“I’m sorry, and thank you for saving me.” It comes from me with little emotion. It isn’t because I don’t mean either of those things. I do. It’s just that I don’t want to give the emotion over to him anymore. As he said, liar or not, there’s nothing here but a process to get me off the pills. He’s showing that loud and clear with his aggressive attitude.
I turn away and pull my knees up, huddling into the oversized tracksuit, his I assume, and look back out of the windows again, choosing that over the anger he’s portraying. I’ve got no interest in an argument or trying to prove something that doesn’t exist. I nearly died out there, and that only happened because I chose to believe that if I showed him some fun, showed him that this could be so much more than just a process then maybe we could make something else of it. But this reaction here, the one he’s delivering with as much malice as the sea out there, well, it’s not worth my effort. He was right this morning. We don’t feel the same way. It might be love on both our parts, but his concept of the word is far removed from mine. Perhaps he just doesn’t know what it is, or perhaps he doesn’t want to. Either way, I’ll just do whatever I need to do to gain help from him and get off these pills, and then after that, I’m done.
He moves into my eye line, his hand dragging along the long line of cupboards on the opposite side of the room. I don’t look or give him any more impetus to make him think I’m scared or intimidated because I’m not. That scared me—that sea out there as it pulled me beneath it and whipped me around. Blaine is nothing compared to that, even if I do get the sense he could be if provoked. I remember its pull on me as I went under, remember its effortless hold on my frame as it tugged and wrenched, no care to how my death came attached to its force. It just swallowed me, churning me over in it until all my air evaporated and there was nothing left. And, in some way, after I’d finished kicking for my life and clawing for breath, I accepted it and let it whirl me around, not caring for my own death either.
The thought makes me glance at him, then back towards the ocean, wondering how similar the two of them are. I mean, he lives here next to it, allows its collision with the sand to mirror his own thoughts, perhaps enhance them even. And his mood is currently as black as the ocean, the sneer on his face as rage filled as the sea that nearly killed me. My own sneer develops at the thought, my eyes heading back to the sea again. I’m thankful to him for saving me, no doubt about it, but I’m not going to be humiliated or shouted at because of it. All I was trying to do was prove his love for me, make us closer than he wants to keep us, and if he can’t see that, or doesn’t want to acknowledge it, then so be it. I’m done trying.
There’s a small bleep then a quiet whirring noise, and as I notice the wall of cupboard doors start to move, I turn to gaze at its movement along the floor. He follows the vertical line as it draws backwards, his feet padding backwards as the doors somehow sink into the wall at the far end of the room. It’s not until the final click of the mechanism that I look up at him to find a still scowling face staring at back at me.
“Dates,” he says quietly.
His tone makes me linger on the word, turning and searching his face for a meaning, as we’re not on the same page as far as romance is concerned. Nothing changes on the sculpted brow staring in my direction, not a flinch. He just stares as I watch a droplet of water crawl from his hair, my eyes following it along to his jaw, fascinated, quite perversely given my current state of loathing for his mood. “Get some sleep, Alana.”
And with that, he swings his body away from the corner, his hands unbuckling his belt as he leaves the room, softly closing the door behind him.
“Sleep.”
The word murmurs out of me as I continue staring at the door he left through, wondering how the hell he thinks I’m going to sleep. There’s too much running around my mind to sleep. It’s chaos in there again, perpetual concerns zooming around, my body quaking and shaking, still from the shock presumably. It’s a laughable thought. In fact, I’m becoming more and more convinced by the second that this whole thing is laughable. Love and near drowning. Twice. Both times my life saved by him. I snort out, my head swinging back to the sea again for guidance, or answers on why the hell it wanted to kill me, but I’m halted in my tracks by the vision of the open cupboards as my eyes scan round for the first time.
The gasp that leaves my lips is uncontainable as I flick my eyes around, nervously looking over the veritable array of objects on display. My body attempts cocooning further into this tracksuit, presumably trying for escape. Jesus. Although, Jesus very clearly has nothing to do with what is in front of me. Rows and rows of implements, contraptions, ropes. Drawers lining beneath them, no doubt full of other apparatus and riggings. And something mechanical is clicked upright, maybe a bench, or a mechanism for fucking torture. Who knows? Where the hell am I?
I’d like to say I’m rigid against the leather, but I’m not. I might be shaking, my body still fluttering against the cold, but I’m actually reasonably relaxed given what I’m looking at, inquisitive now that the immediate surprise has worn off. So this is him, is it? All of this in front of me is what he wants to do, what he wants to use. On me, at that.
I’m up and moving towards the collection of possibilities before I’ve thought much more of it, more interested than I perhaps should be. There’s no denying it, though, is there? I’m addicted in some way, either to him or to the pain that we create together. My brow furrows at the thought as I try to remember the last time I had a pill and watch my hand reach for a tassled leather whip. I’m shaking still, not sure whether it’s the images in front of me, the fact that I nearly drowned, have actually drowned, or the lack of pills. Bree was right; I am shaking a lot lately. And it’s only highlighted as my inked fingers try to grab hold of the thing in front of me and I watch the throngs wobble delicately in response. I snatch my hand off of it, disgusted at my inability to control my fingers and irritated at my dependency on drugs. Whatever this is, and whatever it might become, I do need off these pills if this is what I’m turning into because of them. Quickly, too.
I scan over the contents of the cupboard again, detailing the lines and implements hanging there, storing the information with no clue how to organise it in my mind. I feel pathetic, unorganised. It’s pitiable to be so needful of something. To not be able to survive without amphetamines is truly mortifying in some ways. My shameful mind feels exhausted trying to manage the clutter coming at it again. I shouldn’t even be here. I’ve got deadlines to keep up with, times, meetings. I should at least get to writing some of this down, try to attempt my story again perhaps. Sleep? Not a fucking hope. My mind’s buzzing too much, confused. That much is definitely true, but now that this wall is looking at me, asking me things, taunting me with thoughts I don’t know how to prepare for, I’m wide awake and ready for an argument. About what, I’m not entirely sure, but I’m not hovering around in this room waiting for him to make decisions about my life without any insight from me.
Him having my phone is irritating enough. I mean, how am I going to arrange things, answer emails? He’s certainly not going to. He’ll just leave it there in his car, unconcerned with the details of my life. Screw that. I’m important in my make-up. I am what I am because of how I’ve become, who I am. He knows nothing about me, psychology degree or not. In fact, have I just been following his lead with no thought on how I should be behaving? Good lord. I’m so weak. Flawed is what I am. Faulty. Malfunctioning. Where have I gone? Where’s my sense of rationale or validation? It’s like I’m lost in a sea of Blaine, diving under its water in pure hope that he’ll lift me out of it in time when he can be bothered to try. If he can be bothered to try. Enough, frankly. If he’s not going to enjoy love, let it become part of this, thus improving the odds of me letting strange behaviour slide, then he can damn well explain himself. Or, at the very least, explain the process of his rehabilitation ideas, if that’s what one can call this method of withdrawal. Fuck.
I’m yanking on
the door and storming down the corridor instantly, no idea where I’m heading to and not really giving a damn. I need answers, and he’s going to give them to me. Either that or he can take me home. I’m tired—tired of all this secrecy and oddity. I just want the truth. He’s said I had to give it, well so does he, and here’s where it might as well begin. Right now.
“Blaine?” I call out, my feet still freezing against the marble floor. “Blaine?” There’s nothing in reply as I keep going, glancing into rooms, searching for him. It’s all as sparse as the other room. No homeliness, no relaxation, just stretches of cold marble and grey walls. It’s contrasted to the man inside him; I know it is. No one kisses, fucks, or holds someone like that unless there’s more there than just teaching. “Where are you?” Still nothing as I arrive in a large room and stare at what should be the end of the house. There’s nothing there but an entire open wall, the wind whipping in through it as the faint light of the sun begins to descend on the horizon. I creep forward again, scanning the room’s interior and finding nothing but a large bed, its grey covers neat and tidy, and more cupboards and wardrobes. “Blaine?”
Why is he never here? I feel like I’m constantly calling for him only to get nothing in reply. I fucking want some answers. I’m asking for them. In fact, I’m just asking. He said that all I had to do was ask, so I am. And I don’t want the answers that show the sadistic arse side of him that he delivers so efficiently. I want the other side, the one I know is in there regardless of his need to hide wherever he is. “Blaine? Will you fucking answer me?” Christ, I’m riled. Truly. It’s like the only way I’m going to dampen it is to have a bloody good row, one that shouts and screams and swears into the night, hoping for resolution and not caring if it doesn’t get it.
My feet pad over to the open end of the room as I squint my eyes to look out into the dusk. He’s here somewhere. I know he is because I can feel him. I don’t even know how I know that, but I do. It’s intrinsically laced inside me somewhere, just like he is. I can still feel his come burrowing through me even though the sea should have washed it away, and I can still feel his lips on mine regardless of the frigid chill that lingers in them. He’s inside me. Deep inside.
There’s nothing on the terrace as I walk out. Nothing in the immediate garden area either, just a table and chairs and a large glass terrace bracing around the edge. I walk closer to it and gaze toward the ocean again, searching for him on the cliffs. Maybe he’s out there walking off the need to do something deplorable, or perhaps he’s sulking somewhere, brooding over his sadism and chastising me for foolishly going for a swim. Fuck him. Telling me off for trying to show him love? He can go suck a fish. He brought me here, offered me a slice of his home rather than taking me to some dive of a back alley strung out with degenerates and reprobates. Anywhere we could have gone, anywhere, but oh no, he brought me here to his home. Could he be more fucking confusing? “Where the hell are you?”
That’s me getting into a little temper tantrum, I think. I can feel it building, as if it hasn’t been released enough. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I let loose at anything. It’s all business talk and professionalism. Either that or containment. The thought makes me shake my head, trying to control the tirade that wants to come out. I never used to be like this. I was reactive. I reacted on the spot, levelling my behaviour from my guts rather than finding the acceptable response to things to make people feel comfortable. I’m not even sure if it’s Blaine I want to yell at anymore or if it’s just the world in general—that sea definitely.
My breathing hitches uncomfortably, making my stomach ache and convulse. I feel sick, waves of angst rising through me, desperate for release. I’m confused as I stare out, my eyes still narrowed as I watch the sea crashing eternally onto the shore, my fingers grasping onto the rail that borders the terrace. And I still can’t stop the fucking shaking that racks my hands. It’s continuous, enough so that I look down at the brushed stains on my fingers and feel like screaming at them, too. How did I get to this? Where did I go wrong? It’s all so disjointed and inharmonious. Nothing feels in sync. One side of me wants to scream, and the other wants nothing more than to crawl into a ball and cry for days. The only thing I know with any clarity, the only thing that seems remotely plausible is that when I’m in his arms, no matter what he’s doing or how he’s doing it, it’s quiet, regardless of the pain.
“Tell me you love me,” I mumble into the wind, not loud enough for anyone to hear and hardly loud enough for me to believe I need it, but I know I do. I need it to make the ache go away. And I need it to give this more purpose than just drug rehabilitation and his idea of fun, no matter how much I need that, too. But most of all, and because of the way he looks at me, I need it so that I can relate all this onto paper and show the world that these people are beautiful in their own way. That he is.
“Not sleepy?” his voice suddenly says behind me somewhere. It jolts me around to look at him, my hands instantly grasping the stainless steel rail again. “Pissed?”
“Yes.” No. I’m not fucking sure anymore.
“Why?” Because you’re an arsehole.
“Because...”
“You can’t get what you want?” I don’t know what I want, and the fact that he’s naked isn’t helping. “Life isn’t about perfection, Alana. It’s about creating an equilibrium.” What the fuck does that mean? I’m too snarky for intelligent conversation. And where’s furious Blaine gone? I need him at the moment, not this intelligent, condescending arse. “Something you’ve bypassed as unusable.” What? My mouth opens to disagree, but I don’t quite know what I’m disagreeing with. “Too many stories about a perfect coupling, forgetting that happily ever afters are just stories for the masses?” I frown at him, irritated with his analogy. Happily ever afters do exist. They do. People get married every day, living with each other until the day they die, loving in their own ways and settling down. “I don’t want that from you. And I can’t give it to you either. Stop asking me to.” I’m not asking for a fucking thing.
The initial thought makes me glare at him, but it’s quickly replaced by some kind of pout as he raises a brow in my direction. It pisses me off, reminding me that I am still a fucking wreck of a junkie, one who’s searching for him to make me better. He sighs and walks over until he’s resting on the rail near me.
“But…” Nothing. But nothing. If he’d just acknowledge this as more than he’d like to admit, maybe give it a chance to develop into something more, then we could be—
“No, Alana. Take the clothes off.”
“What?”
“You’ve come here for an argument, haven’t you?”
“I...” How does he know that?
“Honesty. If you want an argument with me then you’ll do it naked so you can bare your soul at the same time.” I don’t even know what that means. Argue naked? Unlikely. I huff out a breath, annoyed at his superiority in the midst of my dishevelment, and flummoxed as to what I’m trying to damn well say anyway. It’s all the noise. It must be, or my lack of pills clouding my judgement.
I snatch away from the rail, choosing to bypass him and head back into the house. Arguing naked. That’s as laughable as telling me to sleep. What idiot would even do that? I’m at my most vulnerable naked. It’s certainly not a time when I’m happy to let rip, my body wobbling about as I do. Fucking stupid. This is all stupid. He’s right. “Get your fucking ass back here and strip. I’m in no mood for tantrums.”
His tone halts me, and I suck in all the swear words that want to launch back at him. Who the fuck does he think he is? I can’t do this shit. It’s…
“Shall I start it?” I swing round, eyes narrowed and a snarl forming, my body humming with its own need to explode again. “Or shall I finish it before it starts? Your choice.”
“Fuck you. You’re right. You are a fucking arsehole.” It’s out before I’ve got full control of my faculties, or perhaps I just don’t give a shit anymore as I grab at his hoodie and
begin yanking it over my head. “You’re a fucking arsehole and a liar.” He stares at me as I throw the thing to the floor, calm as fucking day with a sight twitch of his lip. Naked? Screw him. What? He doesn’t think I’ve got the balls? “I mean, what is wrong with you?” I glare back, already pushing at the tracksuit bottoms to get them the hell off my legs. “Do you think I’m too weak to argue back? I can assure you I’m not. I’m not scared of you, Blaine. I never have been.” Fuck him. Fuck all of this. “I’m not the liar here. You are. You want me all on display?” I shrug the bottoms off, kicking them sideways and continuing to glare with as much malice as I can muster. “Will that help your honesty?” How dare he be so controlled when I’m so livid? “There. Fuck you again.” I’m seething inside. Shaking angry. Not at him, or at me, or at anything in particular. Just seething, like the whole world can go screw itself. It’s shock, or fury, or confusion. “Why the hell are you making this all so hard? Why?” He just stands there. No fucking answers. No questions. No retaliation or forward steps—not even any backwards ones. He’s like a block of stone. “What’s that? Are you trying for impassive?” Still nothing. “Please tell me I’m not just going to get a beating because you haven’t got the words to combat a real argument. It’s time to man up, Blaine. Prove why the hell I should trust you with anything.” I don’t know where that’s come from as I step towards him, nor do I give a damn. It’s about time I said what I feel, about time I stopped being the one who’s lost all the time. I want proof. I want to know that this has a purpose, an end if it has to have one. “When does it end, Blaine? When is the grand finale to this story?”
“When I’ve finished with you.” The fucking words leave him so calmly it riles me up further, whipping me up into a rage I’ve never felt before. And then he steps into me, closing the distance, his whole body a wall of muscle and sinew. His eyes are darker than I’ve seen them before, regardless of his demeanour. “When you’re finished, Alana.”
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