer staring at the photo. “You know?”

  “I had a guy at work take a look. He examined them in detail. Said they were good, but not that good. Showed me where the pixels differed from those surrounding them, said he’d found traces on every photo except this one. This one’s genuine.”

  “It’s not what it looks like. Charlie’s dad is dying of cancer. He’d just told me, and I know you can’t see her, but Violet’s sitting on his right.”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  I swallow and blink. “I don’t?”

  “I trust you.”

  The pressure inside my head increases tenfold. My hand shoots out, gesturing towards the table. “Then why set the photos out like this, like you’re about to interrogate me? I thought you were going to accuse me of cheating. Why would you put me through that?!”