TEN
Zeus
I remember reading somewhere that in the Middle Ages they used to try and heal a wound by continuously dripping water over the site in the belief that the constant flow would keep infection from setting in. The treatment had an adverse effect, and more often than not the patient would die because the water prevented the body from starting the healing process and incited sepsis.
It stuck with me since the concept was odd, but as I stare at Belle’s response I wonder if that’s what it’s like trying to heal heartbreak by staying in touch with the one you love? Each word on my screen is another drip in the wound, a steady beat that keeps the pain alive and promises only death, slow and miserable.
B: I still remember, too, Zeus. I could never forget.
B: Tell me about the tattoo you want. I want to do it for you.
That’s all. Four fucking sentences. She’s trying too hard to be careful. But why? The thread is private between her and me. Who else is going to see what she tells me?
Z: I’ll show it to you:
I attach the image that’s been stored in the cloud since the week she left. I came across the picture purely by chance and it damn near stopped my heart. It was her, pure and simple. Her, and me.
The circle around the blue tick fills in, telling me she’s seen the picture. I wait, watching for the telltale dots, yet the screen stays blank. I barely blink in the minutes until the phone goes black, still without any sign of life from Belle. I knew it would mess with her—I just wanted to know how much.
The night is hot, the last of summer clinging to the long days. I ditch the phone on the coffee table and rise to head for the garage. The meeting with Jerry went well yesterday. He offered me a fucking good wicket for the position, even writing into the employment contract that the costs associated with giving me my Class 5 licence are a part of the deal. A pang of guilt slices through me when I think of leaving the guys at work, but each man for his own. I’ve got goals, projects, and hobbies, and all of them take money to complete.
There’s no point cutting off my nose to spite my face. Already did that once, and where’s it left me other than staring at the engine bay of a Barracuda while my head is stuck on a woman seventeen years my junior?
I busy myself running the new wires through to the dash panel, sweat making my tank cling to my body. The garage becomes a hot box with the door down, but it beats being eaten alive by mosquitoes. Black tinges my hands and forearms, smudges from where I jammed my limbs in tight spaces to get the new wires clipped in place.
The task might frustrate the hell out of me, but the constant thought that’s required, the attention and focus I need to give to make sure everything is connected in the right order is the distraction I need. By the time I decide to call it a night I must have lost a kilo in sweat alone and my burning eyes tell me it’s time to shower and hit the hay.
I tidy up and head back inside, stopping only to wash my hands before I retrieve my phone. Three little boxes sit on the home screen—each with her name at the start. I open the message thread as I walk through to the bathroom, a smile on my face.
B: Jesus, Zeus.
B: Is this for real, or are you being an arsehole about everything?
The last is timed an hour after the other two.
B: Answer me, for fuck’s sake.
Oh, it’s for real, dove. A wicked plan forms in my mind as I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I set the phone down on the counter, and then strip off. It takes a few shots, but satisfied I’ve captured enough to make the picture the kind you don’t share with your buddies, yet not totally inappropriate, I place the text over top and hit Send.
Her dots dance immediately, and then stop. I frown, setting the phone down to turn the water on. The jet heats without any sound from Messenger to signal a response from Belle, still silent as I step under the flow. I damn near break my neck when the fucking thing rings, vibrating across the counter as I slam a hand against the wall to save from slipping over.
Nowhere in my arsehole plan did I take into account the fact she might ring me. Well played, baby girl. Well played.
The call ends, picked up by voicemail as I stare at the little plastic demon as though the fucking thing plots to kill me. I wash in record time, my hands a blur as I whip the body wash over myself, rinse, and step out, gaze still glued to the phone.
Sure enough, I’ve barely got the towel wrapped around my waist when it lights up again. My skin buzzes with nerves as I reach out and tap the icon to answer and put the call on speaker.
I’m goddamn tongue-tied. Thirty-eight years old and I can’t get the word “hello” out of my fucking mouth because of a girl. Hopeless.
“You don’t play fair, Zeus.”
My knees buckle, arse hitting the floor mat as I fold. God, I’ve missed that voice. It’s huskier, if that’s even possible.
“Life’s not fair, remember?”
I catch her sigh before she answers. “Is it a prank? Some sick joke?”
I shake my head, and then slap a hand to my forehead when I remember she can’t see me. “No, dove. It’s legit.”
My brow pinches. I swear her breath shuddered, but then again, I’ve imagined a lot of shit that wasn’t real when it comes to her.
“What are you doing next weekend?”
“Why?” She can’t meet me. It’s not supposed to work like that.
“Why do you think? I have a need to ink, and you have a need for ink. It would probably take two to three hours with the shading.”
How can she talk to me so coolly, so calm and collected as though I’m a goddamn client? How can she do that? Disassociate? Fuck—I’ve tried the whole time she’s been gone, and failed. What the fuck is the secret to switching off this desire for more, this burning ache?
“It doesn’t matter what I’m doing,” I say, despite the fact my throat closes tighter with each word. “Because it won’t involve you.”
She makes a frustrated grumble. “Stop sulking, for crying out loud.”
“Sulking?” I laugh, scowling at the phone where it sits on the edge of the counter before me. “Belle, your fucking dad made it real clear where things stand when it comes to you and me. I’m simply trying to respect that.”
“Bullshit. You’re taking the easy option out. Do you think it would be easy for me to see you?”
“Easier for you than your boyfriend.” Yeah, I’m a cunt. But it had to be said. Why she even called me when she has some other guy to think about…. “How would he feel about it, Belle? Huh?”
“Low. That’s low, even for you.”
“Where is he?” Because there’s no way in hell he’s seated in the same room while she talks to me about this.
“Not any of your concern.”
Curious. “Tell me one thing, then. Why did you reply to my message?”
She sighs, silence hanging thick and heavy as I run my fingertips over the mat beneath me. “You deserved that much at least.”
“At least,” I echo. “But I don’t deserve any more, right?”
“Good night, Zeus.”
The room falls silent, save for the rattle of the shower door as I slam my head back into it. So close, and yet so far away. Nobody else can tie me up in knots like that woman. Nobody has the skill. My eyes slip closed as I let out a heavy breath. Her voice uprooted neglected sensations within me; the visceral connection that sound has to memories of the flesh causes my cock to stir.
The nights I stole into her bed may have been few, but they were enough for me to miss the way she’d whisper in my ear as I drifted off to sleep. Belle would talk about anything—useless shit—and still I’d strain to hear each and every word until I succumbed to the night. Those things she said, they were important, because they were her. They were a part of her, and any parts that I could get I would take selfishly and without regret.
I never got enough. My well runs dry, and I need more time with her, more moments like those to keep me sustained.
My mind drifts, pulling me from where I sit on the bathroom floor to the memory of her room. I visualize every fucking thing I can remember: the way the moonlight would creep in past her curtains, the outline of her dresser in the dark, the shadow of her things spread out on the floor. The smell of her beside me: the floral notes in her hair and the vanilla scent of her body wash. The heat of her leg pressed against mine, the petite curve of her shoulder tucked in beneath my arm. The weight of her head on my chest and the gentle caress of her fingertips across my chest.
The cadence of her voice as she confessed things to me I had no business knowing. Belle should never have told me how she felt. I was her father’s best friend, for fuck’s sake. She should have buried those thoughts deep down inside and killed whatever love she felt for me with lies and blind justification.
But my dove never was one to fit into anyone else’s mould.
“I like how small I am next to you,” she’d whispered one night as she wrapped her lithe body around my side.
My palm tingles with the memory of her arse in my hold as I hauled her on top of me. My hips burn with the memory of her weight as she sat there, as though she was my queen and my body was her throne. She was born to rule me, and even in her absence I’ve craved the satisfaction that I can only get from her happiness.
I want her happy. And I want to be the one to make her that way. Is that so selfish?
My fist wraps around my thickening length as I shamelessly pull myself back to better times: times when I was ignorant to the pain I’d eventually cause and selfish in my need for release.
I’ve always loved her—my little free bird—and I can’t begin to imagine what it even feels like not to. How do I do that? How do I think of Belle without associating her existence with my own? I honestly don’t know how to do something that epic.
Perhaps because I don’t want to?
Why should I imagine an alternate world, when the one I want is still a possibility? My hand quickens, my chest heaving with my breaths as I picture that life, the one I know is yet to come: Belle in my house, comfortable, and content with being mine.
Because she is mine. As I groan with my release, I know without a doubt that girl belongs to me, because how could she be anyone else’s when I’m still so wrapped up in her? Still such a part of her?