Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3)

by Ainslie Paton

  “Don’t not cry because I’m here.”

  “I’m not crying over a stupid fish.” But her eyes were burning, aching.

  “Okay, good.” Jamie quirked his head. “What about over a fuckwit boyfriend?”

  She turned her back on him and blew out a breath. She didn’t want to cry in front of Jamie. She didn’t want to see Fluffy’s death as a symbol that her relationship with Damon was over. But both were a hard call. Jamie seemed reluctant to leave her, so she filled the kettle, got busy with cups and the teapot. When she heard the toilet flush and saw the now fishless tank, she realised he’d disposed of the body. She poured the tea and added milk and the sugar she knew he liked.

  “I’ve never asked, are you musical, do you sing? Lots of engineers are frustrated musicians, according to Taylor.”

  He’d driven her home from that horrible dive of a club Damon insisted on going to, but he didn’t need to stay and small talk her into feeling better.

  “There is more music in a pair of scissors than in me. I can’t even hum in key. Damon thinks it’s a great joke.”

  And there it was, Jamie with his according to Taylor and Georgia with her Damon thinks. They were both stuck.

  Jamie took a seat at the breakfast bench. “I don’t know why he’s like this suddenly. Well, yeah I guess I do. He’s had a run of bad luck lately.”

  She looked up. Jamie was a face load of frown. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a death wish. I’ve been over and over that night at the beach. He took a fucking stupid risk. The beach was closed, but there was no swell, it was dead calm, and we were in between where the flags had been, the safest place, and he had a whistle.”

  “A whistle?”

  Yeah, in the pocket of his boardies. I was so freaked I basically dragged him out to the shore. I felt it. It didn’t register till later, the shape of it. He used to carry a whistle when we were kids so if he got into trouble out on the farm he didn’t have to rely on yelling.”

  “It was still a huge risk.”

  “Shit, yeah, but he’s not suicidal. He’s just being a fuckwit.”

  She gestured to the empty tank. “He gave me Fluffy.”

  Jamie swallowed tea and a smile.

  “He was trying to win my trust. Now he’s trying to destroy it. I don’t get it. Has he done this before?”

  “Never. He could be a dick when we were kids—a real show-off, but he was a funny bugger. I don’t think we ever consciously made any allowances for him, he was just one of us. I had dreadful asthma, Angus was always in trouble at school, they said he was a slow learner. Taylor is adopted, Damon had bad eyesight. It was no big deal. When his career kickstarted he settled down. That was his proving ground—he didn’t have to worry about being special because he was, but in a different way to what everyone expected. Then he made allowances for us. He went guarantor on Angus’ loan for Moon Blink. Stumped up cash to help Sam buy tools when he started Royal Flush. He fed us, entertained us. What he wouldn’t do for Taylor or me. Or you. But that crap tonight, what he’s been doing to you…” Jamie shook his head. “You don’t have to put up with it.”

  Georgia’s head was thumping. Her flat was stuffy from being closed up for weeks. The band had been awful, Damon was a stranger, her fish was dead. She had a tension headache and a problem. Damon was turning into Hamish and Hamish was turning into Damon and that was too much to deal with tonight.

  Jamie poured himself a second cup. “Talk to me.”

  She took a deep breath and shook her head. It was late, she was tired and disappointed and Jamie didn’t need this. She popped two headache tablets from their blister pack and downed them with her tea.

  “Come on.” Jamie scrubbed his face with both hands. “One Taylor is enough in my life.” He looked at her, a mock stern expression. “Don’t even think about asking about her and me.”

  He wasn’t getting away with that. “I’ll give if you will.”

  He groaned and laid his head on folded arms on the countertop. His, “You first,” was muffled in his shirtsleeves.

  “I’ve never had the kind of magic, the kind of attention I got from Damon.” Georgia clamped her mouth shut, making a frog face with flattened lips. She paid Carmella for this. Listening to her lonely hearts confessional wasn’t Jamie’s job. He’d sat upright, watched her, nodding, encouraging. He was the nicest man, considerate and gentle; what would be so bad about telling him?

  “You love him, don’t you?”

  She dropped her chin, looked at her cup. Avoid, avoid. She wanted Jamie to go so she could stand in the hot shower water and cry till she was too tired to function.

  “I’ve loved Taylor since the day she split her lip climbing the fence between our place and hers.” She looked up; Jamie was smiling. “Her teeth were all bloody. I laughed at her and she hit me, gave me a black eye. I was ten, she was nine. I was too stupid for too many years to work out I loved her right through pesky neighbour, adopted sister and long-term friend into…” his smile folded in on itself. “I don’t know what it is, but I took that two year Singapore posting to try to get free of it. Taylor thought I was a sell-out because I gave up wanting to be a guitar hero. Traded ripped denim for grey wool. She dated these hardcore guys with beards and bikes and avoiding the cops on their brains, and that’s not me. That night, I thought she was drunk and I was too weak not to take advantage of it. I’d wanted her so badly for so long and we weren’t careful. I figured we shouldn’t have done it, but I never thought she’d shut me out like she did. At least now I know why.”

  “I didn’t know what to do that night, for you, for Taylor.” But Georgia had known what to do for Damon. Taylor’s confession made Damon reach out for her, be with her like before his surgery, make love to her, whispering gorgeous obscenities in a broken voice that made her forget they’d been estranged and filled her with renewed hope.

  Jamie sipped his tea and stared into the empty fishbowl. “What do you want to happen now?” she said.

  He closed his eyes, when he opened them again, they were glossy. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know.” It felt shameful to admit that. “I love him, but I can’t let him treat me like he’s been doing. ‘You get the behaviour you accept’,” she said, quoting Carmella. “I know he’s struggling, but it’s not my fault and though I want to be there for him, I have a history of martyring myself. I can’t do that again.”

  “He knows that, right?”

  She nodded. That’s what made this so tough. He knew it, and she struggled to believe the man who’d created a fairy garden for her, who’d treated her like a princess, who’d brought her first pet, promoted her career and made her feel happy and secure and loved, would knowingly try to wreck that.

  “He has a way of making me feel like I’m essential to him. Like I’m beautiful and important and vital. That’s such a…” it was a revelation, it was a massively addictive turn-on, “hard thing to walk away from. You know, the first night I stayed over at the house, he turned the backyard into a wonderland. He dressed the pavilion up with sheets and pillows, silk coverings and mosquito netting, candles and torches everywhere. It was one of those sultry nights after a too hot day and the scent of jasmine and orange blossom was thick in the air. Taylor had a gig in the Hunter Valley that weekend and Damon burned his fingers and then asked a neighbour to come light everything up. There was a line of tiny flickering tea-lights from the front door to the yard. It was such a lovely surprise.”

  And what he’d done to her body that fragrant night, under black velvet skies in the Balinese pavilion, re-engineered her understanding of physical pleasure, of craving and urgency; of desire and restraint. Of the kinds of sounds that belong in a song. He gave her abandon so thrilling she’d screamed it under his lips, clawed it on his ribs. He gave her closeness so deep and broad, so total, she could not take her hands away from him, not shift from the aura of his body, the magnetic pull of his voice, and his soft words like liquid pleasure dripped into her bra
in: commands and entreaties, endearments and crudities.

  That night he’d taken her infatuation, her fledgling notions of lust and love and made them a tangible living thing, carved on her writhing skin with kisses, poured into her taut body with passion, spoken into her ear as filthy compliments with longing and promise.

  The sunrise that followed was fresh, crisp with birdsong, and under blue horizons she’d been different; made strict with need and want for him, partnered to the vision of him, incapable of being the person she once was without him, and joyous for it.

  “He’s pushed me away since the surgery,” she said, despair crowding her voice with cracks. “He stopped talking to me, wanting me to talk.”

  Jamie’s back rounded, he slumped on the stool. “God, Georgia.”

  She flapped her arms, looking for levity in the motion, determined not to cry in front of him. “Look at the two of us. Hopelessly lovelorn. What do I do?”

  Jamie groaned. She’d rung him when Taylor failed to get Damon to come away from the stage, when he’d been drinking steadily and shutting them out. Jamie had been somewhere with restaurant sounds in the background, but was in his car before they rang off.

  “I want to tell you to tough it out. I want to say that you’ve got no choice, you love him, you have to hang in there and hope he comes out of this, but that’s bad advice. That’s…” he passed a hand across his short clipped hair.

  “That’s what you did for Taylor.” It’s what she’d done with Hamish.

  “And see where that got me.”

  “But you still love her. She wouldn’t talk to me about it, but I’m pretty sure she loves you.”

  He shook his head. “That night, Damon doing what he did, and then Taylor. I was so angry and confused. Told myself I was done for good with her. But she’s not like some deadline I can pass, some project I can finish. She’s a 3D spreadsheet, the ultimate infographic, the sweetest riff. I’m so crazy hooked on her and it doesn’t matter what she’s done, I can’t move on.”

  “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  “You’re not going to let me get away with saying nothing, are you?”

  “If that’s what you really want. It’s a valid choice. Maybe there’s too much history, too much misunderstanding and hurt. Maybe it’s better to cut off cleanly.”

  “Is that what you want?” Jamie stood up. He undid a button and yanked his shirt so his left pec was bared. He had the word Trill tattooed across his heart in fancy lettering. “That’s not what I want.”

  He lifted his chin, a now you gesture, and despite the ink, Georgia had a glimpse of what he’d be like in a boardroom, different to his presence on stage but the same quiet confidence, the same professional competence.

  She looked away. There was an answer in her heart and it was rich with the story of her and Damon, but her head read the words as fantasy. Hope was what she’d used to tell herself things would improve with Hamish. Hope and denying the reality in front of her lost her years of living free and happy.

  Jamie came around the counter. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not like there’s a formula, a song sheet for this stuff of the heart crap.”

  She sighed and they both jumped when her doorbell rang.

  Jamie eyed his watch, “You expecting anyone?”

  She glanced down at his wrist. It was 1am, and shook her head. Jamie was halfway up the hallway before she said, “Damon.” It had to be. Taylor had stayed behind at the club to make sure he got home.

  Jamie stopped his hand on the latch. “You don’t have to see him. I can get rid of the idiot.”

  But she wanted to see him. Check him over; let her eyes catalogue his now too lean form, his hollowed cheeks, his pallor and weariness. She wanted to hear him; his tumbled gravel tone, cut up and uneven, and when she’d done that, seen her fill, heard his voice, she’d send him home. She’d work out how to talk to him, how to know whether to stay with him or go when they’d both had sleep.

  She touched Jamie’s shoulder. “Open the door.”

  He did, stepping aside, but keeping himself slightly in front of her. Damon stood on the doormat, feet planted wide, arms loose at his side, head angled down. He lifted his chin and opened his eyes. “I had to come. I had to hear your voice.”

  “Short lead tonight, mate,” said Jamie and Damon coughed his surprise. “You should go home. Talk to Georgia tomorrow.”

  “Georgia, is that what you want?”

  She’d seen him; less the sullen stranger she’d expected, more the old Damon, in control and not asking for favours.

  He cleared his throat. “If that’s what you want, I’ll go now. You don’t need to say a word. I behaved appallingly. All I want is a chance to apologise, but you get to call the shots. I’m done with making it about me.”

  He wasn’t slurring, he wasn’t weaving, but he could still break her heart. She leaned into Jamie and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  Jamie cast a disgruntled look Damon’s way. “You call me anytime you need.” He stepped around the door and smack up against Damon. “You’re sober?”

  “Enough.”

  “You upset her again tonight, you answer to me.”

  “Fair.”

  “Look at me and tell me you’re not going to do anything that’s going to make me regret leaving here without you.”

  Damon’s hand went to Jamie’s chest. “You deserve an apology too. All of you do. I’m sorry. I blew it. I was trying to push you away so I didn’t have to know you were watching me fuck things up.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to drown. I just need time by myself to come to terms with what’s happened.”

  “And you couldn’t have said that? Like none of us are deaf or insensitive to what you’re going through.”

  “It’s not just my voice that’s gone. It’s who I am. I didn’t know how to say it.”

  “Jesus.” Jamie grabbed for Damon’s arm and they fumbled into a hug. “You’re saying it now, mate.”

  Georgia was the one who gripped the doorjamb. Damon’s fists were wrapped in Jamie’s shirt, his knuckles white. He said something she didn’t hear but made out Taylor’s name. The two men parted. Jamie giving her a nod, a watery smile before taking the stairs.

  Damon stood where he was, waiting. Now she soaked in the sight of him. He was safe, he’d come home to her. She ached to throw herself in his arms, have them circled around her, have his breath at her ear.

  “Georgia?”

  “You frightened me. I hate that you did it deliberately.”

  He closed his eyes, squeezing them, his shoulders lifted.

  “You shut me out. Did you want me to leave you?”

  “Yes.” His eyes flared open. Her breath stopped at the shock of the truth. He took a step forward, felt for the door. “Yes. I didn’t want to put you through…” his voice failed and he rolled his head on his neck in frustration.

  “I should ask you to leave.”

  “I’ll do exactly what you need.”

  “I need you to be true with me. I need you to talk to me.”

  He took a long time to say, “I can do that.”

  She swallowed hard on a lump of emotion. “I need your arms around me and your body close.”

  He took another step forward, a hand outstretched. She reached for him, then stopped. “I need to hear your voice.”

  His breathed jagged. “It’s not the same.” He dropped his arm.

  “No, but it’s yours, so it doesn’t matter what it sounds like, it only matters that it comes from you.”

  He groaned and the sound hitched, stuck in his throat, making him cough. “Oh God, Georgia, always on my mind.”

  They moved together, crashing into each other inside her doorway. She buried her face in his neck, felt his pulse hammering wildly under her cheek. Her arms were around his neck, his hands roved her body, palms flat, fingers spread and gripping like he was testing to see she was all there.

  He curled a hand in her hair and s
he lifted her face to his. “Everything hurts, Georgia, every fucking thing.”

  She would kiss him better. She would help him mourn. She would give him back his sense of self the best way she knew how: with time, with care, with patience, with love. He was worth it. The way he made her feel made it so.

  She pulled free, drew him further inside and shut the door. She took his hand and led him down the hall, but he propped outside her bedroom. She put her hand to his face. “What do you need?”

  “To feel you, all of you. To know you forgive me.”

  They had to talk, they had to prod at his hurt and expose his fear. She had to spill hers. They had to find each other in this different place and that needed words, full sentences, whole lines of dialogue said without a script, untimed, unrehearsed and shouted raw.

  He put his hand over hers. “Please.”

  She would lose herself in him; lose this moment to start a correction. “Damon—”

  “I need you so fucking much.” His whole body pulsed with tension, but he did nothing to draw her in. He was letting her choose.

  There was no choice.

  She kissed his throat and a hard breath punched out of him. She went to her toes and kissed his lips, her hands going around his neck. He pressed back, but gently as if he was afraid to let go. His apprehension and hesitancy flayed her almost as much as his distance had done. They were the same and they were alien things, lodged in the heart of her hero. She would be his priest and exorcise them.

  She dug her fingers into his hair and dragged his face down to hers, caught his lips and grazed them with her teeth, tongue following to wet, to trace, to plunder his mouth. He groaned as he took, as he gave, hands to her backside, his hips rolling, pressing their need together.

  Both of them were blind, bouncing off the wall, stumbling through the bedroom door. Georgia whacked her elbow on the dresser and grunted, Damon backed her into the wardrobe, knocking the sliding door off its track, she pushed him towards the bed and he sat quickly pulling her with him half laughing, half groaning, letting go and taking control.