On Edge

  Pax sat up, disorientated. A bullet hit the ground before him, a small puff of dust billowing up as he tried to stand. He couldn’t hear a thing. Two bullets hit his right knee in quick succession, blowing it out and causing him to fall. A third hit his chest on the way down, piercing the armour and smashing bone and muscle, tearing through his lung.

  Paxton Elliot lay on the ground bleeding. His eyes were on the blast hole where two of his best friends, his brothers, had been torn apart. Men he had let down.

  His hearing slowly returned as he was brutally pulled into the back of the Bushmaster by a screaming Luc. Barely able to breathe, Paxton looked up at his last remaining brother with the knowledge and certainty that he was about to die.

  “I’m sorry.” The words barely made it out of his mouth.

  “Shut the fuck up, Paxton!” Luc was pressing frantically at his chest, screaming into the radio that they needed an evac now.

  “Tell Jetta—”

  “I said shut up!”

  “I’m sorry.” He passed out.

  Present Day – Paxton

  Paxton woke with a start, surging up in the bed. Fuck. Fuck that dream. Fuck the arsehole motherfuckers who put them in that goddamned sand trap and fuck the load of fuckwit bureaucrats who had fucked up on the Intel.

  He swung out of bed, glancing over his shoulder at Jetta’s sleeping form.

  Pax shook his head. She’d been right last night. All he did was let people down. He’d failed to protect his brothers and he’d failed to protect her. She was smart. She’d figured it out before he destroyed her too.

  And in that moment, Paxton knew.

  Since the moment the blast had ripped his brothers apart before his eyes, Paxton had known he too was destined to die soon. Somewhere deep within him the knowledge had settled, telling him it was only a matter of time. Since waking on a gurney, his body bruised, broken and barely alive, he’d been able to feel each second counting down like a heavy clock. Time was precious and he was a selfish bastard.

  In that exact moment, Paxton knew his death was coming. The countdown clock had ticked over into the red.

  Body tense, eyes watchful, mind resigned, Pax pulled some board shorts from his drawer and silently crept through the house to the pool. He dove in and started swimming laps, processing what he knew he had to do.

  When he died, Jetta would be left alone again. It sucked. It hurt him to think it, but it was reality.

  Only this time, he’d given her a support network. He knew his parents, his friends, his employees would rally, would take care of her.

  It was little comfort to a man who wanted to fall into her soft body every night for the rest of his life.

  But it was something.

  He’d spent the whole of the last year recovering and trying to deal with this feeling of inevitability.

  Then Jetta walked back in. And he’d done all he’d set out to do with his short time left on this earth. He’d made her his, protected her, gotten her to forgive him. To fall back in love with him.

  And for a brief moment, it had felt like they had forever. The little countdown clock in the back of his head had slowed down. Fuck, it had nearly stopped so quiet was its ticking.

  Then Brean’s phone call.

  Then Esso’s intrusion.

  Then last night’s fight.

  And every tick of the clock had raged back. It flowed through him, double time. Reminding him of why he was a sick selfish prick. A bastard of the highest order.

  ’Cause he’d done it. He’d gotten the girl he loved only to know that he’d be gone soon.

  And every phone call, every plan, every conversation he had with his team from now on would be done with the knowledge that Jetta needed to be safe before he left this world.

  And that included protecting her heart.

  Jetta

  I woke early the next morning in Pax’s bed. I knew I was alone because, unlike last night, Pax wasn’t plastered to me.

  Responsible, rational, reasonable, respectful.

  Today, I could isolate myself from the emotion of yesterday and recognise that both of us were struggling to not only deal with everything that had happened over the last month, but to fit into this new relationship. Yesterday had been an overreaction. My tipping point.

  Tragic, but true.

  I had drama-queened like nobody’s business.

  But Pax had walked out. And that was something I needed to deal with immediately.

  I left the bed, pulling on a light cardigan over my singlet top and PJ shorts. While it was still a million degrees outside, Pax loved his air conditioning ice cold. During one of our calls, he’d admitted that the heat reminded him too much of Afghanistan and he couldn’t stand to be hot a second longer than necessary.

  I walked out to his living area. He was doing laps in the pool, said the exercise helped strengthen his knee without the high impact that came from running. I helped myself to OJ, coffee, and toast, keeping an eye on his workout. I knew this talk would be tough; I’d lost my shit so thoroughly yesterday I had no way of knowing where Pax’s head was at.

  And I needed to know.

  He surged out of the water, arms bulging as he heaved himself up, water rushing down his body.

  Pax grabbed a towel, drying off before entering the house.

  “Hey.” He paused in the doorway, face unreadable, body held tightly.

  “Hi.” The silence was uncomfortable.

  “Gonna hit the shower.”

  “Okay.” He moved through the house, eyes now avoiding me. I took that. I deserved that hit. I’d hurt him. I now knew how much.

  Needing something to do with my hands, I cleaned up the kitchen. Once that was done I started stacking magazines and dusting the lounge area.

  I was an anxiety cleaner. Whenever I was worried or anxious, I’d bustle about, cleaning everything my hands could reach. It had driven Courtney crazy, but that little control I was able to exert over my surroundings made me feel better.

  I had a broom in one hand, and was trying to shove the recliner to get to the dust bunnies that had bred underneath it, when Pax re-entered the room.

  “What are you doing?”

  I looked up from my efforts, huffing out a breath to blow hair away from my face. “Cleaning.” I gave up trying to move the bloody thing one handed and rested the broom against the side table. I braced my feet shoulder-width apart and, using my shoulder and both hands, tried to heave the chair forward. It didn’t budge.

  “Jetta—”

  “No. It’s okay, I got this.” I dug my feet in to his cool wood floorboards, trying even harder to move it.

  “Seriously, Jet—”

  “Pax. It’s okay, I—”

  He pulled me away, turning my body to face him. His brow was creased; the slight lines at the edges of his eyes were deep, his mouth a firm straight line.

  “Talk to me.”

  I huffed, raising my hands and letting them drop. “I need to get at the dust bunnies.”

  “Jetta.” His voice was raised in warning.

  “Paxton.”

  “Fucking talk to me!” he yelled, getting in my face, hands coming up to grip my waist. “Please, Jetta.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words spilled from my lips, a verbal barrage of apology and panic. “I’m so sorry. I overreacted. I know more is going on here than just me. It was the stress and fear and whatever else I was feeling yesterday and all the days before that led to it. I’m sorry.” My hands fisted in his shirt.

  His eyes bore into mine. I fidgeted under his gaze. Finally he dropped both hands, one moving into the pocket of his jeans, the other rubbing tiredly at his face.

  “Jetta.” Paxton shook his head. The look of resignation on his face made my belly drop. I flinched as if he’s d physically hit me.

  “You can’t forgive and you won’t forget.” His voice was husky, broken, soft.

  “Forgive? Forget?” Panic rose up my throat.

  “Every time shit
gets hard, Jetta, your default is to throw up a wall. Destroying my house, accusing me of not loving you. I got it, Jetta; I get it. I fucked up. I’m not to be trusted. I fucked up badly ten years ago. I screwed up so badly we can’t recover. I did it and now I have to live with it.”

  “No.” I tightened my grip on his shirt, trying to pull him forward to me, but he shook me off, stepping away.

  “What are you saying?” My voice was hoarse.

  “We can’t get past this.”

  “We can. I’m sorry. I—”

  Pax’s head started shaking. His hands came up, framing my face, stopping me from speaking. “Don’t apologise, Jetta. I get it. I did this. I’m the dick that walked away, the piece of shit who left. I broke what we had. I could have repaired this years ago, but now I know it’s too late. I’m not going to continue to fuck up your life.”

  I hit him. My hands shoved at his chest. “You don’t get to decide this. You don’t get to walk away because it’s easier than bothering, than investing in us.”

  “Jetta.”

  “No.” I was furious. “You’re acting weak. Weak!” I roared the word at him. “The Pax I know, the Pax I love is strong. He built a family of brothers in a country that took everything he had. The Pax I know went and did shit that no one should have to do, made decisions no one should have to make, lost brothers and friends, killed people, got hurt. Yet still he came back and took me on.” I leaned forward, my voice quietening. “The Pax I know now, the Pax in front of me, admitted he’d made a mistake and set about making it right. You did that, Pax. You. You told me that you’d do it. And you did.” I sighed, rubbing my face. “You got in here.” I pointed to my chest. “Today I woke up and the only thing I wanted was forgiveness for my fuck-up yesterday. I was a bitch. I was emotional and stressed and fearful and took all that out on an easy target. I took it out on you.” I sighed, leaning back into the arm of his chair. “You’re weak if you give up on us. You won’t be the man I know.”

  His arms were crossed over his chest, his face impassive. “You done?” His voice was flat, empty.

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He turned, grabbing his car keys from the coffee table in the centre of the room. “I’ll drop you at the Arena.”

  I watched him move to the entryway and pull on his boots. “That’s it?”

  He glanced up briefly, then went back to tying his laces. “What do you want, Jetta? This man you think you know?” He stood up, staring at me straight on. “He doesn’t exist. I spent enough years fighting losing battles, battles where I lost people I cared about. Brothers I loved. I’m not prepared to go through that shit again. Especially not with someone who owns part of me.” Paxton’s head dropped in defeat. “I know when to call it.”

  He turned, head still down, pausing at the garage door. “I’ll be in the car.” With that, he exited the house.

  I dressed in slow motion, processing everything he’d said.

  I slid into the car and Pax hit reverse, smoothly backing us down his long drive. I let my eyes wander over his face. His skin, the contours of his face, the shadow of scruff that never quite disappeared.

  “You’re broken.” My voice was barely a whisper but still his eyes came to me. His eyes met mine for the briefest of moments, letting me see all the pain in his soul, then he looked away and shifted the car into gear.

  “Yeah. And I’m never getting put back together.”

  The rest of our ride was silent.

  Jetta

  The AIS Arena was Canberra’s multipurpose space. Built in the 1980s, in concert formation it held up to 4,200-odd people. When Paul told me we’d sold out in Canberra on our first day of ticket sales, I’d nearly crapped my pants. When he’d then informed me that the next venues were twice and even three times as big in Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide, and Perth, I started getting nauseous.

  Wednesday was our first day in the venue. I was currently standing centre stage, looking at the cavernous room and hyperventilating. I’d walked in expecting pandemonium and it was. But now, standing in the middle of the stage, my thoughts in chaos due to Paxton, everyone had stopped to look at me.

  Me.

  Me, the girl with the golden dead parents.

  Me, the girl with the crazy-talented sister.

  Me, the unknown.

  I swallowed and breathed deeply. I closed my eyes, concentrating on my mantra.

  “I am responsible. I am reasonable. I am rational. I am worthy of respect.” I breathed out and nodded to Anthony, who grinned and raised his hands. Tapping his drum sticks together, he counted us in.

  “A one, two, a one, two, three, four!” He hit the snare drum and we were away—roaring into a stellar rendition of my dad’s song, Devil from Jackson. As we played lighting was being adjusted around us. The giant screen at the back of the stage was showing concert footage of my dad, singing this exact song. I remembered that gig, shimmying when he shimmied, jumping when he jumped.

  For a brief moment, I glanced at the screen and felt like I had him back. Then the song climbed to its roaring finish and that moment was gone. A brief key change and we were into the next one. For the next four hours, I didn’t have time to breathe, let alone think of Paxton Elliot. My entire thought process was taken up by song after song. The set list seamlessly wove my mother’s indie jazz soul music in with dad’s hard-core Rock ‘n’ Roll. We were making magic on that stage and everyone in the arena knew it.

  As lunch neared, I was flagging. I needed water, and time to rest my vocals. I was a lyricist and composer; I’d never needed to train my vocals to go for hours on end without stopping. Finally, Paul called a break when one of the roadies tripped on a power lead and shorted one of the amps. I scurried off the stage before he could change his mind.

  Addie was waiting in my dressing room when I arrived.

  “Hey.” I was surprised but pleased to see her. She was wearing a kickarse pin-up dress in fire-engine red. Her shoes matched, along with that familiar blood-red nail polish. She was holding a box and looking at me thoughtfully. “I thought a rock star’s back room would be better than this dump.” She gestured to the wider area, her sarcasm obvious.

  “No.” I laughed, twisting the cap off a water and then lifting it to my mouth. “Believe it or not, this is actually better than most places out there.” I tipped the bottle back, feeling the cool hit the back of my throat. Bliss.

  Addie coughed delicately. “So Pax came in to work today.”

  I twisted the cap back on and leaned against the make-up table, avoiding her gaze. “It’s a Wednesday. Unless he’s sick, I would hope Paxton would be at work.”

  Addie made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat then handed the box over to me. I clasped it, looking up at her.

  “And this is?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. Bossman came in, not so much as a ‘hey, how you going,’ went in his office, came out two hours later with that.” She tapped the box. “Shoved the damn thing at me and told me to get it to you.” She held her hands out wide. “So here I am. Your own personal delivery woman.”

  I looked down at the box. It was plain. White, no labels or tags. A cardboard fold-open lid. “Why would he…?” I trailed off, confused.

  “Open it and you’ll probably work out the answer to that question.” Addie’s voice was dry. I laughed a little and nodded.

  “Yeah.” I placed the box on the make-up table, pulling open the lid. Inside were hundreds of envelopes. “What in the world?” I pulled out the top one and slid my finger across the back, tearing the seal. Inside were three pages of handwritten notes. In Pax’s handwriting.

  My eyes whipped across the page, absorbing the words, barely comprehending what this was.

  Dear Jet,

  Today I finally read all of your notes.

  I read them from my hospital bed.

  The words on the page were hard to read in some bits, but I got the gist.

  Paxton had written these after his first i
njury. The injury that put him in hospital and made him read all my letters.

  “Jetta?” Addie was at my side, her face worried.

  I realised I was crying, tears running their way down my cheeks, marks of sorrow, of confusion, of joy.

  “I don’t… I don’t understand.” I turned back and rummaged through, ripping them open willy-nilly.

  Dear Jet,

  Today I killed a man.

  Dear Jet,

  I need to feel your body against mine.

  Dear Jet,

  No one deserves war.

  Dear Jet,

  Dear Jet,

  Dear Jet…

  “I don’t—I don’t understand.” I kept murmuring the words over and over again as Addie helped me open more and more letters. My break had long since passed, but I’d locked myself in the dressing room, ignoring Paul’s yelling, opening letter after letter.

  Finally, we got to the last one. It was in a red envelope.

  I looked at Addie, who shrugged. “You’ve got to do this, Jetta. You have to find out one way or the other what this is about.”

  I took a deep breath and slid my fingers across the back, gently breaking the seal, pulling the neatly folded pages from the inside.

  Dear Jetta,

  I am a weak man.

  A sob squeaked past my lips, but I ignored it and pressed a hand to my mouth to contain the others that wanted to burst free.

  I stood outside your apartment today.

  I got released from hospital exactly three months ago today. On the day I got out, Dad handed me the keys to the building and retired. I own Elliot Securities. I run my own company. And I hate it. I want to be back overseas where I can suspend everyday decisions like what socks to wear and what cereal to buy. I want to be fighting. I want to be on edge.

  This is my life now. Buying houses, deciding on bathroom tiles. Being a business owner, someone who has to sign off on payroll and make decisions about the type of fucking coffee pods we stock.