by Nina Levine
“I think maybe you should have brought more than one bottle of wine. Mum and King fought this morning, too. Actually, they’re in their room probably still fighting.”
Tatum sits on a stool at the counter across from me. “I’m figuring a lot of the old ladies are going through the same thing. It’s too tense and dangerous at the moment. I know that’s why Nitro lost his shit today. Knowing this doesn’t make it any easier to deal with, though.”
The mood shifts as we all contemplate the current club turmoil. I don’t know the details of what’s happened, but multiple funerals over the last week means something bad is going down.
“Tatum,” King says from the doorway. “Have you heard from Nitro in the last hour?” There’s an edge to his voice I don’t like. A scary edge.
She shakes her head. “No. Why?”
His face gives nothing away and he says nothing in reply, but the heavy thud of his boots and the slam of the front door reinforce the dark vibes I got from him.
“Fuck,” she says softly as she pulls out her phone and calls Nitro. When he doesn’t answer, she leaves a message, “Call me. I’m worried about you. Let me know you’re okay.”
Mum walks in, looking frazzled. Spotting the wine, she reaches for it. “We need to drink this now. And then we need to find another bottle. And probably another. I’ve officially reached my limit with him.”
Shit.
This is not good.
Mum and Tatum get smashed. Gran leaves us at around 4:00 p.m. to get ready for a date she has tonight. And I make dinner. Not that I think either of them are going to eat any, but I’m hungry. And Holly is coming over, so she’ll want food, too.
Everything goes to shit just after 6:00 p.m., though, and I seriously reconsider taking up drinking again even though I gave up alcohol four years ago.
The four of us are sitting in the lounge room laughing over a story Tatum is sharing about something she and Monroe did when they were younger. After she finishes telling the story, I move off the couch. “I’m gonna go get dinner ready for your drunk asses.”
Mum reaches for my hand as I walk past her. “Baby”—she slurs the word—“I don’t think I can eat anything. I’m vomit if I do.”
Laughing, I say, “I’m vomit?”
She waves me away. “Ugh, I’m gonna vomit if I eat. I swear I should not eat.”
“Me either,” Tatum says. “I’m not as bad as Lil, but still.”
“Oh, trust me,” Holly says, “you are as bad as Mum. You’re vomit too if you eat.”
Mum tries to deny her drunken state again and I leave them to it, heading into the kitchen. I’ve just reached it when the front door bangs closed and King and Fury walk into the kitchen.
The air is sucked from my lungs as I lay eyes on Fury. His face is a mess of bruises and cuts, one arm has a long bandage on it that I’m sure must cover a nasty wound, and he’s walking like it kills him to lift his legs.
“Where’s Lily?” King demands.
“In the lounge room, but”—I grab his arm to stop him when he turns to leave the kitchen—“she’s drunk. And I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for you to go in there.”
“Why?” It’s a bark. Definitely not a good idea for him to go in there.
“It seems she’s reached her limit with you. Her words, not mine.” At the clench of his jaw, I add, “I know you’ve got a lot of bad shit going on, King, and trust me when I say the very last place I wanna be is in the middle of your marriage, but something’s gotta give. As in, you’ve gotta give something. She’s struggling after her hysterectomy and all the emotional shit of losing the baby, and I’m pretty sure you are, too. But struggling separately is not good. You’re gonna have to find a way to do it together if your marriage is going to survive.”
His dark eyes bore into mine as he works his jaw again. “You finished?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
With that, he turns and leaves, a wild gush of dark energy.
“Jesus,” I mutter, yanking the fridge door open, eyeing Fury. “Does he ever listen to anyone?”
“Not often,” he says, coming closer to me until he’s standing where he shouldn’t. Too fucking close.
Grabbing the salad out I prepared earlier, I bring my attention to his face. “That looks sore.” My gaze drops to his arm. “That too.”
He places a finger to my chin and lifts my face back up to his. “You look good, princess.”
Holy too fucking much.
I want to tell him never to touch me, but I can’t bring myself to say the words.
I like him touching me.
So instead, I say, “You do too. Well, except for all these cuts and bruises and that limp you’re walking with.” My voice lowers with worry as I ask, “Are you okay?”
He drops his hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good.” Then, checking out the salad I’ve placed on the counter, he says, “You still don’t eat meat?”
I think his idea of good and mine must be different, but I don’t mention that. “I’m vegan now.”
“Still against coffee?”
I shake my head at his smart-ass question while also struggling not to smile. “I’m a vegan, tea-loving teetotaller these days.”
He whistles low. “You gave up booze, too?”
“Yeah.” I turn serious. “I had to find other coping strategies to deal with my shit.”
We’re interrupted by raised voices coming from the lounge room. Mum and King are fighting again.
“Do you see an end in sight to King’s stress?” I ask.
“No.”
“Shit.” He didn’t even hesitate with that answer. “Really?”
“Really. This is going to get worse before it gets better.”
“Zara,” Holly says, coming into the kitchen, slowing when she realises Fury is with me. “Oh, right, umm, I’ll give you two a minute.”
Desperate to not be alone with him, I say, “No, it’s all good, Hols. We’ve caught up.”
Fury looks at her. “Actually, could you give us a minute, Holly?”
Shit.
What?
No.
Holly looks between the two of us, her eyes questioning me as to what I want her to do. My heart, the traitorous bitch, takes control of the situation and I nod to let Holly know I’m good here and that she can give us that minute Fury wants.
After Holly steps out, Fury pins his gaze to mine. “I’ve missed you, Zara.”
My heart is jumping up and down with joy, flapping all over the damn place like she won a fucking prize or something.
My head is telling me to get him the fuck out of here.
“You should get home to Lynette. She’s probably wondering where you are.” I’m not doing this with you. Not now. Not ever.
His forehead creases. “We’re not together anymore.”
Four words are all it takes for my world to spin.
I don’t know what to do with those words because at least before he said them, my head knew my heart would never have the chance to take over again. Now that he has said them, my head’s not sure it can overpower my heart if she decides she wants to win at life.
You need to get him the fuck out of here.
I know.
Well, get on it, sister.
In the end, it’s King who saves me.
“Fury,” he barks from the hallway. “We’re leaving.”
Fury’s still watching me, confused like he’s trying to connect dots. He doesn’t move straight away, but at the sound of the front door slamming, he says, “We need to talk,” and then he’s gone.
And I’m left wondering what the hell he means by that.
We do not need to talk.
Talking is the very last thing we need to do, because talking means an opportunity for my heart to take the lead again, and I decided a long time ago that my heart and my soul require two very different things. And if I’ve any chance at happiness, my soul must get what she needs. And what she needs is any man but t
he one who just walked out of this kitchen.
32
Zara
* * *
“Why do you have the morning off?” Holly asks me while we Facetime early Wednesday morning. “And why am I looking at your bra? Where’s your clothes? It’s fucking cold and rainy today.”
Ugh. Why did she have to remind me of how bloody cold I am? “I had to handwash my clothes last night because the machine is broken, remember? And I don’t have a dryer yet, so they’re all still bloody wet. I’ve been blow-drying my dress this morning, praying it’ll dry in time for work. And as for having the morning off, I rang Justine and begged her to let me come in late because of this clothes issue. God, Hols, I really need to get my stuff out of storage and get my life back on track.”
I moved into the apartment last night, but apart from the suitcase of clothes and toiletries I had with me, my stuff is all still in storage. At the moment, I pretty much only have the new furniture I ordered after moving out of Angus’s apartment. And I also have Mum’s old washing machine she sent over yesterday. The only thing is, it isn’t bloody working.
“You want me to hire a ute to help you get the stuff out of storage? We could do it tonight.”
Someone buzzes the intercom, but since I don’t know anyone who would be buzzing me, I ignore it. “Yes! Thank you!”
“Okay, consider it done. I’ll swing by and pick you up at around six.”
The intercom buzzes again. “Jesus, someone is buzzing me. Don’t they realise it’s only just after seven?”
“Ugh, people. Good luck. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Love you,” I say before ending the call. Stalking to my intercom, which buzzes again, I snap, “Who is it?”
“Zara, it’s Fury.”
What?
“Huh?”
“It’s Fury. Let me up. We need to use your toilet.”
I feel like I’m living in an alternative universe. Fury doesn’t even know where I live, and why would he just casually drop by and want to use my toilet?
However, I let him in.
Bloody hell.
This will be my worst decision of the day, for sure.
Opening my door, I wait for him to ride the lift. That’s after I quickly grab the one and only towel I have and wrap it around myself.
My ovaries are not prepared for the sight of him walking the corridor to my apartment, holding his son’s hand as they talk excitedly about something.
Where is God when you need her and why didn’t she wake up this morning? She should have intervened on my behalf here. I’m putting a tick in her “fucked shit up” column for this.
“Hey,” I say when Fury reaches me. By the way Noah is wiggling around, I suspect he’s the one who needs the toilet. Stepping aside, I usher them in and point Fury in the direction of the toilet.
He eyes my towel for a moment, but due to Noah’s need for the toilet, he doesn’t mention it. He simply says, “Thank you.”
While they’re in there, I mentally psyche myself up for this visit. I’m still confused as to how he knows where I live, but mostly I’m just hoping he won’t stay long.
The toilet flushes and I hear the two of them discussing the fact Noah has to wash his hands, which he does, and then they meet me in the living room. Where I’m standing awkwardly with this damn towel wrapped around me.
“Hey,” Fury says, glancing briefly at the towel. “Do you wanna finish getting dressed?”
“I can’t.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“Daddy!” Noah grabs his father’s hand. “I watch TV.”
“Fury, why are you here?” I ask, also wondering why he brought a toolbox with him.
“Wait a minute,” he says to Noah. Then to me, he says, “Your mother asked me to stop by and fix your washing machine.”
I will kill her.
Except, that would be mean when she’s just trying to help me.
But still, she must die.
“Oh.” My command of the English language is sorely lacking today.
Fury’s lip twitches as if he finds this amusing, but he manages to keep his laughter on the inside. “Do you mind if Noah watches TV while I fix it?”
“Absolutely.” I smile at Noah. “Do you wanna come and help me find something for you to watch?”
He nods eagerly. “Yes!”
Thank goodness for the couch and television I had delivered yesterday.
Noah follows me over to the TV and together we find a show for him to watch. I’ve no idea about suitable shows for three-year-olds, but he recognises one, and when I turn the sound up, Fury calls out from the bathroom, “He can watch that.”
I settle Noah on the couch and then pop my head in the bathroom to see Fury. “Do you—” My mouth snaps closed when I find him lying on the floor inspecting something in the bottom of the machine. It’s arm-and-ab-porn heaven because he’s taken his jacket off and his T-shirt has ridden up.
He looks up at me and grins when he catches me staring at his stomach. “What’s up?”
“Umm”—my brain loses all ability to process words—“I was just, well, do you want me to get Noah a drink or anything.”
His grin stays fixed in place. “No, he’s good, but can you keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t get into anything?”
I nod. “Yes. But just let me”—I step towards him and reach across to collect my dress I’ve been drying and my hairdryer—“get this.”
As I move back, the dress falls from my grip and lands on Fury. When he grabs it to pass it back, understanding crosses his face. “That’s why you’re not dressed.”
I take it off him. “Yeah. I washed all my clothes and none are dry yet.”
He moves up off the floor. “I’ve got a spare hoodie in the ute; I’ll grab it for you to wear while you dry your dress.”
“Thank you.” That will be so much warmer than this towel.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
I follow him out of the bathroom and watch as he tells Noah he’ll be back soon. Noah is so engrossed in his show that he pretty much just waves his dad off.
As Fury’s almost out the door, I reach for my apartment key and say, “Wait. Take this.”
Our hands brush, sparking a whole lot of memories to flood my mind. If the way his eyes cut to mine is any indication, he feels it, too.
We’re caught in this moment when Noah starts talking excitedly about something, dragging Fury’s attention away.
“Daddy!” he says, his face animated as he points at the TV, “Look! Bob!”
“Yeah, buddy,” Fury says. “I’ll look when I come back, okay?” The tenderness he shows his son is everything. It’s another ovary explosion in the making.
“I’ll go check it out with him,” I say.
“Thanks.”
As the door clicks shut, I sit with Noah. “What are we watching?”
He slides off the couch and bounces on the floor, his eyes sparkling with joy. “Bob the Builder.”
“Can I watch with you?”
His head moves back and forth, his delight obvious. “Yes!” He then sits on the couch again, positioning himself right next to me.
When his little head leans against my arm and he keeps it there, my heart squeezes. He’s the same age my daughter—I decided back then that my baby was a girl—would have been.
I’m deep in thought about her when Fury comes back into the apartment. “Here,” he says, passing me a black hoodie.
Noah’s hands curl around my arm when I attempt to stand. “No,” he says, “We’re watching Bob.”
“Zara has to get dressed, buddy,” Fury says.
“I’ll come straight back,” I promise.
He’s not keen on letting me go, but he releases my arm. “Straight away,” he says, and I hold my laughter in.
When I shake my head and grin, Fury eyes me questioningly. Leaning in as I walk past him, I say, “I see he’s picking up your bossy ways.”
His chuc
kle is music to my ears, and I hurry to my bedroom in an effort not to be pulled too far back into his orbit.
The hoodie hits me midthigh, instantly warming me. I hang my towel in the bathroom and walk back out to the living room. Fury is sitting with Noah, his arm spread across the back of the couch while Noah leans against his father. Noah is explaining something about the show to Fury who’s listening intently. I’m getting a feel for how he parents and so far all signs are pointing to him being a very hands-on dad. This, I love. But I never expected anything less. I need to go to the ends of the earth for my child.
He turns when he hears me, settling his gaze on my face for a moment before taking in his hoodie that’s so big I almost feel like I’m wearing a blanket. As I move closer to the couch, my legs become his focus. Goddam, this man doesn’t know how to hide his interest. It screws with my fortitude.
Crossing my arms, I arch my brows when he finally drags his eyes from my body. “Really?”
The creases around his eyes practically wink at me as he stands. “Really.” Without another word, he leaves us and goes back to the bathroom.
Jesus.
Men.
“Zara!” Noah reaches for my hand and pulls me to sit with him. This time, he rests his elbow on my leg and his chin in his hand. Every now and then he looks up at me, smiling when my eyes meet his.
We watch his show for ten minutes or so, at which point Fury comes back into the room and says, “It’s fixed.”
“You are a god,” I gush without thought, because anyone who fixes my washing machine will always be a god as far as I’m concerned. It’s not until I see how my words affect him that I wish I’d maybe refrained from telling him this.
“What I mean,” I say, with much less passion, “is thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate you coming over to do that. What was wrong with it?”
“The filter was blocked.” He glances between his son and me, an expression crossing his face that I can’t get a read on. “You working today?”
“Yeah, I just have to dry my dress and then I’ll head in.”
He jerks his chin at me. “Go dry it. I’ll drop you off.”