by Aurelia Fray
“I think we should stop. This is a mistake.” I sighed. His eyes narrowed. The annoyance in his gaze was piercing but I wasn’t going to back down. He stared down at me for a few tense seconds, then sat up, buttoned his shirt and moved to the edge of the bed.
“This is you, yes?” he murmured scornfully, his accent becoming stronger.
“Pardon me?”
“It is not me. It is you with this problem?” His anger made his English sound harsh and broken but I understood him. He was looking for some kind of assurance that he was still sexy and manly. It was never my intention to insult him, so I told him what he wanted to hear.
“Jean-Claude—”
“Philippe!” he snapped. Oops shit.
“I know who you are.” I thought fast. “Jean-Claude is my boyfriend back home. He would be really disappointed in me. I should not have gone to dinner with you tonight, but you tempted me. Only now, now I feel conflicted but I can’t betray my boyfriend’s trust.” I wailed, clutching a hand to my heart and forcing tears into my eyes. I had no idea if he understood me, or if he believed my blatantly over-performed lies, but the tension flowed from his body. His shoulders slumped in acceptance of defeat and he grudgingly nodded.
“You are a beautiful woman, Isabella.” He leaned over me and kissed my forehead. The small gesture startled me and I had to swallow back a self-pitying sob.
“Merci, Phillipe.”
He walked to the door. As his large hand reached for the ornate handle, I felt a stab of regret. Was I making a mistake? Should I just see it through? I needed someone to obliterate Trey from my memory. It had been so long since I took a lover, I was starving for the touch of a man, although not hungry enough it seemed, when I couldn’t bring myself to ask Phillipe to stay. At the last second, Phillipe grabbed his thick cock through his trousers and squeezed.
“I would have fucked you into next week!” He postured then closed the door on his retreating figure. His words hung in the air.
“You would have tried,” I mumbled aloud to dispel them. Truth was nobody else but Trey would do. I might have thrown him out but we never had a chance to sort it all out. He didn’t stick around to fight for me. He never stayed long enough to know I would have forgiven him. That I still wanted him. I groaned aloud into the silent hotel room. In the end, it was always just me alone in a room with a skilled hand and my twisted memories of Trey.
TWO.
“How was the trip?” I heard him before I could see him. My best friend shouted to me as I pushed my baggage trolley through the labyrinth of pathways at the airport.
“Sucked monkey balls!”
“Shit, honey, you mean you didn't get laid?” He bellowed so loudly that the two old women in the line behind me huffed with disgust. I shook my head and grinned at the jerk. He had a habit of embarrassing me. He said his harassment was character building but really he was just a dickhead.
“Kyle Francis Zabuto! You wash that filthy mouth!” I laughed. He shot me a withering look upon hearing his full name made public and then returned the favour. I was almost out of the man-made maze but I dashed to clamp a hot sweaty hand over his mouth before he could do any real damage. I didn't make it in time.
“Isabella Jane Harrison, if you don't let some poor bastard plunder that lady-cave of yours, it is going to seal itself back up! Or worse. It will grow teeth and eat alive the next poor fool that ventures too close!”
“Shut the hell up!” I groaned, slapping him across the back of the head. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought Samantha was coming to get me?"
“She bailed.”
“So I see.”
“She had to - there was something she had to do.”
“Sounds vague. Important I assume?”
“Very.” That abrupt explanation was all I was going to get on Samantha's absence. I assumed she asked him not to tell me and, although I was curious, I knew that if I needed to hear the details they would share them.
“Okay. Take me home, Kye.”
“Yeah, um, about that—”
“What? What now, Kye?”
“Sam has people staying at your apartment.”
“What the fuck? She can’t do that. What the hell is she thinking?”
“It's complicated, Izzy. There is an act booked at the club for a week and Sam needed to house them.”
“So rent them a goddamn room at a hotel, don't give them my fucking bed for the week! She might be my landlord, and yeah I live over her club, but this is ridiculous. My stuff? My bed? My privacy? A stranger invading my personal space? Nuh uh! Take me home. Right now! I mean it, Kye.”
“Shit. Calm the fuck down, Izzy. They won't be in your room. They won't go near your stuff. I promise.”
“You promise? You are giving me a personal guarantee, Kye? What’s going on? Plus, the only other room is Trey's and no one gets in there. He locked it before he left and still pays his half of the rent, so Sam can't have given them that.”
The idea of someone else in Trey's room was almost worse than someone in mine. It carried with it a finality that I did not want to face. Of course, I doubted he would come back. I knew I wouldn't wake up to him cooking bacon and eggs in the kitchen or smell his thick tar coffee ever again, but I lived in hope. This news was dashing the last shreds of that hope to pieces.
Kye shot me furtive glances from the side of his eyes. I hated him right now. Hated that he knew more than me and wasn't sharing, hated that Sam and he seemed to be in cahoots and against me, but mostly, I hated that he thought I needed to be handled with care like some piece of ornate glass. I broke a long time ago. What I had managed to piece back together, over the years, was stronger; no longer as pretty, but not as delicate either.
“You were never meant to find out about it. You shouldn't have finished your trip so soon,” Kye grumbled lifting my bags from the trolley and hulking them to his car. I wasn’t sure how he managed it without getting towed, but he was parked in a no stopping zone. His engine idled throatily.
“Sorry to have ruined your secret plans.” I sulked and I didn't care. The ride back to town was uncomfortable and filled with a thick tension. Kye tried a few times to break the silence by asking me questions about my vacation, but I ignored him and stared out of the window instead of answering. By the time he pulled up outside the club, he was furious with me.
“Just so you know, we did this for you. Your choice to return early was a fucking nightmare scenario and Sam and I had a complete meltdown trying to find the best solution to the problem. Staying a week at mine was the best option for you, but instead of just going with it, you had to argue. Well go on then. Go in and see what your lack of trust gets you,” he yelled. Kye flung open his door, stormed to the back and pulled my bags from the trunk. He dumped them on the paving and then yanked open my door. I was too stunned to move. Never before had Kye yelled at me and I was torn between crying and kicking his ass for being so bloody indignant. I was the one being wronged. Wasn’t I?
“Get out!” he snapped. As soon as I closed my passenger door, he circled around the back, got in and sped off, leaving a puff of exhaust fumes and black skid marks on the road.
Shocked, numb, confused, and tired, I dragged my stuff up the stairs and into my apartment.
THREE.
I kicked the door shut behind me. Firstly, in protest to my not-so-happy homecoming and secondly, to warn my unwelcome house-sitters that I was in the building. I stood still for a few beats, watching for signs of life, but no one hurtled out of my room, nobody stumbled from the bathroom or Trey's room. In fact, looking around, there seemed to be no change to my apartment whatsoever. Everything remained exactly as I’d left it.
I scanned the kitchen sink for dishes. Not even a teaspoon cluttered the basin. Perhaps Sam changed her mind? Perhaps, when she heard I was coming, home she evicted them? But then, why would she send Kye for me and why would she tell him to take me back to his place? Nothing made sense.
I dragged my luggage
to my room and kicked it into the corner. I would deal with unpacking later. First thing first, I need to make sure everything was in its place. I did the rounds, trying to recall every detail and surprisingly realised that I took my home for granted. Everything seemed okay but, then again, nothing was certain. Had I really left the black vase on the back table or was it usually on the windowsill? Did I have a habit of leaving the remotes on the chair or was I careful about putting them back on the centre table? I didn't bloody know.
In the bathroom, I found it— the first clue that someone else had been here—a yellow striped toothbrush stood in my glass. I picked it up and spun it around in my hand. The bristles were well-worn and still wet. Below it lay my toothpaste, rolled up neatly. Another confirmation. I was a squeezer not a roller.
“Fuck! I am going to fucking kill you Sam!” I screamed out, feeling the words tear at my throat. My voice seemed to fill up every inch of the apartment. I reached into my purse, discarded earlier by the front door, and grabbed my phone. Dialling Sam’s number was habit, my fingers trained. It rang and rang. “Answer damn you!”
“Don't start with me!” She barked as soon as she connected the call.
“You have got some fucking explaining to do, Bitch.”
“Kye called already. It’s more complicated than he told you. Look I can’t talk right now.” Music blared in the background. The telltale screech and whine of an amplifier indicated she was downstairs in the club.
“I’m coming down; you can tell me in a minute.”
“Don't you dare! I'm working. I can't drop everything for you. Just wait up there. I will be up in half an hour.”
“No. I'm not waiting. Now Sam! You owe me an explanation.” I heard her hiss out a long breath. Her footsteps clip-clopped across the floor, the music increased in volume. She stopped, told me to “hang the fuck on” before I overheard her speaking with someone else.
“She is back and I’m going to have to tell her.” There was a masculine sigh and a voice, familiar to me, rumbled, “I understand.”
Two words and tears welled-up in my eyes. Two words and my whole body went into nervous spasms. I shook like a leaf and a lump swelled in my throat, making it hard to swallow. I stood there like that, quivering and trying to swallow saliva over that blasted lump, for I don’t know how long. It was long enough for Sam to finish-up downstairs and walk into the apartment. When she looked at me, the colour drained from her face.
“Fuck fuck fuck! I am so sorry, Angel.”
“Don't…call me…that.” I stuttered on barely-there-breath.
“I didn't want you to know. He is only here for a few days and is scheduled to headline at the club on the Barhoopla tour. I am so sorry, Babe.”
“I…I…is he…is he downstairs right now?”
“Yeah, they are doing a sound check. I said he could use the closed bar for rehearsals.” Sam hovered, watching me in silence. I could tell that she was analysing my reactions and that I was only one crazy outburst away from being shipped to my mother's house in a straitjacket.
“I understand.” I heard the words, a lesser rendition of Trey's, leave my lips. Sam accepted them as an admission of defeat and I suppose they were, only not in the way she thought.
“Come on, Izzy, let's get you packed. You can stay with me until Kye gets over himself.”
“No.” Sam’s eyes bulged at my response. My shaking had lessened. I straightened my spine and held my head up. “I am not leaving. This is my apartment. It has been mine for three years.”
“He still pays half the rent. You want me to tell him he can't stay in his own room?” She groaned, flinging her arms into the air at my suggestion.
“No. That’s not what I mean. I am trying to say that I won't run and hide just because Trey Grant is back in town. I am not a coward. I can handle a few days.”
“What if he doesn't want that?”
“Then he should have booked a hotel.”
Sam grimaced but knew I was right. Trey didn’t plan the Barpalooza tour. He had no idea I was going on vacation. It said a lot that he returned to the apartment under the assumption that I was still here. I reasoned it all out in my head and, as I did, I felt stronger. I wanted to see him. It was time to put this thing to bed.
“Look, I don’t think that is a good idea. You two didn't exactly part on friendly terms.”
“We didn’t part on any terms. I kicked him out and he took off. It has been a long time since that day. I can handle it.” Sam shook her head. She didn’t trust me at my word and I couldn’t blame her, she helped to pick up the pieces after Trey left. She knew what it did to me.
“You were a shivering mess not two minutes ago.”
“Shock. I’m over it.”
“I need to speak to Trey.”
“No. You don't.” His voice resounded as he pushed open the unlocked door and stood behind Sam.
I hoped seeing him again would humanise him in my mind. Over the years, I placed him on some mind-fucked pedestal, elevating him to a God-like status. He was the love of my life, the one that got away, the one that broke my heart. I secretly wanted my ideal image of Trey dashed by the reality of the man that stood before me.
Not so.
Trey Grant was more than I remembered. He was taller and broader. His tattoos were darker and the scruff on his chin was wilder than I credited him with. In the second it took for my eyes to drink him in, I realised that the man who walked away from me had been nothing more than a grown boy. The Trey that stood in front of me now was pure man. Pure unadulterated man.
“Sam, it is fine. Isabella and I have some catching up to do.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” She tried, in a vain last-ditched attempt, to prevent the inevitable meltdown.
“And I’m telling you, it is fine,” he insisted, his voice ringing with command. Sam glanced back and forth between us. Her eyes begged me to make a decision—the right decision.
“Trey is right. It will be fine. Three years is a long time. Go. I will call you later.”
“But you—”
“Samantha, Isabella can make up her own mind. If she needs you, I am sure she will do as promised and call you. Oh, before I forget, the boys need more cables.” His self-assured attitude and cool voice oozed control. Samantha cowered, taking a retreating step toward the door. He intimidated me too and that was a problem, a big fucking problem, because ever since the night I watched him with Zara, the thought of Trey Grant commanding me made my insides burn.
Being alone with Trey was either going to be the best decision I had ever made or the worst.
FOUR.
~Trey~
Isabella, stood before me with her hands on her hips, an adorable pout on her lips and hate in her eyes. She was trying to exude indifference but I felt the tension in her body from where I stood. It poured out of her like molten energy and yanked the hairs on my skin to attention. She was still the most beautiful thing I ever laid eyes on. She ordered me gone three years ago, and yet, I still felt exactly the same about her. I knew, even then, I was in love with her and time hadn't changed that for me.
However, I disgusted her and, from the way she looked at me with such pain, I could see time hadn't changed that for her.
“Izzy.” I nodded in greeting, turning to lean my guitar case against the wall. I should have stayed in the bar, but the temptation to see Izzy was too much for me. I ditched the rest of the band, mid-rehearsal, and made my way to the apartment we once shared. Seeing her was like taking a knife to the gut and receiving redemption all at once.
“Trey,” she responded, her voice tight. This was difficult for her. I understood.
“You look well.” It was an understatement. She looked stunning. The skinny little thing from a few years ago had blossomed into a shapely, gorgeous woman. I tried not to stare yet I wanted to drink her in. Three years without her left me thirsting.
“Thanks. You too.”
This stilted conversation was killing me b
ut I shouldn't have expected anything more. “Coffee?” I asked and glided toward the kitchen counter. My machine sat in the corner where it had always been and I wondered if it meant something that she hadn't put it away.
“Sure, but not black like you always make it.” She chuckled. The sound stifled as she stopped her laughter mid-way.
“I know. Creamer.” I didn't turn around to face her. I knew she would be pissed with herself for slipping into her casual ways, even if we were only discussing coffee.
“So, where do we start?” I keep my tone bright, trying desperately to spur something close to a normal conversation.
“Are you asking me?”
“Sure. Tell me what you have been doing. How is your life?” I asked. Her potential response made me sick with anxiety. She could tell me that she was great, that her life was perfect and she was seeing someone who made her happy. If that was the case, I had to be happy for her. She would never be able to accept my lifestyle and I couldn't ask her to.
Izzy sank into the sofa. The motion wasn't one of a person seeking comfort or familiarity. There was no casual air to it. She slumped. She looked broken and tired and I knew we were going to say all the things that went unsaid the night we split.
“Why didn't you tell me before?” she whispered. She remained quiet but hardy. She showed bravery.
“I didn't think you would accept that part of me. I didn't know how to tell you without you thinking I was strange or dangerous,” I explained, unaware of the inherent condemnation.
“I wasn't given the chance to understand,” she defended.
“When I asked you to give me a chance, you ran away,” I accused in response, but regretted my harsh tone as soon as the words were off my tongue.
“I don't want to argue.”
“I agree. It is okay that you don't like my lifestyle. I get it. It isn’t the easiest thing to understand or accept and it is probably best that we found out when we did.” I tried to placate her. I wanted her to know that I understood her viewpoint.