Buster had always said he wasn’t like Mum. Never let him entertain the notion he might have her sickness. For now he’d put his lack of interest in the world down to grief, read up on it. It fitted, but he’d had enough. And what if it wasn’t simply missing Buster and the fear he’d lost his dream to someone lucky enough to find the finance and the connections to make it reality?
His pizza would be ready, but he stood on, the hun
ger gone in the realisation he had another choice to make. He could huddle into his pain and hope it would eventually harden into resilience, or he could open up to it and let it show.
Dillon was worried about him, wanted him to talk to someone; badgered him about it. He simply wanted to feel good again, to sleep like there would be pleasure waking and to have that good banish the sorrow.
He’d felt good with Jacinta, so fucking good, even when she was drilling him; making him uncomfortable, making him talk, to own up to his feelings.
There was no security on her new apartment; nothing to stop him taking the stairs again two at a time, and pounding on her door till she opened it. When she did, relief grabbed him and squeezed the breath out of him.
She stood at the door in t-shirt that scraped her thighs and bare legs, hair still wild, eyes wary. She had nothing on underneath that shirt; he didn’t need superhero powers to know it. He snapped his eyes up from her beaded nipples to her face. She was irritated. She turned her head to look away from him, back inside, looking for whatever he’d left behind. He knew what she’d say and cut her off.
“I forgot you.”
“What?”
“You were going to ask what I forgot.”
She held onto the door with both hands. She had goose pimples running up her arms. If he wanted inside that apartment, to be allowed to hold her again, he needed to be eloquent now. He needed the right words in a sensible order to persuade her to take a chance on him, no matter if the experiment was as short-term as the rest of the night or a cycle of continuous improvement that lasted a lifetime.
She wasn’t going to help him out.
24: Plan C
He had to say it. Mace stood on her doorstep breathing like he’d run a marathon. He’d dressed in a hurry, his jacket flapped open, his shirt was untucked, not enough buttons done up. His hair was longer and looked good on him, like the scruff from a few days of not shaving. But he’d lost weight and the dark patches under his eyes, the lines bisecting his cheeks, were new. He was hurting, but Jacinta could only help him if he wanted help.
He put his hand on the outside of the door to stop her closing it. “I left like this once before. But I went back for you. Then life got in the way for both of us. What we had was bigger than a weekend and it still is. I’m not walking away again. I’m not letting you walk either, without a fight. I’ve come back for you.”
The draught from the stairwell was arctic, but his words were so damn hot. A shudder rippled through her, a fever rising. “Last time you left you didn’t storm out in a temper. What makes you think I want you back?”
“You fucking drew me and you gave up doing that shit.”
She’d sketched him because she’d had no choice, but she had one now. If she let him inside, she wanted him to stay. If she let him inside, he had to know what that would mean.
“You’re a difficult man.”
“You’re not that basic yourself.”
“Basic?”
“You’re more brain fuck.”
“What?”
“Your programming, the language you work in. I might never learn you.”
“You might not get the chance. You have to talk to me. You can’t do this strong silent type crap, or it won’t work.”
He nodded then answered. “Get me comfortable and I won’t shut up.”
She doubted that. She’d never seen him chatty, but if he locked her outside his thinking there was no point. “You need to talk about what’s bothering you.”
“I will.”
“You need to—”
“Kick me out or let me in and close the door, you’re freezing.”