Declan Reede: The Untold Story (Complete Series)

by Michelle Irwin

  “Fucker!”

  My pacing started again, heading from one end of the lounge to the other. As it did, the words of my finance broker played over and over in my mind. With my current expenses, I would probably have enough in liquid savings to last until Christmas, maybe the end of January.

  Cashing out my longer-term investments would maybe get me another twelve months, even with getting rid of the cost of having Christina clean my house. After that, I was fucked unless I could get some income coming in. An income greater than I could earn flipping patties at the local burger joint. I had no idea how I was going to do it, especially when the costs of two extra people were factored in.

  Why had I been so reckless with my money? All of the nights where I’d dropped a grand at the casino, a few hundred at a strip club, or God only knew how much in the VIP room of a nightclub. All of those stupid nights out that I could barely remember because of the free-flowing alcohol. If I’d stayed home for even half of them, I could have had enough money to last another few months. To go from not having to worry about what money was coming in because it was always more than I spent to having nothing was an adjustment I wasn’t sure I could make.

  The clawing sensation of icy fingers at my throat grew as I looped around in front of the couch again. My chest tightened and my breaths grew shorter—each breath shallower than the last. My fingers clenched and unclenched as my steps grew longer and faster, so each lap of the room took less time. The walls closed in on me and the sound from the TV seemed to come through a tunnel.

  My throat ached, screaming for the delicious burn that only a shot could bring. I tried to roll my tongue around my mouth, but it felt sticky and swollen. As if it were three sizes too big and couldn’t fit behind my teeth any longer.

  On my next loop, I stumbled. My feet were moving too fast and I couldn’t control them. The ceiling pressed downward and I fell to my knees to sink away from it. Curling into a ball, I gasped for air. It was too much.

  I needed . . . something.

  I needed Alyssa. Only, she was a thousand Ks away.

  Without her, only one thing could get me through. I needed a fucking drink.

  Forcing myself to my feet, I staggered into the hall even as I gasped for air. I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath. When I reached the side table, I grabbed my Monaro keys and headed out to the garage.

  I needed to get out of the house. There was a bottle-o up the road where I could find what I needed.

  With my breath coming in sharp, painful pants, I forced myself to move to my car. After I climbed into the driver seat, I shoved the key in the ignition and pushed the button to lift the garage door.

  Two seconds after the purr of the engine echoed around me, the radio kicked into life.

  Blaring from the speakers was a CD we’d listened to on the way to the airport and that Alyssa had forgotten. A fucking CD full of stupid Aussie nursery rhymes and songs that Phoebe loved.

  The icy claws of panic that had held my heart in a vice grip only seconds earlier disappeared at the sound of the beginning bars of “Teddy Bear’s Picnic.” A peal of laughter burst from me. Even though she was almost a thousand Ks away, Phoebe could warm my heart. I flicked the car into reverse as a plan for the rest of the day doing came into my mind. Instead of drowning myself in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, I’d get started on a new project. After all, I’d promised my little girl I’d paint her room.

  On the way to the hardware store I thought about the fact that I’d have to mention the renewed panic attack to Dr. Henrikson. My meeting with him the day before had been relatively uneventful. There was an initial layer of awkwardness being face-to-face with him again. Of being able to see his reactions to my admissions rather than making them into the impersonal speaker of a phone.

  Despite that, we hadn’t really covered too much that we hadn’t spoken about earlier. He once again expressed concern that Alyssa and I were perhaps moving things too fast with her moving into my house, but he countered the statement with his delight that her influence on me was so positive.

  By the end of the session, we’d done little more than set a structure in place that would allow my continued visits for as little money as possible. After he’d finished laying out his plans, I almost had to take back all the cracks I’d made over the years about him being opportunistic. They were true at the time, and if I was still raking in the big bucks he probably still would have charged top dollar. But with my chips down, he showed he did care about more than just the bucks in his bank account.

  I wondered what he’d have thought about my little project to paint Phoebe’s room. No doubt he’d have some warning about how dangerous it was to make big life decisions in a time of crisis, but fuck him. Paint colours were hardly life-altering, and if it made Phoebe’s life that little more comfortable when she returned to our house, that was all that mattered.

  An hour later, I returned home with all the essentials to paint and redecorate her room, including tins of paint the precise shade of purple that Phoebe had selected on the computer, rollers, and drop sheets.

  Walking past the TV I’d left on in my haste to get out the door, I saw that Morgan had claimed pole over that fucker Hunter, which put a smile on my face. Sometimes good things did happen.

  The rest of the afternoon was a meld of physical labour and painting. First I stripped the bedroom out, then I laid the drop sheets. As I used the rollers to paint the walls, I discovered I had no idea what I was really doing. The paint went in every direction, coating some areas darker than others. Even though it threatened to overwhelm me, I took a deep breath and started again.

  I was halfway through my second coat when I wondered whether maybe I should paint the whole house. Maybe it would get rid of the ghosts of the past. Before I could get that far, I shut down the idea. One thing was clear: I had too much time on my hands. Before long, I’d be tearing down the walls just for the sake of it.

  “HEY, DEC.” Alyssa’s voice was a welcome change from the monotony of silence I’d been surrounded with all day. “You want to see me and Phoebe again as soon as possible, right?”

  Her voice was ringing with excitement—she was planning something. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Are you free next weekend?”

  “Unless a job miraculously falls into my lap, I’ll be free for the rest of my fucking life. Why?”

  “Well, Flynn came over for dinner tonight—”

  I clenched my jaw at the mention of his name. Even though I’d agreed to try with him for Alyssa’s sake, that didn’t mean I had to like the smug arsehole, or the way he spoke to me. He always seemed so fucking happy about my misery that it wouldn’t have surprised me if he was laughing it up big time after the Gossip Weekly article and subsequent online stories. Fucker probably thought it was all my just desserts or something.

  “—and he had a really good idea.”

  “Uh huh.” I couldn’t manage to form any other words or I risked saying something I’d regret.

  “He suggested we have a mini-break. Just you and me.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right, but it didn’t seem like she needed a response from me anyway.

  “He thought it could be a good chance to get everything out in the open. You know, a weekend where nothing is off limits. Where every question we ask each other has to be answered, regardless of how bad the answer might be.”

  Fucker! There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he was trying to set me up for a fall. And what about Phoebe? Where the fuck was she supposed to go while we had this weekend away?

  “And the more I think about it, the more I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Where?” It wasn’t what I wanted to ask, but I wasn’t sure what else I could say. Even though I wanted to say no, I couldn’t. If I argued against it, she’d only think I had something to hide. Even though the words, “Fuck Flynn and his fucking idea,” were on the tip of my tongue, I couldn’t let them go.

  After all, Dr. He
nrikson had made a similar, albeit less outright, suggestion. In my session, he’d advocated getting everything between Alyssa and me out in the open. Especially with the paparazzi breathing down my neck, seemingly desperate for a scandal. At least if Alyssa knew everything, anything they dug up that could threaten the happiness we had would be meaningless. Or at least, she’d be aware of it long before it could become an issue. On the doc’s advice, I’d already decided I was going to share any details she wanted, but I’d hoped it would be at our own pace and not all at once. And certainly not to a timeframe dictated by her fucking friend.

  Obviously my discomfort over the idea was evident in my question because when Alyssa answered, it was with less confidence than before. “We don’t have to do it. I mean, if you don’t want to, I’m not going to force you to. It has to be something we both agree on or it’ll be pointless anyway.”

  “It’s okay. It might be good for us.” My jaw was still tightly clenched so I had to force the words out between my teeth.

  “Can you pick us up at the airport on Friday and drop us back the next Monday?”

  “Airport?”

  “Yeah, I, uh, I’ve already booked a weekend up at a motel near Bondi. It was a last-minute special and I . . . well, I really think it’s worth us going there for our weekend of truth. I mean, I booked it hoping you would agree, but figured the deal was worth it even if I just had to use it for some time away. I could take Mum and Phoebe for a girls’ weekend or something instead, if you’d rather.”

  There was no way Alyssa was going to come to Sydney and not spend time with me. “No, it’s okay. I can pick you up.”

  “Great. Mum’s going to come with me to watch Phoebe for the night. Did you want her to book a hotel?”

  A weekend of letting Alyssa sort through my dirty past and having to see Ruth again for the first time since the magazine shit went down. Fucking great.

  “Dec?”

  A silent sigh slipped from my lips. “No, of course not. She can stay here. Hopefully Phoebe will be a little more comfortable than if she’s at a hotel.”

  I found out all the details before disconnecting the call. The excitement that overtook her voice for the rest of the conversation almost made everything I’d agreed to worth it. Almost.

  Placing my phone down on the counter, I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer for strength. And for Alyssa. There was so much I needed to tell her, and I could only hope my demons wouldn’t chase her away.

  As if to stave away the panic, the memory of the ring I’d purchased before our do-over date at the Suncrest Hotel flittered through my mind. Needing to have it in my hands again, to confirm that I was doing the right thing—that we were heading in the right direction—I headed straight to my bedroom. Digging through the top drawer of my dresser, I shoved aside my boxers and stray socks to find the little velvet box I’d hidden there shortly after Alyssa arrived on my doorstep.

  Flicking open the black lid, I looked at the ring. The diamond was bigger than I remembered. I was fucking grateful I’d purchased it before I’d lost my job or I never would have splashed out on something so extravagant.

  I gently plucked the white gold ring from the stand inside the box and held it between my fingers. It was the perfect ring for Alyssa. Slender enough to be feminine, but still packed with enough diamonds to shine like her inner beauty. The one-carat princess-cut diamond in the centre was set in a twist at a forty-five degree angle to the rest of the stones. I’d picked that setting because the rotation of the main stone represented the twists we’d faced on our way back to each other.

  Cradling the ring between my fingers, the words Alyssa had spoken the night before she’d left Sydney floated back to me. Of wanting to chase away the ghosts and exorcise the demons from my past. That’s what the weekend was about. If we were strong, the weekend would purely be a continuation of that process. My cock grew hard at the thought, because it would be two days and a night of nothing but Alyssa.

  Besides, she knew most of the shit, and she was still there for me. Still willing to give me her trust despite the campaign Gossip Weekly seemed to be running against me.

  I drew a deep breath, and forced away the negative thoughts. The positives were growing. Day by day they were gaining strength. I needed to focus on them, that was all. It was easier with Alyssa at my side, but it wasn’t impossible to do it alone. After all, I’d done what I’d set out to do: I’d regained her trust. I’d earned it back despite the odds and the shit we’d faced since.

  For a moment, I debated giving Alyssa the ring over the weekend, but it didn’t feel right. The process was supposed to be about getting everything out into the open. Even if there was a positive outcome, the admissions I would make weren’t the sort of things I wanted to associate with the day I asked her to be mine forever.

  With one more glance at the ring, I put it back in its box. One day, when the time was right, I would offer it to her. In the meantime, all I could offer was my love. That would be enough; it had to be. It was all she’d asked for, after all.

  As the positives that could come from the weekend solidified in my mind, I felt the stress rush from my body. Alyssa trusted me. She loved me. Those truths were all I needed. All I ever would need. I thought back to the moment Ruth had told me she’d left and wanted to laugh at myself for thinking she could be going anywhere but back to my side. How could I ever have doubted her? How could I have thought she’d leave over something as stupid as a few photos and a bunch of bullshit?

  I slid the drawer shut and tried to think of something else I could do to distract myself until she came back to me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: ON TRACK

  SUNDAY, I WOKE up to an empty bed and a nightmare that everything I’d experienced had been nothing more than a dream. The thought left me hollow. Empty. My heart raced and my head throbbed as the possibility bounced around my body.

  No! Fuck that.

  It had to be real. It was too perfect and at the same time too fucked-up for it not to be.

  I went to roll over to where Alyssa had slept, to see if the pillow still smelled like the lingering scent of her coconut skin cream, but stopped short. I couldn’t move. It hurt too much. At first, it was the proof my mind needed that it’d all been a fantasy. Maybe I was really in a hospital bed in a coma after the last time I’d hit a wall in my V8.

  Then it occurred to me that it was the wrong type of pain for that to be true. It wasn’t the sharp agony of broken bone and torn tissue, but rather a slow, rolling ache. My whole body was stiff and sore. It ached from being overused after too many days of not enough use. I was out of shape. Sure, my muscles were as defined as ever, but clearly I hadn’t used them enough. The more I woke, the more I understood the pain was proof of everything that I’d shared with Phoebe and Alyssa. It was my arms and shoulders that hurt the most, the ache of holding the roller for too long the day before.

  The painting hadn’t felt particularly difficult at the time, but it had obviously worked muscles I hadn’t used in a while. It fuelled my desire to spend the day working out in my gym. Maybe I wasn’t driving anymore, but that didn’t mean I shouldn’t keep myself fit, and other than the heavy bedroom sessions Alyssa and I had shared, I’d hardly been keeping up my fitness.

  With nothing better to do, I climbed out of bed and headed to the treadmill. Hopefully a workout on that would loosen up my stiff muscles. There was only one way I would have preferred to work myself out, but Alysa was too far away for that.

  After I’d completely exhausted myself on the gym equipment, I headed back downstairs to watch the last race in Bahrain.

  It was strange watching the sport, and the team I’d been such a big part of for so long, as nothing more than a spectator again. With each lap, I shifted closer to the edge of the couch, until I was barely resting more than an arse-cheek on the suede as I watched Morgan and Hunter race practically door-to-door around most of the track. Red and blue dancing over the track, the way the fans loved it. The riva
lry between them was as strong as ever.

  “Are you fucking blind?” I shouted at the track officials as Hunter dived in front of Morgan, cutting him off in a barely legal move. He braked late, cut the corners too hard, and rode the chicanes. They were the actions of a lunatic, someone who gave less than zero shits about the car, the team, or the other drivers.

  Along the next straight, Morgan caught him again. Sinclair had the power, even if Hunter had the crazy. My heart was in my throat as I said a thousand silent prayers for Morgan to get up. The championship was so fucking close; a win for Hunter could put him in the lead. My DNF at Bathurst had set Morgan back, but thankfully because I’d taken Hunter out too, he hadn’t gained any ground. Instead, Andersen, the driver in third, had crept up on both of them. Despite everything, I wanted Morgan and Sinclair Racing to win that championship. I felt like Sinclair retaining the championship would in some small way keep me connected to the team—even if I wasn’t part of that team anymore.

  The rest of the race was nail-bitingly close and I watched most of it from the edge of the couch. Each time it looked like Hunter was sure to gain a position on Morgan, Morgan managed to pull out a minor miracle. When an incident further back on the track caused a safety car and the leaders came in for their final pit stop, the Sinclair team showed why they were the best on the track, beating every other team’s time by a good half second. The flurry of activity around the car in the seconds Morgan was in the pits made me miss the race almost as much as watching him loop around the track did.

  I counted the seconds while they were filling the fuel and worked out roughly how many litres they must have put in. It didn’t seem quite enough, which meant Morgan must have had a little in reserve already. I could only hope he’d make it. Strategies that they might be running ran through my mind. The sport was part of me. The thrum of the engines echoed in the beat of my heart. Fuck, I missed being out there. How had I sat and passively watched it for so many years? How could I sit on my arse and not be in a V8 for the rest of my life?