Mr. Imperfect

by Karina Bliss

  Her eyes widened. “Joe would never hurt our son.”

  He had to make her understand how important this was. “I bet you used to believe he’d never raise a hand to you, didn’t you?” His voice was deadly serious.

  “Your father beat you, didn’t he?” she said suddenly. “You weren’t just neglected.”

  Christian got to his feet. “If he shows up here, call me.” He left before she could read the answer on his face.

  JOE WATCHED AS THE BARMAN polished a shot glass then held it up to the whiskey bottle that hung in the middle of a gleaming row of spirits. Vodka, gin, rum. Faith, hope and charity. He saw the burp of an air bubble and heard the thirsty glug-glug as the bottle released its measure.

  The barman put the drink in front of him. Without needing to ask, Joe handed him the exact money. Like a lover remembering his beloved’s curves, his hand closed possessively around the glass. He breathed deep, inhaled the smokiness of peat.

  “Good health,” said the barman.

  Joe nodded and stared into the tawny liquid, swirling it around to catch the light. And stared.

  “Hey, mate,” joked the barman, fifteen minutes later, pausing between customers, “if you find the meaning of life in there, let me know.”

  Without my family there is no meaning in life. Still the glass stayed on the counter, its contents warming in his grasp, releasing a pungent promise. Let me ease your pain.

  Joe knew the promise was double-edged. His second chance would disappear with the first sip, replaced by a more pressing need to take the next sip, and the next. If you’ve lost your family, what the hell’s the point in staying sober? The breath of defeat sent a shiver down his neck. Familiar, comforting. Not your fault.

  With an exclamation of disgust he pushed back from the untouched drink and walked out, surprising both the bartender and himself. The sun was a brassy orange, low in the western sky and, after the dim confines of the bar, made him blink.

  He might have lost Marion, but he still had a son who needed him. Joe climbed into his Holden and headed south.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. White moths danced in the streetlight that illuminated the sign. Joe sat in his truck staring at the door of the Waterview Hotel as he tried to formulate a Plan B, crushed by disappointment.

  Marion worked Friday nights. He’d planned to wait for her after work and to find out whether he had a chance in hell of staying in his son’s life beyond resuming financial support. His throat tightened on the need for a drink. He couldn’t lose his son, too.

  His gaze fixed on the lone light in an upstairs bedroom. Kezia would have looked after his family. Joe had relied on that, though his conscience had pricked him when he’d seen Muriel’s death notice. And Kezia had always been fair. If he could make her believe he’d changed, she would tell him where his family lived.

  Joe got out of the car and walked toward the hotel. A shape moved on the porch, there was the chink of ice in a crystal glass and he realized someone had been watching him all this time. A match flared, was lifted to a cigar. For a moment he saw a pair of eyes, hard as diamonds in a too handsome face. “I thought you’d show up tonight,” said a voice he recognized.

  “I don’t know you,” said Joe. But he did. His wife’s lover. Jealousy and respect stabbed at him—at least the guy was looking out for her, which was more than he’d done lately. He stepped up onto the porch, out of the circle of light and waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. The man sat holding a shot glass, with a bottle on the table in front of him. Joe recognized the shape. God, no, Marion, he prayed, not another drinker.

  “She doesn’t want to see you,” said the man. His shape matched his voice, strong and hard.

  “Is that your view or hers?”

  “Hers.” But the slight hesitation gave him away.

  Joe stepped closer. The moths beat against the streetlight. “However Marion wants to play it, we’ll play it. But she sets the rules, not you. I need to see her.”

  “So you can manipulate her into taking you back?” The ice chinked as he set the glass down on the table.

  “How much do you drink?” said Joe abruptly.

  The other man laughed, low and humorless. “You are some package. A drunk who hits his wife, cleans out the joint bank account, disappears for three months and still has the balls to challenge her friend about his drinking habits.”

  Joe’s attention caught on the word friend. Could he have misread things? “At most you’ve been friends with my wife for a couple of months.” He kept the word neutral. If this man suspected Joe’s real fear, he might lie to get rid of him. “That doesn’t give you the right to play God in our lives.”

  “Marion and I have been friends all our lives. My name’s Christian Kelly.”

  Not Marion’s lover but Kezia’s. Relief made him laugh, before all the memories fell into place. “I’ve heard about you.” He eyed Christian with amused contempt. “So the guy who deserted Kezia sees fit to pass judgment on me?”

  “You’re misinformed.”

  “So are you.”

  “Am I? I beg your pardon. Sit down, Joe, have a drink on me.” The insult hung in the air.

  “I don’t do that anymore.” Joe braced himself, for the first time admitting it to a stranger. “I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been in rehab these past three months.”

  “Uh-huh.” Christian folded his arms. “Let me guess, and now you think you’re saved?”

  Joe ignored the skepticism. “I’ll always be a recovering alcoholic, committing to sobriety a day at a time.”

  “Wow, you’ve got all the jargon, haven’t you?”

  Screw you, thought Joe. “No doubt you’ve heard it all before,” he drawled. “Marion told me your dad was a drunk.”

  He saw the man stiffen, but Christian answered casually. “Yeah, the two of you would have had a lot in common.”

  “The big difference being that I’ve stopped drinking.”

  “The big difference being,” said Christian in a hard voice, “that I didn’t have anyone to protect me from false promises. Marion and John Jason do.”

  Joe clenched his fists. “Leave my son out of this.”

  “Or?” The word was full of menace and Joe itched to break the guy’s straight nose. But that would just play into the bastard’s hands. “You’d like to provoke me into a fight,” he guessed, “to convince Marion I’m still a loser. Does she know you’ve taken on the role of vigilante?”

  “Crawl back into the gutter where you came from, asshole. You won’t be dragging your family with you.”

  Disgusted, Joe turned toward the hotel door. “Let me talk to someone who doesn’t have their own shit to deal with.”

  He lifted his hand to knock and found himself flying through the air, landing with a painful thud on his knees in the street.

  Joe picked himself up. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed himself down with shaking hands. He faced Christian, who stood, fists raised, on the porch steps.

  Squaring his shoulders, Joe took a deep, deep breath. “You just don’t get it, do you?” he said. “I don’t fight anymore. Like I don’t drink anymore. Like I don’t run away from my responsibilities anymore.” Though he spoke quietly, his voice was steel. “I’ll be back. Because there’s nothing you can do to me that will stop me trying to make amends to my wife, and nothing short of killing me that will keep me away from my son.”

  He limped to his car and opened the door, glancing over his shoulder. “You know, we’re not so different you and I. My father was a drunk, too.” He gestured at Christian’s glass. “I’d watch that if I were you.”

  Christian waited until the Holden’s taillights swung left at the T-junction before he relaxed his fighter’s stance. He sank into his chair, picked up the cigar. The aftermath of the encounter kicked in, fine tremors in his hands. He stubbed out the cigar, reached for his drink, then paused. I’d watch that if I were you.

  Oh, yeah, Joe Bryant was good
at deflecting attention away from his own behavior. Christian downed the shot in one swallow and refilled his glass. To hell with him. Even if he was sincere, in Christian’s experience those with good intentions ended up doing the most damage. When they failed, the disappointment was worse than if the promise had never been made.

  Like his mother telling him she’d beat cancer. Like his father, when sober, saying he’d forgiven Christian for her death. Like Kezia at eighteen promising that nothing would ever keep them apart. And every one of them had meant it at the time. Yes, indeed, he thought bitterly, savoring the whiskey, the world was full of people with good intentions.

  Except this afternoon he’d learned that Kezia had changed her mind about going with him all those years ago. So why had she lied about it on Wednesday? He’d left Marion’s house fully intending to confront her, but as the last couple of kilometers ate up his anger, Christian asked himself some difficult questions.

  What difference could it make now to rake over old ashes? It was a bitter pill to swallow that he’d lost Kez through a twist of fate and his own impetuous nature but it didn’t change anything. They were two very different people.

  She was country, he was rock n’ roll. And if the fight with his father hadn’t erupted, if Kezia had left with him, what then? Would two eighteen-year-olds playing grown-ups still be together? He doubted it. But, oh, God, he had loved her.

  He pushed himself up wearily and took his glass and the empty whiskey bottle into the kitchen. He dumped the bottle in the trash and his glass in the sink. She’d probably lied to him to save her pride. The very least he could do was respect that.

  He wouldn’t tell Marion of Joe’s visit, it would only upset her. Come to think of it, better to keep it secret from Kezia, too. Feeling disturbingly virtuous, Christian went to bed, confident that despite Joe’s defiance he’d scared the drunk away for good.

  LONG DARK HAIR PILED LOOSELY on her head, wearing a strapless red dress, gold-tipped Manolos and an air of phony bravado, Kezia hesitated at the top of the stairs. She felt as though she was about to jump onto a funeral pyre. Hers.

  She had intended to cry off the wedding until Christian had mused whether Suzie would interpret Kezia’s absence as sour grapes.

  Too bad, she’d retorted. Christian suggested he could probably mollify the bride by telling her about Kezia’s latest sexploitation of him. At which point she had asked, through gritted teeth, how much she owed him for her share of the salad servers. He had let her see but not touch them; perhaps her murderous intentions had been too clear.

  Whatever lingering hope she’d held that Christian was bluffing had been shattered over the past twenty-four hours. He’d come back from his run in a distracted mood, remained distracted ever since. Twice she’d reminded him the banister needed fixing. Twice he’d reminded her there was no point in repairing a condemned building—unless Kezia had something to tell him?

  His attitude had hardened her resolve to make him suffer as long as possible before conceding defeat. Now her time had run out.

  “You look beautiful.”

  She hadn’t realized Christian stood in the hall below, watching. Her heart began to race. That was why she was dressed to kill, to pretend her heart and pride weren’t withering away. With controlled steps she started down the stairs, wishing the corset bodice of her dress allowed for deep calming breaths.

  Christian’s gaze met hers and Kezia’s breath came faster. He looked gorgeous—dangerous and urbane in an expensive linen suit worn with the carelessness of a wealthy man and the confidence of a handsome one. And she’d hoped to score points wearing her Sunday best and a pair of borrowed heels. “I have something to tell you.” Kezia reached for the banister.

  “Don’t lean on that, it’s dangerous.” Christian was at her side in seconds, holding out his arm. “Lean on me.”

  Oh, God, she thought dizzily, I have no stomach for these games anymore. His forearm was strong and vital under her cold hand.

  Even through the cloth, Christian felt her chill and unconsciously put his other hand over hers to warm it.

  “You win.” Kezia’s voice was so colorless, so toneless that it took him a moment to understand. Then jubilation and relief flooded through him.

  “You’ll accept the hotel?”

  “I’ll accept the hotel.”

  “Thank you, it means a lot to me to be able do this for Muriel.” He hesitated. Something didn’t feel right. “And you, Kez. I’ve seen how much you’ve suffered through this.”

  “Really.” She freed her hand and continued down the stairs, leaving him frowning after her. She moved like an automaton, without her usual flowing grace.

  “Wait.”

  Kezia turned back, her face pale, her expression polite, and Christian’s disquiet grew. “This was never about having the last word or revenge. It was about…” He stopped, unsure what his true intentions were. Yes, he wanted to free himself from this town, his past, from the power of this woman once and for all, but it was also about honor, a tenderness he couldn’t articulate and didn’t want to explore. As he searched for the right words he sensed her withdrawing further. It was almost a physical thing and it left him cold.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She turned to the door. “You got what you wanted.”

  That being the case, why did he feel so terrible? In the car he glanced at her profile, remote and sad in the early afternoon sun—and got mad. Regrets were for losers. He jerked the car into gear and accelerated with a squeal of tires. She didn’t reprimand him and Christian’s anger grew. “Damn it, I want you to be happy about this!”

  “My mood is the only thing left under my control,” she answered coolly. “And now you want to own that, too?”

  He pulled to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes. “Look, I know, all right? I know you came looking for me, so that blows your revenge theory out of the water because what have I got to punish you for? If anything, it’s you who got the last word. And you know what’s really funny? Since Marion let it slip, I’ve been driving myself crazy with what-ifs. Me, the hardened cynic. Does that make accepting the hotel more palatable to you?”

  Kezia stared at him and for a moment she thought she would pass out. “What did she tell you?”

  “Nothing. I guessed.” He frowned, his impatience obvious, and she realized he didn’t know everything. “My point is, you can rest easy about taking the hotel. Probably for the first time in my life, my motives are pure.” His gaze flickered to her mouth. “Well,” he conceded, “maybe not entirely pure.”

  He leaned toward her and Kezia panicked, pushing against his broad chest to hold him at bay. But he was still close, too close. His eyes seeking answers she wasn’t willing to give. He asked, “Why didn’t you try to track me down?”

  “I realized I’d made a mistake. Up and leaving someone doesn’t give them a lot of faith in your ability to make a commitment.” Kezia was amazed at how calm her voice sounded. “And if you recall, you didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

  “No,” he agreed with a bitter laugh. “At the time I was intent on hurting you.”

  She said nothing, staring blindly at his pale green silk tie. The hurt was less knowing he regretted it, but it didn’t change the fact that in a fit of pique he’d abandoned her when she’d needed him most.

  “I’m not trying to hurt you now.” The sincerity in his voice weakened her. She had to be strong.

  “Wait a minute, does this mean you were bluffing?”

  He groaned. “If I say yes, will you still take the hotel?”

  “Only if you agree to accept some sort of reparation when it starts making a profit.” Christian shook his head and Kezia set her jaw. “I’ll never be able to pay you back so at least let me pay a small percentage of what I owe you.”

  “You owe me nothing, but if you must give me something, give me this.” He pulled her closer.

  “You know what I really want?” With one hand he cupped the back of her neck, with t
he other he lifted her chin until she was forced to look into his eyes, intent and passionate. “One wild night with you.” His voice, low and husky with longing, sent an involuntary response shivering down her spine. “I know we can’t change the past but let’s burn out every misunderstanding with a new memory.”

  He was already burning her, his body heat incinerated common sense, and Kezia ached to bring him closer, but she wasn’t going to kid herself that she could handle another desertion. Not by the man she still loved.

  She pushed him away gently. “And then you’ll leave again.”

  “And you’ll stay again.” His gaze captured hers. “But this time we’ll both know where we stand.”

  Kezia had never seen it from Christian’s point of view, that he had suffered her loss yet was willing to take the risk again. But for her, suffering wasn’t a risk—it was a certainty.

  As she hesitated, he lifted one of her hands to his lips. “I never let myself have regrets, never acknowledged how much you meant to me, but when I learned you’d changed your mind…” He turned her hand over and kissed the pulse point on her wrist.

  “Christian, I didn’t.” The words came from someone else’s lips surely, for her own had barely moved, so devastating was the realization that his offer was based on a misconception.

  “I don’t follow.” His gaze searched hers, cautious now, and she steeled herself.

  “I wasn’t looking for you to say I’d come with you.” With exaggerated care Christian replaced her hand in her lap, and Kezia’s heart sank. “It was to tell you why I wouldn’t.”

  He restarted the engine, his profile carved out of granite. “You mean, there was an excuse I hadn’t heard yet?”

  Kezia gave him the choice. “Shall I tell you now?”

  After a quick glance in his side mirror, Christian swung the sports car back onto the road. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  THE WEDDING WAS HELD AT Everton’s finest multipurpose function center. In the garden, under a bower of white roses. The ground, kept moist and green by sprinklers, sucked like quicksand and the ladies kept stepping out of their heels as they walked.