I couldn't do this alone. Sooner or later - like how I was, right in this second - I would crave that feeling of letting go, seeking bliss, getting my next hit. Something would tip me over the edge of that desire, whether it was memories I evoked on my own, or an argument with a neighbour across my fence. Irrelevant emotional episodes, everyday occurrences that most people handle in their stride.
But not me. For fifteen years I've responded in a certain way each time my world order was threatened. It had become so easy. Just pick up the phone, pick one of my men, and arrange a get-together. Instant gratification in a male's arms that meant
nothing
.
And if Drew wasn't here, who would I pick? Video-store-guy or someone like him?
A sound escaped my lips, wrenched from deep inside my chest. I didn't want that. Dear freaking God, I was trying to avoid that. Then what the fuck was I doing here?
Pushing the one man away I think I could trust. Or, at the very least, trust not to physically hurt me. Trust to see me through this transformation without losing more of my soul.
Oh God, I felt so alone, even though I could feel Drew's heat as he stood waiting for me to answer, waiting for me to say something. Waiting for me to push harder, so he could push back. He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't turn away. He would stand fast, be the anchor I needed while I floated on a storm of mixed emotions and fucked up memories from my past. He was my tether, but I was still swinging blindly loose in the breeze.
Panic welled inside, that old familiar sensation. My eyes skittered across to the pantry, knowing that fucking can of Spam was sitting inside. Maybe I'd made a mistake leaving it there. What was the point of reminding myself, if I never let myself remember? Never said the words.
I hated my mother for what she became.
I hated my father more.
But I couldn't even voice those emotions, so deep and cutting and black that they were. They made up a part of me now, that I could never let go. They were rooted into the very being of who I had become, a sickness that had leaked into my psyche and festered until it became rot.
I sucked in air as though I was drowning, and for the second time today I thought I might just fall apart. I was better than this. I was Kelly Quayle. I didn't cry or break down or ask for help when I needed it. I found my own way out of the swamp, crawling if I had to, but I did it... myself. Alone.
I pushed past Drew, vaguely aware that he let me, and slammed the pantry door open, almost pulling the damn thing off its hinges.
There. It sat there looking innocuous. Just a can of fucking Spam.
My body shook, my hands clenched into fists. Sweat broke out on my brow.
This was so fucking ridiculous. A can of processed food had become a symbol of my fucked up
life. I reached forward, noting the trembling in my fingers as I grasped the tin and lifted it up. When I swung around he was there, can opener in his hand, soft grey staring me down.
"You don't have to do this alone, sweetheart."
"I don't know how to do it any other way," I admitted.
He reached forward and wrapped a hand around my shaking wrist helping me lift the can up to the opener. He attached the cutting device to the rim and then set both the can and my hand down on the bench.
"Do you want to do the honours, or me?" he asked, hand hovering over the handle, ready to turn.
I stared at the can of Spam, let the images of countless silent meals wash over me. Remembered the dead look in my mother's eyes, as she blindly forked a portion of meat into her mouth. The soul deep dejection, the fact that she'd given up, and all that was left was an empty shell.
I'd been so determined not to become her. To make sure I still felt something, anything, to confirm I was still alive. But in all honesty, a part of me would always be a reflection of the emptiness she had inside. A part of me would always believe that was my fate too.
"I don't want to stop feeling," I whispered to the can. "If I stop feeling I'll be like her."
"I won't let you. I promise," Drew whispered back.
He reached up and started turning the handle on the can opener. For a moment I just watched as the lid lifted and separated from the rim. The smell of pork wafted out, the glint of jelly and speckled pink meat peaked beneath the lid.
"I hate Spam," I announced.
"So do I," Drew offered, almost as though we were having a normal conversation. But there was nothing normal about this. I was excising a part of my past by emptying a can of Spam.
I started laughing as the lid finally came free. It wasn't a humorous laugh, more a little deranged, I think.
"One final taste?" Drew asked, lifting the can up off the bench.
I screwed up my nose and shook my head emphatically.
"Oh, well," he added, and then shook the can out over the waste disposal unit. I watched it glug, glug, glug out, that suction sound adding to the horror. Then turned on the water and flicked the switch on the waste disposal unit.
In a matter of seconds it had disappeared down the sink and Drew simply crushed the can in his hands and threw it in the rubbish. The lid on the bin came down with a determined thump.
He turned to me and dusted his palms together, as though it was a job well done.
"So," he said. "I was thinking pizza and some gooey caramel ice-cream for dinner. What d'ya say?"
I was breathing too quickly, staring into shining and reassuring grey eyes, feeling a strange weight lifted off my shoulders. For a moment I couldn't put a sentence together, my mind a jumbled mess of unfamiliar sensations.
He lifted his hand up and cupped my cheek.
"One step at a time,
sweetheart
," he whispered. "You can do it."
Could I? My eyes flicked to the empty sink, then over to the closed lid of the trash bin. Then inevitably to the pantry door, still hanging open forlornly. The shelf bore a half used pack of pasta shells, some herbs and canola oil, and that was about it.
But no Spam.
A huff of breath left me and I felt myself smiling back at Drew. It was tentative, and definitely not my usual come hither Kelly Quayle smile, but it was a start.
One step at a time. Yeah, I think I
could
do that.
We ordered in. Super Supreme pizza with everything on top and two Gooey Caramel Magnum ice-creams along with a couple of Cokes. We watched TV as we sat cross legged on my couch, the cushions scattered haphazardly across the floor. Occasionally one of us spoke, but for the most part we ate companionably and laughed at the comedy that was on the box.
It was normal. It was... nice.
It was a little frightening still.
When the movie finished and I cleared up our empty pizza tray, ice-cream wrappers and cans of Coke, a heaviness settled over the room. Drew watched me move about silently, tidying up my sparse living room. His arms outstretched along the back of the couch, as though he didn't have a care in the world.
I did. I had no idea of what came next. And the uncertainty of that chilled me, dampened my ardour, if I'd had any ardour at all, and made me fidget, dust when I never dusted, straighten when I'd never cared to straighten before.
Finally, having tidied my lounge as much as it could be tidied, I turned to face him. My mouth opened and no words came out.
He watched silently for a few seconds, then shifted to stand.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
I shook my head. I was exhausted, but sleep would never come when I was so worked up like this.
"Do you want a bath or a shower?" he suggested?
I wrung my hands.
"Kelly," he said on a small sigh. "Do you think I'll hurt you? Make you do something you don't want to do?"
My head shook more slowly than last time, a measure of calm starting to invade my mind.
"I'm tired," he admitted. "I wouldn't mind a shower. It's been a hellishly long day. And then, I think sleep, preferably with you wrapped up in my arms. That's about it. I've got court tomorrow and need to be in the office early, so if it's OK with you, let's just get ready for bed."
I let a slow breath of air out.
"There's towels in the bathroom," I finally managed to say.
"OK," he replied with a soft smile and then headed toward the hallway.
He stopped when he came alongside me.
"Do you want to join me?" he asked, his body was held rigidly still.
"You're tired," I pointed out.
"For you there is always a little more left in reserve."
Something about that amused me and I huffed out a laugh. Then shook my head.
"I think I'll just get ready for bed."
"OK," he said again in that soft voice. He stroked my cheek and then walked out of the room. I was sure he'd find the bathroom easily enough, this cottage only had one off the hall.
Then I remembered the state of my bed. The unmade sheets. The fact that I hadn't changed them since the last hit of bliss I brought home. I couldn't face that room. Or more precisely, I couldn't face that bed. Not with Drew.
He'd been so good to me today. He'd been an anchor, something to tether me to the ground when I threatened to float away. He'd been patient and understanding, even when I'd thrown it all back in his face. He'd shown a determination and dedication to me I didn't deserve. He'd kept his promise. He wasn't going anywhere.
I would not sleep with him in that bed, even if all he did was hold me. I needed a new start. I needed to clean the slate. I was getting rid of that bed tomorrow.
I walked down the hall, bypassing my bedroom and peered into the spare room, where Abi used to sleep. The bed had been made up with fresh sheets after the last time she stayed over. Occasionally when Ben had an all night stake out, Abi stayed here. We'd catch up, have a few drinks and watch cheesy romance movies. No one but Abi and Ben had stayed in this room. It was clean, devoid of my sordid past, only full of the good things. Good friends. Good times.
Clean
times.
We'd sleep in here.
I closed the curtains and crossed to the dresser, pulling out one of Abi's spare t-shirts, then slipped it on, chucking my tattered uniform in the laundry basket in the corner of the room; I couldn't face it right now. I was between the sheets by the time Drew found me.
His eyes flicked about the room and a small frown line appeared between his brows.
"This isn't where you normally sleep," he declared.
I thought about my answer, coming up with a dozen deflections easily. Then sucked in a breath and said the truth.
"I don't want to be with you in there."
He crossed his arms over his chest, making me realise he was just in a white singlet, clearly his under-shirt. His business shirt was nowhere to be seen. He was bare foot and had on his trousers, but they were undone at the waist, the belt missing. I could tell he didn't have underwear on underneath.
Interesting.
I'd seen Drew in boxers before, I'd seen him go commando. As yet I hadn't found a pattern, but I wondered if the lack of underwear was when he'd been planning to catch up with me, or just coincidence.
"Why not?" he demanded, sounding a little put out.
I frowned back at him. I thought it was obvious. But maybe not to Drew.
"I need to change the bed." Understanding flickered across his face and then was replaced with a scowl.
"Last night?" he asked, jaw flexing.
"What about last night?"
"Did you have someone in there last night?" he clarified, scowl still in place.
Uh oh. Was this how it would be?
I shook my head.
"Then why do you need to change the sheets?"
Oh. "It's not the sheets. It's the whole bed. I want to get rid of it."
The scowl smoothed out slightly.
"Why?" he whispered. Pushing again.
Drew would always push me. I knew this. I'd just thought I'd have a little more time before he began pushing me again.
My fingers clutched at the sheet on my chest and I sucked in a breath of air.
Then opened myself a little further.
"You deserve better than that."
His lips parted on a surprised breath of air. The anger evident in his features wiped cleanly away. Replaced with a sense of awe.
Then he was on the bed, crawling up my body, fisting a hand in my hair and another around my shoulders lifting me up to his lips and kissing me soundly.
It was lust and passion and tenderness and hunger and longing so potent I could taste it on his tongue. It went on for minutes, both of us breathless by the time he pulled his mouth away from mine. He stared at me for a long drawn out moment and then licked his lips, ducked his head, and laid a sweet, soft kiss against my chin, followed by my cheek, then my forehead and back down to my nose, and then finally on my lips again.
He'd never kissed me like that before. There'd been passion and lust and hunger and longing. And there had been tenderness too. Drew always offered a gentle kiss or soft touch so at odds with the illicit engagements we'd had, as though he couldn't help giving me that little bit more of himself, when I only ever gave him a glimpse of the real me.
But he had never taken the time to offer such exquisite and gentle caresses of his lips against my skin. The sort of tender touches lovers might share. Not just fuck buddies who lived life on the edge, grabbing sex whenever they could knowing they might get caught at any second.
This was different and for a moment I lay there and tried to decide if it was wrong.
But how would I know what was normal? How would I know what was right for the average couple to share? What I did know was what it felt like for me.
And it felt like... coming home.
My eyes welled with tears. I fucking hated them. His face softened and he said, voice husky, grey pulling me deep into their depths, "Have you ever made love before, Kelly?"
I blinked, the tears clearing, and then frowned.
"Not fucked. Not had hard and fast sex. But slow and long and tender love. Hot and sweaty and totally involved. Body, mind, heart and soul. You feel it inside your chest. You feel it inside your head. Your body craves the next sweet caress, your nerves tingle, your breath rushes in eager puffs of air. You're wet, but not because it's naughty or dangerous, but because you can't help
wanting
to connect with that person, to share a part of yourself, to let them in and let them take you to some place you can only ever dream about when on your own. Some place mystical and magical. Some place safe, but so exquisitely exciting that you can't even believe that it's real. But it is. It so fucking is."
He paused to catch his breath, and licked his lips again when his eyes darted down to my mouth. Then slowly soft grey rose up to look inside, right through to the real me. Right past the shiny, yet fragile shell.
"I want to make love to you," he declared. "I want to show you how good it can be."
I was almost ready for him to do it, too. But so very frightened of taking that step and never being able to return to what I already knew. If I let him love me like that, could I still experience hard and fast against the wall of a nightclub?
"Drew," I started, and he shushed me with a quick press of his lips against mine.
"Not tonight. Probably not even tomorrow. You're not ready. You don't trust me yet."
There was no hint of reproach in his tone, just the statement of a fact. He wasn't judging me, he wasn't impatient. He was simply voicing the truth.
"Tonight you learn to sleep next to someone who wants nothing but to feel your warmth. To know that you're safe. Tomorrow, I'll show you that there is still excitement and danger to be had in a relationship like this. That red can still play a part. It isn't all romantic mush curled up under the covers of a bed. I promised you there would still be illicit. I think I mentioned I'd still fuck you against the wall of Dominic's house. But as we're not due there for a while, how about you accompany me to the opera tomorrow night?"
What?
"The opera?" How was the opera illicit and 'red'?
He smirked, that gorgeous uneven smile I'd come to love. It was Drew's naughty side, his wicked side, and to see it again made my whole body relax, and then tighten in delicious anticipation.
"I've reserved a balcony box all to ourselves. I was planning on surprising you earlier, but, well, the plans changed." That's why he'd been at the store. That's why he was there when Kane and Dan crashed down around my ears.
"A whole box to ourselves?" I repeated. "And what will we be watching?"
"Bizet's
The Pearl Fishers
."
You'd think, working in a music store, that I would be familiar with opera. But we don't get that many requests from our High Street customers, when they stop by to sip their lattes and nibble on their chocolate, for French or Italian opera songs. I'd heard of
The Pearl Fishers
, but I knew nothing of the music.
But somehow I didn't think Drew was trying to educate me. He had a plan. Drew always had a plan. And that thought was enough to make me smile.
His head dipped down and he kissed me slowly, long and soft and deep. Then when he'd finally made me breathless, he rolled off the bed and proceeded to strip out of his trousers, displaying a sight I was soon beginning to find familiar and also crave. He didn't draw attention to his erection, he just folded his trousers over a chair in the corner and then turned and slipped between the sheets.
When he reached for me, after switching the bedside light off, his arms pulled me close, chest to chest. His arousal a silent but impossible to ignore statement pressed between us.
"Do you need a hand with that?" I inquired, starting to snake my fingers down his chest heading in the general direction of his sex.
He grasped my hand before it could get too far and brought my knuckles to his lips.
"Ignore it," he whispered, rolling to his back and tucking me against his side instead. "I'm always half erect when I'm around you, kissing you and knowing I'm about to get into bed with you for the very first time, was too much to ask of it really."
He closed his eyes and let his shoulders relax, his thumb drawing slow circles on my shoulder.
But now he'd pointed out an obvious fact. This was the first time we'd lain together in a bed. And we weren't even attempting to have sex.
I was sure I'd never get to sleep after that, but the day had been long and taxing, and Drew did feel warm and safe, and soon indistinct opera-like songs were swirling around inside my head, banishing any thoughts of my past or what disasters had transpired that day.
Drew brought peace to my bedroom. He brought tenderness and care, soft touches and gentle kisses. He opened the door to a possible world of enjoyment I never knew existed before. I fell asleep wondering how good it could be to make love. To not just have sex. I wondered if it was as good as he described. Because it had sounded, if I was honest, divine.
I woke to an empty bed, but the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen. Where he had managed to get that, I did not know. Pasta shells, herbs and canola oil do not a coffee make. I rolled over in bed feeling more relaxed than I had felt in... years. More at peace and yet still a little lost. I wasn't out of the woods, I knew that. But I had taken a step towards the light.