My Life in Shambles: A Novel

by Halle, Karina

  “There will be no game for you. Not anymore. With vision problems and your balance issues, there’s no way you could do it.”

  I’ve talked about this with Padraig a bit this last week. About his future in the game. I know that being diagnosed with MS means the end of his career, but I could tell a part of him was holding out hope for a miracle.

  “What about every now and then?” Padraig asks eagerly, full of so much hope that it breaks my fucking heart. “What if on days I feel fine, because some days I do feel fine, what if I play then?”

  “That would be up to your team to decide.” He pauses. “But I would advise against it. You need to be in optimal shape to play the game the way you do, and while easy consistent exercise is important in the treatment of MS, strenuous exercise will cause your body to heat up, and when you heat up, symptoms can get worse. At some point, you might need a wheelchair.”

  While I had been doing my research—and knowing my aunt uses a walker on rough days—I knew that his mobility as he knows it would only slow down as he gets older. But Padraig hasn’t looked into his disease at all. Probably because he didn’t want to know the truth about what would happen to him.

  But now he’s hearing it all and fighting against it.

  “A fucking wheelchair?” he spits out, violently running his hand through his hair and tugging on it. “I don’t think so. That’s not going to be me. I’m only twenty-nine years old!”

  “And it might not be you,” the doctor says patiently. “It might just be a cane on occasions. It might be a scooter or a rollator. A lot of patients never need any mobility aids, even two decades after their diagnosis. But in your case, you’re progressing faster, aggressively I would say, than I thought you would, and looking at those MRI scans, I’m starting to think the scarring is more substantial. From what we’ve talked about, too, I’m beginning to think you’ve had symptoms showing up for years, you just never got a diagnosis.”

  “I just thought they were related to stress from playing the game,” he says quietly.

  “And that’s common. It usually takes years before someone gets the correct diagnosis. I’m just glad we have one now. In a week we’ll do another scan and see if there are new lesions, and then we’ll figure out if you have the progressive type of the disease or not.”

  Padraig just shakes his head and slumps over, putting his face in his hands.

  The doctor looks at me. “Have you had any experience in dealing with someone with MS?”

  I nod. “My aunt. I don’t see her often and I don’t know all her details but she’s had it for as long as I can remember.”

  “Okay. I know you’re engaged to be married and that too is going to put a lot of stress on you, but right now I need you to understand that this is going to be a lot more difficult and a lot more intense than it is with your aunt. It will get very ugly before it gets better, and he’s going to need your help and support every single step of the way. I want you to be ready for that and for everything this disease is going to throw at him.”

  I blink. Heart heavy. I feel sick.

  Not at the thought of doing all of that for Padraig, because I would be there for him without question.

  But that we’re not really engaged.

  We’re not really together.

  What happens to Padraig after I leave?

  And how can I fucking leave him now?

  The doctor goes on to tell us that his recent memory might start to be affected, especially when he’s under stress like he is right now. There could be more muscle spasms, weakness, and fatigue to the point where he can’t get out of bed, constant and specific types of pain that don’t go away even with painkillers…

  “And sexual dysfunction,” he says, which captures Padraig’s attention. “This is a difficult one, and it’s very common so you have to understand that. Sexual desire begins in the central nervous system and that’s where MS likes to strike. You may lose your desire for sex entirely, you may have arousal problems, erectile dysfunction is extremely common, and you may not, well, feel things the way you used to.”

  “I don’t fucking think so,” Padraig says, scoffing. He looks at me. “There is no bloody way that any of those things can happen around you.”

  I give him a reassuring smile and selfishly hope that’s true, and yet I think we’re going to have to expect anything and everything at this point.

  “Padraig, I know this is hard,” he says.

  “Hard?” Padraig practically sneers. “Hard? This is going to ruin my whole life. All of it that I had worked so hard for. This is bloody devastating, Dr. Byrne. You have no idea! I feel like a fucking dead man walking.”

  “Padraig,” I say softly, rubbing his shoulders, but he shrugs me off like a defensive wounded animal.

  I know what the doctor means about how I’m going to have to be there for him, no matter what. I can imagine that it would be difficult even for married couples, let alone us who have only known each other for two weeks in whatever strange relationship we have with each other.

  But I won’t give up on him.

  “This is fucking shite, is what it is,” Padraig says, getting out of his chair. He’s clenching and unclenching his fist, and for a moment I think he’s going to hit the doctor. Then I notice that there’s a tremor in his hand, and he’s trying to keep it under control.

  The doctor notices too. “Padraig, if you don’t mind, I’m going to do some tests on you.” He gets out of his seat and heads to the door. “Valerie, you can come take a quick look if you’d like. It’s just in the other room here. It’s called evoked potentials testing.”

  The doctor takes us to a small room where he sits Padraig down and hooks up small electrodes to his head while putting a monitor in front of him. The doctor shows different images, many of them a flashing black and white chessboard pattern, and monitors the brainwaves on a separate screen.

  I go back to the office and wait since the test is done alone.

  Forty-five minutes later, Padraig is done.

  He isn’t talking.

  The doctor sends him off with anti-depressant and anti-inflammatory medications and says to come back next week again to go over the testing results.

  Padraig looks so lost. I hold his hand and lead him out of the hospital, to the taxi I had called.

  We don’t speak.

  The car takes us to the hotel, and I see some paparazzi hanging around the front of it, so I make an executive decision to go around the block to the back of the hotel.

  “Where are we going?” Padraig mumbles.

  “Back door, baby,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. The door to the hotel’s kitchen is open so we walk on in there, getting some looks from the cooks as we pass through, but no one really says anything. I had assumed this was a common practice for the elite here. Then we sneak through the lobby halls to the elevator and get on without anyone being the wiser.

  “How did ye figure this would work?” he asks.

  “Hey, I was an entertainment reporter, you know. I learned some things from my job. Not that I ever stalked anyone, but people talk about what the celebs do to avoid being photographed. The last thing you need is for them to take a picture of us now, after all you’ve been through.”

  We head down the hall to the room and step in.

  Immediately it feels like we can breathe.

  Padraig shucks off his coat and goes straight to the bed, falling on it like a tree, face first. “I guess I don’t look quite well at the moment,” he says, mumbling into the bed covers.

  “I don’t know, your ass looks especially perky from this angle.”

  I hang up his coat and do the same to mine, then join him on the bed, sitting beside him.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask him.

  But there’s no response. He’s already sleeping. I take off his boots, and he moans but doesn’t wake up. Then I take off my shoes and lie down beside him.

  I watch him for a moment, this big, burly
beautiful man with his face smooshed up against the bed, making him look like a kid again. He’s built like a tank — he’s a machine from head to toe — and yet I know in time his body will fail him. It’s already failing him. It’s not fair that he has to go through this, that he has to lose everything he’s worked so hard for. His body, his career, the love of the game. It all means so much to him. It’s what he prides himself on.

  And yet, I know this won’t destroy him. It’s not because I won’t let it, because really, what power do I have here? I can only stay as long as I can and do what he lets me. But I know that deep inside, Padraig has formidable strength, even if he doesn’t know it himself. He’s been drawing upon that strength since he was young. It’s what’s kept him going and kept him alive through all that tragedy. That inner strength, his heart of a warrior, will see him through this disease, whether I’m there or not.

  But, God, I hope I’m there.

  I close my eyes, holding that prayer on my tongue, and fall asleep.

  * * *

  I wake up to Padraig running his fingers softly across my cheekbone and then leaning in to kiss me on the corner of my mouth.

  “Are you awake?” he asks in a low, husky voice.

  The kind of voice that tells me exactly what’s on his mind.

  I smile and open my eyes into the dark of the room. Outside it’s night already and there’s a faint light coming in from the hotel marquee.

  “I am now,” I tell him softly. “What time is it?”

  “I dunno,” he says, his hands now trailing down my neck and across my sweater. “Does it matter?”

  My stomach growls at that, telling me it’s past dinnertime, but I can swap that kind of hunger with another, easily.

  Especially as he brings his hand up under my sweater, his warm palm skimming over my delicate skin. Up over my stomach, my torso, to my breasts where he teasingly strokes the underside of them with his fingers. My nipples instantly harden and I start to squirm.

  Damn. It’s like striking a match.

  “I need ye, darlin’,” he says, kissing down my neck, leaving trails of fireworks as he goes. He pulls back and looks at me through lowered lashes, his dark eyes turning molten and hot. “I mean it. I need ye. Need to be inside ye. Nothing else will do right now.”

  His intoxicating words fill my head, make me drunk.

  “You can take me,” I whisper to him as he climbs on top of me, removing his pants. “Anyway that you want me, I’m yours, Padraig.”

  I am yours.

  A small, wicked smile teases the corner of his mouth as he pulls my sweater over my head and undoes my bra. “You may not know what you’re asking of me.”

  “I’ll take what you have,” I tell him, pushing down my leggings. I’m not wearing underwear this time because, well, I knew we were staying in a hotel tonight. Part of me thought I might start riding him on the drive over.

  “No knickers?” A flash of heat comes across his brow and he reaches down and skims his calloused fingers along my folds, sliding over my clit. “I want to fuck you raw.”

  A knot of excitement forms in my stomach at the thought, at those words, at the very intense way he’s staring at me. “I’m still on the pill,” I say. Though I do need a refill soon. “And I’m clean. I’ve been tested.”

  “Yeah, so am I.” He is positively smoldering. “And I’m going take this thick, hard beast of a cock and give you every raw inch of him. Fuck you until your nails draw blood on my back and you’re screaming my name into tomorrow.”

  His words slam into me, making my nerves dance with heat and energy, going totally berserk.

  This damn man and his filthy fucking mouth.

  “Okay,” I manage to say.

  He grins.

  Moves back along the bed and places his head between my legs, spreading them wider with his hands.

  I gasp as his tongue flicks my clit, then he pulls back and stares between my open thighs, his gaze turning primal and carnal and dangerous.

  “You’re like a fucking peach, ye know that? Dripping with sweetness. Mine for the taking.”

  Holy crap.

  With what he says and the way he’s staring at me, I think he might eat my pussy until there’s nothing left.

  He brings his gaze up to me, looking at me through dark lashes as he slowly runs a finger over my clit and then slides it inside me. My back arches at the intrusion and I clench around his finger, gasping lightly.

  “I love watching your pretty face,” he says thickly, “just as I stroke your sweet little cunt. I like to see how I make ye feel. You know what ye look like right now?” he asks as he slides in another finger, achingly slow. “You look like heaven, darlin’. Pure heaven.”

  He lowers his face and starts eating at me like a man starved. I begin to tremble, digging my nails into the muscles of his bunched arms as his tongue assaults me, rough and wet and hot, and I’m so turned on that if he keeps this going I’m going to come. I have to. There’s nowhere else for me to go.

  “I want ye wild,” he says, pulling back just before I almost come, his beautiful mouth wet with me. “I want ye unhinged.”

  I’m panting now because I’m that turned on. “I am fucking unhinged!” I cry out, my heart galloping inside my throat. I clench my thighs together, trying to relieve the pressure.

  He puts his knee between them and pries them open with his hand. “I’ll give ye sweet relief soon enough,” he says. With his other hand he grabs his cock. I raise my head and stare down at it, precum glistening on the fat tip. I don’t mind condoms but there is something amazing about the sight of his bare cock and the fact that he’s going to fuck me with it.

  “This look on your face,” he says to me, positioning his cock at my entrance. “I won’t forget it. Just how damn greedy and wild and mine ye are. You are mine, aren’t ye?”

  “Yes, I’m all yours. Now hurry up. I need to come.”

  He lets out a rough laugh and then his gaze becomes sharp and determined. He grabs my thighs and pulls them up so that my knees are bent, spreading my legs wide. The sight of his hands against my scars sends a thrill through me that I never knew existed. I’m not even ashamed of them right now. It looks sexy.

  Impatient, I roll my hips so that the rigid length of his cock slips along my slick folds. With a moan he pushes himself into me and—

  Fuck.

  All the air leaves my lungs and he’s in so deep, I don’t think there’s any more room for him. I have to try and breathe around him, this pleasure bordering on pain, the way he makes me feel so full.

  “You’re so tight and wet and sweet,” he says through a groan as he slowly pulls out. There’s a second of lightness where my body feels suspended and then he rams back into me, stealing my breath again. There isn’t a fraction of space left between us, he’s in that deep, and I can’t even control my thoughts.

  He begins to pump into me, faster, harder, staring down at my breasts as they jiggle and bounce with each thrust, gawking at his cock where it slides inside me. I can feel his heavy balls swinging against my skin, adding to the carnality of our fucking.

  “How good do I feel?” he grunts, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Every muscle in his shoulders and arms and abs are straining and rippling with undiluted strength.

  “All I feel is you,” I tell him, breathless and breaking off into a moan as I reach down and start to play with myself. His cock is magnificent, but damn it, I need to get off.

  His eyes widen with lust at the sight.

  “Fuck me,” he says through a harsh, serrated growl, and with a swooping motion, he reaches down and grabs my wrists, pinning them up above my head.

  With his free hand he starts slapping my tits before his head dives down and he takes a nipple between his teeth, pinching hard until I cry out, and then quickly soothing them with his tongue.

  “You make me into an animal,” he says, alternating between the sharp pain of his bite and the kind of relief that’s turning me into
hot liquid. He brings his massive body up over mine and I can feel the white-hot heat radiating off of him, how damn alive he seems. Capturing my mouth with a rough and searing kiss, he continues to pump into me, his rhythm gaining speed until he’s slamming into me, making me beg and writhe for more.

  Oh god.

  Oh god.

  I come so hard, so fast, that I’m shot into brutal oblivion. The waves of pleasure spike with pain and delirium, and I’m clenching and pulsing around his cock so hard that I’m afraid I might break him.

  “Holy FUCK!” I cry out, not caring that the whole hotel can probably hear me. My hands grip the covers until they are frozen in place while my body continues to jerk and convulse, violent and reckless. I feel like I’m split open in the most wonderful, terrifying way, like whatever shields and blinders I’ve been trying to put around my heart are blasted away and he can see me.

  He can see me, all of me. The scars on my body, the scars on my soul.

  Many scars.

  He sees them as I’m coming, mouth open, world exploding.

  I meet his eyes as he continues to thrust into me, his grip on my thighs so hard that it hurts. It’s almost visceral, the intensity of his gaze and the way he looks right into me, the determination on his brow as he pumps harder and harder, to the hilt and back again.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so exhaustively fucked like this.

  Not by Padraig, not by anyone.

  Tonight, he’s giving me all he has, and I know, I know deep down that it means more than before. It means something that I’m too afraid to examine but I know I feel it too.

  With a low growl, he pistons again, the bed slamming back so hard that something falls over in the bathroom, and this time he comes. He grits his teeth and lets out a guttural moan that I feel deep in my bones, and I watch, fascinated, as the orgasm overtakes him. He pumps into me, raw, hot, becoming this vision of masculine beauty, as his body begins to shudder, the cords of his neck straining as he’s overcome with pleasure.

  “Fuck, Valerie,” he manages to gasp out, his voice broken as his grip on my thighs starts to loosen and his thrusting slows.