by Max Henry
“Would you like a drink?” I slot the key in the lock and twist. “You’re probably thirsty, given how warm it was today. I’ve got most things in the fridge, so take your pick.”
He rises as I push the door open, and just stands there.
I take a step inside as I hold his firm stare. The way he looks at me, it’s as though he’s waiting on me to work something out for him. Of course.
“I’m such a moron,” I say with a nervous chuckle. “You’ve been out there all afternoon; you’re probably starving.”
He swallows, his chest rising with the deep breath he takes. “Now that you mention it, I am kind of hungry. But I can wait until we get into town.”
Something switches behind his gaze, a frustrated rage igniting, yet carefully contained as he steps forward. I move back to let him in, contemplating leaving the door open in case I need a fast exit. Yet as I study the stiff set of his shoulders as he stands in my entryway, bag in hand and back to me, I realise that rage is centred inward; he doesn’t mean me harm.
Just himself.
Sad.
“I’m afraid that although I can cook, I’m not much of a foodie, so the options are a bit limited.” I chuckle as I shut the door, mentally scolding myself for coming across as such a giggly mess. “I can offer packet pasta, a couple of microwave meals, and, if you’re lucky, I might have some bacon in the freezer to go with eggs on toast.”
His lips curl up a little on one side as he drops his bag. Was that a smile? “I’d be happy with dry toast, so whatever you can spare is appreciated.”
“Come on,” I scoff. “I’m not that Mother Hubbard.” I wave him through with me and lead the way to the kitchen.
He takes a seat at one of my two barstools as I busy myself preparing what I’m sure will be killer scrambled eggs.
“So how far did you have left to go?” I ask as I set the pan on the stove.
“You mean, how far am I from home?”
“Yeah.” I pull out a stainless-steel bowl and set it down.
“About three hours.” He traces a finger across the counter, his eyes glazed as he watches its path.
“Yeah?” I crack the eggs in, adding herbs and salt, and my favourite: dry bacon bits. “North, south, west …”
“West.” He watches my movements as I pour the egg mixture into the pan and stir it around.
“That would place you about … Greymouth?” I ask.
He nods, spinning on the stool so he faces the counter dead-on. “Just outside of, yeah.”
I scrape the wooden spatula along the base of the pan, mixing it around to get perfect fluffy scrambled eggs. “You’re lucky your car made it over here in the first place then.” God only knows how he made it up the steep-as-hell viaduct, but I wouldn’t be brave enough if I knew the car was on its last legs.
“I didn’t bring it over; I only just picked it up,” he says. “It’s not mine. My brother bought it.”
Explains a bit, then.
“If you don’t mind me saying, it looks like he got a lemon.” I set a plate on the counter. “Hope he didn’t pay too much for it. Not that I know what cars are worth, really, but you know.”
Duke frowns as I plate the eggs, finishing with a spritz of salt and pepper. The frown remains as I set the plate down before him, quickly adding a knife and fork to the ensemble.
“Shoot. Did you want toast with them?” Why is he so pissed off?
“Nah, it’s all good.” That twitch of a smile returns as he picks up the fork and pushes the eggs around. “They look great. Thank you.”
“No sweat.”
I pull a mini Mars Bar from the fridge and lean back against the edge of the counter to eat it while he devours the simple meal I made him. A glimpse of silver flashes at his throat as he leans forward to take a mouthful, and I tilt my head a little to catch it again as he straightens up. The chain is simple; not the kind I’d expect a man to wear, that’s for sure.
His shoulders noticeably slope beneath the fabric of his dark navy T-shirt, his bare arms confirming what I guessed the minute I laid eyes on him: he’s built. This is a man who carries the discipline to work out regularly, jeans that look as though they’re either pressed or usually hung carefully in a wardrobe. He’s put together, and yet, he seems so … messed up.
He rolls his lips together, clearing the last of the taste away as he rises from the barstool. “Thanks, Cammie. That definitely filled a hole.”
“You’re welcome.”
And yet, as I watch him pick the dishes up, rinse them clean and then stack them in the dishwasher I never use, I wonder. What made the emotional hole inside this man that leaves him so empty? So lost?
So sad?
SIX
Duke
Everything in her house is either white, or a shade of grey. It’s so light, so deceivingly peaceful. Yet I get the sense this woman projects her clean and crisp image to hide something else.
I wasn’t blind to the way she purposefully turned her head and shoulders as she walked down the hall to avoid the pictures on the wall. How she paused and swallowed after she opened the cabinet, and then gently pushed a plastic dinner set aside to get the plate out for me. How her fridge seemed to be stocked with kid-sized juice boxes, yoghurt snack-packs, and the individually wrapped cheese bites you see plastered on a poster in the supermarket with some overly happy kid biting into them.
Details, that I suspect have nothing to do with a small appetite.
“You live here on your own?”
She places her rubbish into the trash, and then hesitates with her hand on the pantry door. “Yeah.”
Interesting. “Well”—I check the time on my phone—“it’s already after ten, so I guess I better start making some calls before all the motels are done for the night.”
“Yeah. I didn’t think about that.” Her gaze slides somewhere else for a while, and then snaps back to the here and now with scary urgency. “You could just stay here.”
“Pardon?” I mean, she’s a nice woman and all, pretty, but that’s the kind of intimacy I reserve for only my closest friends.
The dead ones.
“I can make up the sofa for you.” She shoots out of the kitchen into the adjoining open-plan living room. “It’s not the biggest three-seater out there, but if need be I could sleep on it, and you can have my bed. I’ve got blankets in the hall cupboard, maybe a spare pillow. I can go check if you like, make it comfortable. I mean, you’re probably dog tired anyway …”
I lose focus on her incessant rambling, blinded instead by the crazed focus in her eye as she comes up with a thousand things to keep her occupied by fussing over me. Classic avoidance. Seen it, know it, swore not to embrace the fall-back trait.
And yet, here I stand in the kitchen of a woman who’s consumed by it.
“Cammie?”
She keeps talking, even as she disappears into the hallway, her body twisted yet again, and collects a blanket from the linen cupboard.
“Cammie.”
She mutters to herself, battling with getting the blanket evenly spread over the sofa.
“Cammie!” Fuck—that’s the loudest I’ve heard myself speak since I got back. I close my eyes and shake away the memories that come with me using my voice to command attention in such a way.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry. I was doing it again, huh?”
“If you mean getting lost in your own little world, yeah.”
She looks taken aback by the observation, her lips curling downward at the corners.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to get your attention.”
“Well,” she says sharply. “You have it.” She slams both hands on her waist, only accentuating how narrow it is and her classic hourglass figure.
“I don’t feel comfortable in your bed, or on your couch—even in your house. I don’t know you.”
Her nose crinkles adorably as she seems to think the problem over. “So let’s get to know each other. I don’t sleep much anyway.”
And there it is: the reason why she’s keeping herself busy with my problems.
“Neither.”
Her brow softens, the smile returning to her darkly coloured lips. “Well, we’ve got that in common then. See? We’re becoming friends already.”
A rare smile pulls my lips apart as she chuckles at her own joke. What is this woman doing to me? I never find reason to smile. At least, not anymore.
“I guess I can make an exception for one night.” Even though my head screams no. “Keep your bed; I’ll sleep out here.”
“So no bestie chat then?” She pouts, mischief in her eyes. “I was looking forward to the popcorn, too.”
“Not tonight.” I rub my hands across my thighs, fighting the urge to grip something, to tether myself. “Bathroom’s at the back of the house?”
“Yeah. Straight down and second to last door on your right.”
“Thanks.” I head for my bag, and then pause, turning back to her. “Turn the lights off and take yourself to bed. I’ll sort myself out.”
“Sure.” She glances around, probably unsure if she can trust me.
“Thanks, Cam,” I murmur as I turn away and head for the bathroom.
For seeing me.
For helping.
And for not asking questions.
By the time I emerge with brushed teeth, and a healthy few litres of water splashed over my face to snap me the fuck out of this funk, she’s in what I guessed was her bedroom when I passed by the open door earlier.
The door is now shut, the gaps around it dark, and all is quiet. If only her cop cousin could see me now.
I smirk at the thought and make my way back to the living room using my phone as a torch, grateful she took my hint and went to bed so it didn’t seem odd that I would turn another light on when she flicked the others off. Even with the glow beside me, the distinct pitch black that comes from being in the country hits me hard. There are no streetlights, no houses nearby to light up the night, and no cars passing by within view.
The darkness unsettles me, which, for a guy who loved to play hide and seek as a kid, says something. I can’t see what’s around me—who’s around me. There’s no mental safety map, and no reassurance that I’m okay.
That I’m home. That I’m not there anymore.
The way Cammie set the sofa up has my head at the window end—first problem to rectify. I switch the blanket around, and then settle on the cushions with my phone laid on the floor beside me. The low-battery icon flashes up as I lie back and blink up at the ceiling. I reach out and dismiss it; the race is on to get to sleep.
But how can I when all I hear in the darkness are the echoes of the man I used to be?
Coward.
Weak.
Hopeless.
The words I lull myself to sleep with every night. And yet, tonight, they yell louder than ever before, deafening me with their truths.
I can’t be this man forever: a guy who relies on the strip of light from a slim piece of technology to hold his nightmares at bay. I can’t spend my life checking under the bed, and looking for trouble at every turn.
I just can’t.
There’s a life on the other side of the canyon of my fears, yet no matter how hard I try, I can’t find the bridge to get there.
Which leaves me with only one option: build my own.
Yet I don’t know if I can.
SEVEN
Cammie
Sunday can’t come early enough. Between the show and dealing with Jared’s crap about the house, I’m exhausted. My eyes are heavy, my arms sore from holding the spotlight steady, and yet I’ve got two more shows before I can spend the day doing nothing. I roll to my right, ready to kick things in the guts, and let my gaze fall on the closed door.
Oh, that’s right.
I have a guest. Guess that rules out breakfast in my PJs on the couch while I binge on Netflix until show time.
I lie on my side, adjusting the blanket higher over my chilly shoulder, and listen for sounds of life from the other end of the house. Silence is all I get in return.
Maybe he left already?
The display on my phone reads a little after eight. As much of a stranger Duke is to me, he doesn’t strike me as the kind to over sleep. Then again, it was well after ten by the time we turned in. Perhaps he needs the rest?
Grow some balls, Cammie. Slip your legs out of bed, pull on your comfy cardigan, and face the man already.
My legs protest as I shuffle across my room to the built-in robe, and pull my extra-long, extra-thick cardigan off the hanger. Its instant warmth is a comfort, as are the bed socks I wore last night; there’s nothing as unforgiving as a cold hardwood floor first thing in the morning.
Well, except Jared.
No light spills from the living area other than the warm yellow hues of the morning sun. Birds sing their praises outside at the warming day as I round the corner and find the two sofas empty. I blink, lift a sleeve-covered hand, and rub my eyes.
It takes me a minute to piece together what’s wrong with this picture.
The sofa is stripped of the bedding I left out for him, the cushions barely wrinkled, which indicates he didn’t stay there long. Yet what catches my attention most are the feet poking out from where the sofa intersects with its shorter twin.
I shuffle farther into the room and round the three-seater to find Duke propped up with his back jutted into the corner where the two-seater meets the wall. The blanket is tucked under his chin, his hair messed up as he rests his chin on one shoulder.
My feet stay rooted to the spot while I contemplate the best course of action. Do I wake him? Is he the kind to get startled and violent when he wakes suddenly? More importantly, why the fuck is he on the floor like that?
I back away, careful not to disturb him, and retreat toward the kitchen. The electric jug starts its rumble after I flick the switch, my clumsy hands making the two mugs I pull out of the cupboard clang together.
I grit my teeth and set them down as gently as possible on the counter before retrieving the coffee canister from the cupboard. I manage to get a heaped spoonful in the first mug and then make it halfway through doing the second.
“Morning.”
I jolt, so sure he was still asleep. Coffee goes everywhere: on the counter, on the floor. I’m pretty sure some skitters across the tiles and under the fridge.
Damn it.
“Morning.” I offer a wan smile as I lunge right to wet the dishcloth under the tap.
Duke stands on the opposite side of the breakfast bar, shirtless. I completely miss the stream of water. Pretty sure if I’d been greeted with a full frontal I’d would have forgotten what it is I’m supposed to be doing.
His torso is cut, as in, ripped to all hell. Does this man ever consume fats in his diet? Holy shit.
“I spilled the coffee,” I verbally vomit.
“I see that.” His lazy one-sided grin returns as he lifts his previously concealed hand from behind the counter and reveals a T-shirt, which he then tugs on.
Thank Christ. Not sure my sex-starved libido could have handled much more of that first thing in the morning.
“How do you like it?” Far out, Cammie. May as well ask him if he likes to be on top.
His deep brown eyes zero in on my face as I’m sure I turn all shades of red. “Splash of milk, no sugar.”
“I took a chance that you were a coffee kind of guy.” I wring the cloth out, having successfully found the water, and then drop to my knees to wipe the floor.
It’s only when I hear him clear his throat and catch him turn away in my periphery, that I realise what being on all fours does to my pyjama top. Kill me now. I slam a hand to my chest to push the loose fabric back over my bare breasts, and rock back on my heels to finish the cleaning job in a more demure position.
“Toast?” I squeak out on broken tones.
“That’d be lovely.” He rounds the end of the counter and picks up where I left off with the coffee
s. “You take sugar?”
“One, thanks.”
“Sweet enough,” Duke mutters as he heads for the fridge to retrieve the milk.
My entire body feels as though it’s engulfed in flames as I rinse the cloth out under the cold water. I wring it and set it aside, then dip my wrists under the cool jet for good measure before I switch the tap off. I mean, shit, I knew the guy was cute when I laid eyes on him last night, but nine hours of sleep has attuned my senses somewhat. Last night’s eight on the roadside has rocketed to a definite ten. Or maybe that was the naked torso? Whatever it was, it doesn’t change the fact a smoking-hot guy is casually making me coffee as though he does this every single morning.
“Elixir of the gods,” he announces as he hands me my mug.
I take it with a smile, cradling the hot cup as he pops the lids back on the coffee and sugar canisters, and then pushes them to the back of the counter.
“That’s not where they go.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he glances over his shoulder at me. “Really? Where would you put them?”
I set my coffee down and then open the pantry door, pointing to my neat little spot at shoulder height where they line up on the shelf.
“But they’re easier to get to on the bench top.”
I give him the same look he graced me with, cocking my eyebrow. “But it looks cluttered.”
“So?” He frowns.
We stand a moment, squaring off over something as ridiculous as where my coffee and sugar should sit. Clearly sensing he won’t win this one, the muppet takes his coffee through to the living room, muttering to himself as he leaves.
On the bench top. Pfft. Is the guy crazy? Clean lines. I need clean and clutter-free lines in my house.
My house.
Not that it really is. I groan as I reach for my mug, mentally cataloguing the real estate agents I’ve looked into so far. Where do I even start when it comes to picking somebody who’s going to ensure the best price and not just push for the sale to close out one more deal?
Toast. Right.
“What do you normally have on your toast, Duke?” I call out as I retrieve my toaster from where it’s neatly tucked in the cupboard beside the pantry. Suppose he’s going to say he leaves that on the counter, too.