Second Chance Hero

by Rebecca Sherwin

  Jenna has been quiet since we woke up this morning, making me coffee and breakfast without saying a word, running a bath but not sticking around to bathe with me; and now she’s in the garden with her laptop on her lap, her legs propped up on a chair opposite her. But it’s the way her entire body faces away from me that gets me. I know I’ve been sending her off all over the place so I can work out in the garden, but I don't know if she’s angry that I’m abusing her ‘nursing’ duty, upset because she thinks I don't want her around, or suspicious because she thinks I’ve been speaking to other girls.

  “Jen?” I ask, drinking the last of my coffee.

  “What do you want me to get you?” She doesn’t look up from checking her emails, the tapping of her fingers and her hair swaying in the breeze the only movement from where she’s sitting.

  “Nothing.” I stretch my arm out and comb my fingers through her hair. I’m hoping she’ll notice the improvement in my arm, but she just sits forward in the chair, moving out of my reach, “I love you.”

  “I love you.” She stands up and goes inside. Shit.

  I jump up and follow her to the kitchen and she pulls out a jug and two glasses.

  “It’s because you don't trust me, isn’t it?” I ask, because that look on her face tells me she knows I love her, knows I appreciate her helping out. But what she doesn’t know is why I’ve tried so hard to keep her out for a few hours every day for the last week.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask but she shakes her head as she pulls together the ingredients for lemonade.

  “We don't trust each other, Deac. Let’s be honest.”

  “What the hell? I trust you.” Why would she think I don't? Surely I wouldn’t be sending her out on her own if I didn’t.

  “I can't trust that you won't freak out and go and deal with your feelings the way you always have,” she turns and faces me, gripping the counter behind her, “and you can't trust me because if I cheated with you I could cheat on you.”

  “Is that what you think?” This conversation is going in the wrong direction, “You think you’ll cheat on me?”

  “No!” She launches the tea towel at me, “I’d never cheat on you!”

  “Then what are we even talking about?”

  “You asked me if I trust you.” I’m glad Jenna is keeping track of what we’re arguing about. It wasn’t meant to be an argument; it was meant to be me making this situation better. Everything is off when things between us are awkward. The only explanation I can put to everything going downhill is sexual frustration. I know I’m frustrated, and I see Jenna is too in every sly look in my direction, every sharp breath when she’s sees the way I’m looking at her, and every electric touch in bed.

  “Do you?” She looks down, and I know the answer, “Why do you think I’ve been sending you out?”

  She looks up through her eyelashes, and shakes her head before turning around and continuing to make the lemonade. No she doesn’t trust me, or no she isn’t answering the question? Jenna hands me a glass of iced lemonade, kisses me on the cheek and leads me back into the garden.

  “I didn’t want to get rid of you, and I didn’t have anyone here.”

  I have to say it. She might have given me a glass of lemonade, and is sat holding my hand and typing with the other, but the kiss on the cheek was an I-don't-blame-you kiss. I know she thinks I’ve had someone here, someone who clearly isn’t as worried about my health as Jenna, and she isn’t angry because she thinks she deserves it.

  “Okay.”

  “Fight me, Jen.” I squeeze her hand and pull gently so she has to look at me, “If I piss you off tell me. Don't just take it.”

  “I’m not taking it, I’d just feel bad kicking your arse while you're handicapped.” She smiles, but I see straight through her.

  “Shall I walk you through it?”

  “I might be little, but I know how to fight.”

  I laugh, and it feels so good to do it without being in pain. I love this girl and her smart mouth.

  “What I’ve been doing while you’ve been playing receptionist and stocking the cupboards with sweets...”

  “Do I want to know?” She asks, proof I knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “I think so,” I nod towards the tree, and pull her out of her seat to follow me. I stop under the branch and jump up to grab it. My leg still smarts when I do it, but I can get down and land on one leg so it’s worth it.

  Jenna screams and covers her hand with her mouth. She’s been doing that a lot lately, and I realise she’s replaced her cheek biting with bursts of emotion. More proof of how much she’s changed; when we were younger she used to bite her cheek so she’d keep whatever she was thinking, contained. She never wanted to let anyone know how she felt, or draw attention to herself. Looking back I think she always had all my attention. But she’s so confident in herself now, and I admire her for bringing herself out of her shell.

  “Deac, what are you doing?” I open my eyes and she’s tugging on my good leg, “Get down. Your mother will kill me.”

  I laugh again, and then again because it feels so good. When I look back and notice Jenna glaring at me I pull myself up onto the branch and sit with my legs either side of it. Leaning down, I support my weight on one hand, extending the other to Jenna.

  “You can't pull me up,” she shakes her head and scraping her hands through her hair, “you’ll fall out.”

  “Try me.”

  I can pull her up; she’s lost a load of weight and only seems to eat at lunch time, when I’m most active. I know she’s worrying, but I’m better. I have flashbacks of the accident; I remember everything now, although I try to keep that to myself. And my body is better too, thanks to my determination to get into Jenna’s pants.

  “If you fall I’ll break your other leg myself.” She takes a deep breath, puffing her cheeks out when she exhales and grabs my hand.

  As if she were a feather, I pull her up to my level and she clambers to sit opposite me, her legs swinging either side of the branch, her bare feet brushing my legs. It’s an incredible feeling, being elevated with Jenna’s touch on my skin and nothing but a bit of tree holding us up.

  “So what are you walking me through?” She leans forward and setting her hands on top of mine.

  Jesus, I had this all planned out. I couldn't work out when she went out yesterday, because of the rain. I didn’t even ask her to go; she just left, leaving a note stuck on the door telling me she loves me. She’s pissed off with me, but she still leaves little random notes everywhere. I love it – it’s like a love note treasure hunt, and I can't wait for the next one.

  “I love you.”

  I tell her again. I make sure I tell her a many times as possible every day. Another reason why this moment, right now is so important, and why I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve asked Jenna to tell me what she’s thinking or feeling. You never know when you’ll run out of chances.

  She nods, “I love you too,” I take a shaky breath, wondering if I’m ready for this. And another, while I still decide, “You okay?”

  “I’m good.” I answer and decide to man-up, “I looked in the box.”

  “You did?!” She shrieks, and I clear my throat.

  “If things had gone the other way, I’d never have known what he thought was so important.”

  “I’m proud of you.” Jenna links her hands behind my neck and kisses me. I should feel like a child; being told someone is proud of you should be patronising, but I feel like king of the jungle. And then my mind goes numb when Jenna takes my bottom lip in her mouth and I push back, greedily exploring her mouth with my tongue.

  “No.” I let go, leaving us both breathless, “I need to say something first.”

  “Okay.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, but it just falls straight back across her face, “But there’s nothing you could tell me now that would get rid of me.”

  She’s co
nvinced I’m trying to get rid of her.

  “There’s this one day that sticks in my head clearly.” I start, as Jenna scoots closer and lifts her legs over mine. She’s so close I can smell her, “Brad was being a dick and stormed out of the house and I ended up having a long conversation with my dad. I was sixteen and that’s when I decided I was going to run Dad’s business with him. We didn’t say anything, really, just went round in circles talking about football or college or something that was irrelevant.

  “It was irrelevant until he mentioned you. We didn’t talk about it, I didn’t tell him anything. But as soon as he said your name my world stopped and all I could think about was you, where you were, what you were doing, what you were wearing, because at sixteen, I loved your legs in those little shorts you still wear. I’d never felt like that about you before. You were ‘just Jenna’ until that day. I remember that’s the day I fell in love with you. It was picturing your face, realising I missed you even though I saw you for breakfast, wanting to see you smile and be the reason why, wanting to taste your cakes even if they were nasty, just so no one else could. That was the day I fell, and I’ve been falling for you ever since.”

  “I don't know what to say.” She says, running her hands up and down my forearms.

  “Don't say anything yet.”

  I rummage around in my shorts pocket, avoiding the folded up paper I put there earlier and pulling out what I’m looking for.

  “I know I said I’d let you pick, and I will do this again when I can get on one knee,” I open my hand, revealing my grandmothers engagement ring, “but I want you to have this ring, and I can't wait another minute to ask you to marry me, Jenna.”

  “Deacon.” Jenna gasps, pressing her hands on her forehead, “Red... Oh my god.”

  “I’ve been waiting since I was sixteen to do this.”

  We’re consumed by silence as Jenna panics.

  Chapter 33

  Jenna

  Deacon just asked me to marry him.

  I’ve wanted it, imagined it my whole life, and now I can't speak as I look down at the ring in the palm of his hand. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve seen and I’m struggling to imagine it on my hand. It’s an antique style white gold diamond ring, and when I edge closer I see the familiar delicate leafy scroll pattern surrounding the diamond in the centre and the three smaller ones either side of it. It’s amazing, and definitely his grandmother’s – I remember she used to let me play with it when we visited her, and more recently I’d admire it in pictures of her. I had no idea the ring had been passed on; I thought Violet would have been buried with her most-treasured possession. And now it’s being offered to me.

  “I know it’ll be hard for you to trust me.” Deac says, drawing my attention away from the ring and to his oceanic eyes, “We’re going to fight, you’re going to hate me, and I’m going to screw up. But I’ll spend my whole life trying to make marrying me worth it.”

  I can't speak, and I know it’s killing him, but I can't speak. I want to scream, to cry, to pass out. But mostly, I need to breathe and I can't. I hear Deacon tell me he loves me, and then it’s silent again.

  “Marry you?” Finally I manage to speak, when I look at him and see my silence is breaking his heart, “I’ve wanted to marry you my whole life.”

  Deac throws himself at me, breathing out the tension and wrapping me in his steel embrace. His arms feel different, he can move them. He isn’t tensing as he crushes me to his chest, and makes no indication that he’s in pain. He’s better.

  He releases me and holds his hand out palm-up for mine. I hold it out, but hesitate.

  “What would Violet say?” I ask, wondering if she’d have wanted me to have this.

  “Put the ring on and I’ll tell you.”

  I drop my hand the rest of the distance and cry as Deacon slides the filigree ring on my finger. It fits perfectly and I can't resist touching it, twisting it around my finger to admire it, as I used to do on Violet’s finger when she sat in her armchair by the window and watched the tide come in and out. This ring feels like it was made for me. I pray that Violet is happy that I’ve got it, and that Robert, Deacon’s grandfather is happy the ring he proposed to his wife with back in the twenties, is on my finger, as I promise to love his grandson forever. I don't need to promise; I wouldn’t choose anything else if I had the option. Deacon is my soul mate; there aren’t many people in this world who can say they have found theirs, but I did. Twice.

  “Tell me.” I remind him, but he slides out from under me and drops to the floor.

  I cry out as he hits the floor, but when I open my eyes, he’s looking up at me grinning. How did he do that?

  “What are you? Immortal? You were broken this morning.”

  He taps the side of his nose, “All part of my master plan.”

  Oh, yes. The master plan to be a superhero. He’s been my hero all my life. And now my... fiancé – I squeal inward at the idea – is standing beneath the tree, with his arms open for me.

  “No.” I cross my arms, trying my best to sound stubborn and show him I mean it, “Go and get a ladder or something.”

  Curse Deacon Reid and his incredibly sexy and frustrating height. He’s got a broken leg and manages to jump from a tree eight feet in the air. My vertically challenged body won't cope with almost an extra three foot drop. I need a ladder.

  “I’m not getting a fucking ladder,” he grins, “hurry up and jump down here. I need my fiancé.”

  There’s that word again and I almost fall out of the tree. We’re free. I’m free to be his, he’s free to be mine. We almost lost each other and it’s the biggest wake-up call. I’m his fiancé. And he’s mine; my best friend, my forever. He’s my everything.

  But I’m not jumping out of a tree into his injured arms.

  I shake my head, but shriek loudly as Deacon reaches up, grabs my ankle and pulls. I fall out of the tree, and time slows down. I land in Deacon’s arms, but the force of his pull sends us both falling to the floor, and I’m on top of him.

  “Have you broken something?” I panic, pressing my palms all over his body to check for pain. Deacon crosses his arms behind his head and takes a slow, leisurely deep breath.

  “Please.” He smirks, “Continue. I’m enjoying the examination.”

  “Your master plan will be the...” I stop and bury my head in Deacon’s chest.

  “It will.” He chuckles, stroking my hair. How can he be so relaxed about what I nearly said? “But only if you don't do as you’re told.”

  I sit up, settling my legs either side of his hips, my hands pressed flat to his granite stomach, as Deac’s hands grip my waist.

  “Do as I’m told?” I ask, watching him lick his bottom lip and swallow, “I can do that.”

  There’s something about the way he looks at me, and I submit wholeheartedly.

  “You promise?”

  Do I? Do I promise to do as I’m told? Yes, I do and the thought of it is such a turn on. I nod, slowly, tightening my grip on him.

  “You’re going to have to trust me,” he says, sitting up slowly, “I’m not going to listen when you tell me to stop. It’s because you think we shouldn’t, not because you don't want it, right?”

  I bite my bottom lip, and Deacon tugs it free as I nod. I want him every minute of the day; I crave his hands, his mouth, and his scent on my body. But I feel the panic building quickly. Deacon was just in an accident, one where he nearly... We shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.

  “Stop.” He says, pushing me back so I stand up, while he brings himself to his feet, towering above me and looking down, “Trust me,” His blue eyes darken as he reaches out and pulls me flush against him, “Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  Deac grabs a handful of my hair, tilts my head to the side and crushes his mouth, hard and hungry, to mine. I want to melt under his scorching touch as he leads me through the garden and into the lounge; but I want to feel every second of this. I don't want to drown in the sexual expertis
e that he possesses – I want to feel every part of our first time together. Officially together.

  But I’m pressed against the wall, with Deacon’s hands and mouth exploring my body. The heat rages through me, refusing to settle in any one place as Deacon sets my body on fire. I pull him up and give him everything I have in one kiss, moaning as he slides his hands up my vest and under my bra to cup my breasts. I arch my back, pushing into his hands and mumble something about how good it feels when he twists my nipples with his fingers and his mouth finds my neck.

  I’m panting and breathless, when I realise I'm out of my bra and Deacon is wrapping my arms around his neck. He’s stepped back and takes a minute to look at me, stroking his fingers up and down my waist. I shiver, but take the moment to make sure his head’s in the game and he isn’t in pain.

  “Wrap your legs around me.” He orders, completely in control.

  I feel myself shaking my head and realise it’s me who needs to get their head in the game. I promised I’d do as I was told, I told Deacon I trust him to do this for us. And here I am, over thinking everything, and shaking my head like my body isn’t screaming out for him.

  I love the smile that plays on his lips as he runs his hands from under my arms, and down my waist, over my hips, down my legs, and he bends as he grips me behind the knees and pulls me up into him. I hold on tightly, worried we’ll fall, but Deacon holds me and turns around, walking across the room with ease.

  He tilts his head as I work on his neck, cherishing the salty taste of his skin, “Don't tell me to stop unless you mean it.”

  There’s a wicked look in his eyes and my body clenches in anticipation as Deacon continues to walk through the downstairs of the house and into the kitchen. He swipes at the counter, knocking mugs and glasses everywhere. The impatience and need for each other bubbles over and the second he releases me on the counter, I’m tearing at his t-shirt as he rips my vest down the middle. I tug the buttons on his jeans and the denim opens; I can't help but smile, knowing what’s coming. I’ve been waiting for his for so long, and I can't wait to feel him...