Insecure

by Ainslie Paton

  She smiled. “And you haven’t disappointed.” She expected him to look away but he looked her over, big deliberate sweeps of her body. She popped her hip to give him something to really look at. “Like what you see?”

  “I thought you’d wear suits on the weekend.”

  He was completely straight-faced. He drilled her with eye contact. She shook her head. “Why did you come home with me?”

  He pushed into the chair back, eyes on her legs. “You’re shit hot and you asked nicely.”

  She laughed. “I taunted you.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t notice.”

  “You’re full of crap.”

  “And you’re not the cold bitch you want everyone to think you are.”

  “Does that disappoint you?”

  “I didn’t have any expectations other than seeing you naked and...” he dropped his eyes to his lap.

  “And what?”

  “Fucking you senseless.” His head came up. “Which is exactly what you wanted.”

  “True.” She moved into the room. “But that’s not exactly what happened, is it?”

  “You don’t remember what happened.”

  “Neither do you.”

  He looked up. If he planned to say anything he buried the words, and she couldn’t read his expression.

  Her email pinged. That would be Malcolm. She didn’t want to deal with him right now. She wanted to see where this conversation could go. Mace swivelled the chair back to face the desk but she caught its arm and stopped it. “You made me laugh. You were gentle. You made me feel desirable and you made me forget my world was coming apart and this morning you made me feel...” God, he’d made her feel, secure, happy, “nice.”

  “Nice?” He said it on an exhale that was full of disbelief. He turned his head back to the screen. “I don’t remember.”

  6: Man on Fire

  It was almost impossible to leave the television, though there’d been nothing new said in the last hour, just a continual rehash of the morning’s events from minutely varying perspectives. Jacinta drank her way through a bottle of chilled water and knew this was doing her no good, it was fuelling her anxiety. She’d normally have done a gym session and hit the office by now, so sitting on her tail doing nothing and seeing the pictures of the victims over and over was messing with her already bruised head. She could still be working but she wanted to give Mace some privacy.

  He’d been on the phone when she took him a bottle of water. She heard, “What do you suggest I do about it, Dillon?” as she entered the room, but whatever frustration he was going through, he bit down on it when he saw her.

  So she’d retreated to give him space. But he’d reached the end of that rope of consideration. She was about to go reclaim her office. She picked up the remote to shut the TV down when he appeared in the room with the empty water bottle and glass. “Anything new?”

  “The heroes are starting to emerge now; the people who were down there and ran towards the explosion instead of away from it. I can’t imagine how you make your body do that.”

  He put the bottle and glass on the kitchen counter and came across to the lounge she was sitting on. He walked oddly, using only the ball joint of his hurt foot. He sat at the other end of the lounge and faced the TV.

  “What switch goes off in your head that tells you to run towards certain danger?” she said.

  “Same one that went off in yours when you tried to get that cop on the door to see your way of thinking.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “That was trying to be practical. I wasn’t walking into any danger.”

  “You didn’t know that.”

  “You didn’t either.”

  “I couldn’t sit here.”

  “Which is what we’re doing now. This just sitting around is getting to me.” She should’ve felt okay about it because she’d done something positive to help, but inactivity wasn’t her friend, and unfortunately neither was the man weighing down the other end of the lounge suite. Forced rest with a lover might’ve been a welcome respite given the shit storm she’d get hit with on Monday. “Dillon was giving you a hard time.”

  Mace glanced across. She met his eyes. Her home, she didn’t have to hide what she’d heard.

  “That’s what Dillon does.”

  “Brother?”

  “No.” He sighed and turned back towards the TV. “As good as.”

  And that was it for a while. They watched the broadcast until he said, “Your nickname is, er, interesting.”

  “Jac?”

  “Jay called you Cin.”

  She pulled her legs up on the sofa. “Yeah, but he’s the only one.

  “What made Dillon so annoyed with you?”

  “I owed him time today. I let him down.”

  The words, I’m sorry sat on her tongue, but it wasn’t her fault he was trapped here. “I guess you’d be out enjoying the world today.”

  Mace picked up the remote and flicked the channel. She almost laughed; such a stereotypical male thing to do. He got several channels of sport, movies, music videos and more bombing coverage. He left it on the channel he’d started from. “I’d be working.”

  “On Wentworth business?” She sat up straighter. “Why didn’t you say? I only have to make a call to get a shift change.”

  He frowned at the TV. “Could do that myself. Not company business.”

  She ignored the annoyance she’d stirred by suggesting he couldn’t sort out his own shift supervisor. “You have a second job? Don’t we pay you well enough?” She meant that as a joke, though as soon as it was out of her mouth it sounded exactly what it was—patronising and crass. Here they sat in her multi-million dollar apartment and Mace was paid a small fraction of what she earned and would never have the chance to build the kind of future she was aiming for.

  “You pay me fine for what you ask me to do. Market rate.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so—”

  “Condescending.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked up at the ceiling at the exposed beams and pipes of the warehouse conversion. “Comes with the territory.”

  She deserved that. “I’m curious about what you’d be doing today, why you wanted to leave so badly?”

  “You think I wanted to get away from you?”

  “I think you were more worried about blowing Dillon off than hanging out with me, even before this all happened.”

  Mace shifted so he was facing her. “I didn’t pick you for the hanging out type.”

  She inclined her head at that. He was right. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had nothing to do, or wanted to spend time with someone other than Jay. Why would he think hanging out with her was going to be any fun? She dropped her head and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You. That line about me wearing suits on the weekend.”

  “I was going for offensive.”

  She looked up. He was watching her, a wicked little twist to his lips, brow quirked. He really didn’t care what she thought about him. It was surprisingly attractive.

  “Are you treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen with all the girls?”

  “Only the ones I like.”

  She dragged her knees under her and knelt up. “Oh-ho, what?” Was he flirting? Maybe. He was like an oyster all craggy and rough, unapproachable on the outside, but there’d be soft flesh inside and the possibility of a pearl. But she could easily slice her own hands open trying to get at the meat and value of him.

  “Don’t get excited.” He faced back around to the TV. “I like it here better than in the foyer. I’m attempting to be personable so you don’t kick me out.”

  “So this is you manipulating the circumstances.”

  “Gotta use the resources you’ve got.”

  “And you didn’t think whisking me back to bed might get you temporary residency?”

  He picked up the remote and shifted it hand to hand. “I’m not that kinda guy.”


  She sat back on her butt, laughing. “You’re exactly that kind of guy. I insulted your intelligence and you still came home with me.”

  He tried not smiling, but the muscle of his cheek contracted and that sardonic curl of his lip was back. Put him in a tux, grow out the close crop and he’d give off 1940s movie villain.

  “So if you’re not going to kiss me stupid, tell me what else you’d be doing today: rock climbing, bushwalking, skydiving, five rounds with a heavyweight before hitting the clubs tonight?”

  He muted the TV and turned his head to watch her. “On Saturdays I don’t pay for a nurse to feed Buster. I do that myself.”

  She sniffed a breath and stilled.

  “We go out, somewhere simple, the park, McDonald’s, a cafe where I can pull the car up close so I don’t have to carry her far. She really hates people seeing that.”

  “Mace, I’m so sorry.”

  “Why? You asked. That’s what happens on Saturdays. On Sundays I bring her home. She sits in the garden and listens to music too loud if it’s warm, or watches TV if it’s not. The rest of the time she lives in one room of a nursing home that’s the best I can afford. She can’t read any more. Her body is untrustworthy. She hates it, but she never complains. She was worried about me when I finally got hold of her. I’m worried about the nursing agency sending someone decent to do what I can’t.”

  Jacinta could have a carer with the highest degree of training and the personal qualities of a professional saint with a security escort at Mace’s disposal in five minutes and never notice the cost. “I can help you with that.”

  He unmuted the TV, the midday news headlines, and focused on the blonde newsreader. “What could you possibly do about that?”

  “It would be no trouble to organise a—”

  “It’s not about the nurse.”

  She sighed, there was no point him being proud, this was an exceptional circumstance and surely he’d see that. “It’s no—”

  “She finds it difficult to talk now. The Parkinson’s is advanced. I have no trouble understanding her, but others don’t take the time. It’s not about finding someone to hold a spoon to her mouth so she can try to swallow. It’s about giving her time to be more than the fucking disease, giving her sunlight and home comforts. Showing her she still matters.”

  He put the remote on the coffee table and stood, his expression like stone; bleak, unbreakable. “I hate that I can’t be there because she was the only one who was ever there for me.”

  He went back down the hall to the office and the rigid line of his shoulders and the lack of care he paid to his hurt foot made her accumulation of money, privilege and power seem like a pointless waste of time.

  Jacinta was fearless, had taught herself to be that way, but her fearlessness came from having control, knowing she could argue, buy or rationalise any circumstance she faced. She didn’t have the switch that flicked that could make a person run towards an explosion, but he did. Mace ran towards the fire and the pain of being alive every weekend.

  7: Detente

  Jacinta stood in the open fridge door and felt inadequate. Her fridge was full of girl food: salad and fruit, yoghurt and cold cuts. She had crispbread and cream cheese; things the housekeeper stocked for her to pick at when she was home. Any cooking was mostly reheating. She didn’t know what to put together for Mace’s lunch, but one BLT and a bottle of water would hardly be enough to keep his hangover from eating his brain if it was anything like hers.

  He startled her with a brusque, “Sorry.” She turned to find him sitting on a kitchen stool at the counter. She’d figured he’d probably hide out in the office for the rest of the day, which might have been the best thing for both of them.

  She closed the fridge door. “It’s okay. I deserved that.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t have to lay it on so thick.” He rubbed a knuckle into his forehead and closed his eyes. “I’m a dickhead.”

  “And I was being all master of the universe. I wasn’t thinking. My offer to help stands, but I get that it only provides for the more mercenary needs.”

  She leant on the opposite side of the counter, facing him across its width. She wanted to tell him how affected she’d been by his words, how touched she was that he looked like action man but spent his weekends caring for someone who could no longer care for him. He wasn’t an oyster shell, he was an onion with unexpected layers to his life that might make you cry if he let you peel them back.

  He dropped his hand from his face. “If I had an ounce of grace I’d have recognised that’s where you were coming from.”

  “I can’t do anything for your state of grace, but you must be hungry.”

  “I’ll gracefully accept your offer of food.”

  “You don’t happen to gracefully master catering type things do you?”

  The eyebrow jumped.

  “I don’t do kitchens.”

  It jumped again.

  “I can slap salad on a plate, make toast and fry an egg and I’m an ace at microwave reheating, but that’s where the talents run out.”

  “Jay made the BLT.”

  She grimaced and nodded.

  He got off the stool and came around her side of the counter. “If you have mayo I could eat the countertop.”

  She backed away to give him space, going to the stool he’d vacated. He studied the cupboards that hid the pantry, a wine fridge and the ordinary fridge.

  “To the right of the stove, put your palm down and press gently.” He did and then made a hey presto flourish of his other hand when the fridge opened and she laughed.

  She directed him to plates, glasses and cutlery and watched while he assembled chicken and salad. They ate side by side at the counter and it was much less awkward than it might have been. Giving him something to do was a good idea; it made him less irritated about being dependent on her hospitality. If he thought she was completely hopeless in the kitchen that couldn’t hurt, and it wasn’t far from wrong anyway.

  He was on a second helping of salad when he said, “Did you set me up so I’d quit being such a grump, or are you really incapable of putting stuff on plates?”

  She pushed away from the counter and looked over at him. “I was manipulating your extreme sensitivity about having to hang out here and hoping to appeal to your hunter, protector instincts.”

  He coughed on a mouthful and when he’d recovered said, “Don’t you mean predator?”

  She laughed. “I’ll handle dinner.”

  Yes, dinner. They had hours of hanging out to do, unless she was the one who retreated to the office and went to work. There was enough to do, but the idea had lost its appeal. And unless the curfew was lifted there was another night to get through. She could take the worry out of that right now.

  “There is a guest bedroom. It’s all made up. It’s yours for the night, or for an afternoon siesta, whatever you feel like.”

  He gave her a curious look, and started cleaning up. He ran the plates under water in the sink. “Is one of these a damn dishwasher?”

  She tapped the counter in line with the cupboard that hid the dishwasher and he opened it and stacked the crockery and cutlery inside.

  “You’re welcome to my office.” But he knew that already. “What do you feel like doing?”

  He closed the dishwasher into its cupboard. “I was considering going all out for temporary residency.”

  Unexpected. “Really?”

  “Are you backing out of the offer to earn my stay by making you feel nice?”

  He said the word nice like it was charged with an offense against everything natural and she felt her face colouring for no good reason. She hadn’t blushed since she wore a school uniform. She should back out. Backing out was the smart thing to do. He was waiting, watching her. He was more than just a body to get lost with, a brain that didn’t bore her, and for all his rough oyster traits, his hidden onion layers, he was a considerate lover.

  Who was she kidding—considerate. He’d m
ade her feel things she didn’t know her body was capable of. He’d torn open the sealed packet of her senses and let light and heat in. Except maybe she was romanticising that. The drink, the wild, weird day, her loneliness weren’t conducive to clear thinking. The forced confinement was, however, conducive to repeating the experience to find out. “The offer is still open.”

  He stood with his arms stretched out on the counter, palms flat. His broad chest was a page in the story of his physical fitness that her hands had read last night and twitched now to re-read like a favourite book. He could vault the counter and have her on her back in less time than it took for a pygmy cymbal crash to sound in her head and there’d be nothing she could do to stop him. There was a certain danger to him because she had no idea what he was thinking. And that felt like so much trouble, like being insanely drunk without drinking and driving way too fast without brakes.

  His eyes did a slow samba over her face. This strangely reticent man was oddly bold. He leant forward and stroked the back of his hand over her cheek. She closed her eyes against the soft pressure while other parts of her body jolted to wakefulness. It would be a crime if this man ever saw the inside of her guest bedroom. She needed to find a way to make sure that didn’t happen.

  When she opened her eyes again, he was back in front of the TV. Maybe it wasn’t boldness. Maybe he needed alcohol to be attracted to her. She could hardly complain; she’d virtually forced herself on him in the first place. She took her place at the other end of the lounge. The screen showed a graphic re-enactment of the bombing, with cartoon figures demonstrating trajectories and blast impacts. They’d reduced the severity of the event to a macabre video game in an effort to have something new to broadcast. It was sickening.

  “I can’t watch this, Mace.”

  He picked up the remote and switched the channel, flicking impatiently past more of the same on the other networks, sport and home shopping. He landed on a movie, sea monsters invading land. He grunted and switched to Hugh Jackman showing his Wolverine claws, then Brad Pitt running from zombies. He skipped over the Linda Lovelace 70s porn movie and Iron Man doing his thing. He stopped on The Great Gatsby.