Blazed(46)

"Yes, it would have. I would never have gotten this involved if I'd known. Ah god!" I shoved my hands into my hair and tugged hard. I was this close to snapping but for my mother's sake, I had to keep it together. Esme stared vacantly down at her Bloody Mary and I knew it was because she was mentally planning out how to have someone with me at all times so I'd neither fall into old destructive habits or be left open to be stupid and call Blaze. Saving me from myself was all par for the course in her world, but it was something I'd hoped to avoid putting her through again.

Tallulah tossed her magazine down on the table and reached over it to pick at my abandoned breakfast. It reminded me of being fourteen again, when I really got trapped in my eating disorder. She'd quaff my leftovers and loved it, and had the fat arse to show for it. "He doesn't deserve you if he's a liar, sis. It's really not enough just to love you more." I scowled at her disingenuous pout and pulled my plate out of her reach. I was grateful that she'd told me the truth but the motive was written all over her face and dripping from her voice. This was no mercy mission by a loving sister who'd seen her younger sibling suffer enough already, it was spite-charged vengeance for the fact I was smarter, prettier and loved more than she was— finite jealously over my happiness.

"Don't think I'll forget this, Tallulah."

And with that, I turned on my heels and walked out of that hotel with Esme and Ivy close behind. I climbed into the Mercedes I hated and let Oscar drive us back to my flat, said my goodbye's to my mother and trusted that she wouldn't make it easy for Blaze to talk to me. Esme called the guys and we sat in my flat drinking whiskey, devising plans to keep me attached to my sanity.

Not once did I let the tears out. There was no regret from walking away. I kept it all locked away and pretended it wasn't there. I just wish I'd been a fly on the wall when he found his ring squashed into my scrambled eggs.





Fifteen

THE FLY ON THE WALL





EMMELINE WHITE BLASTED into my life like an ice cold tidal wave, leaving me disorientated but revitalised. The calm monotony of my life was left skewed the instant she looked up at me with her olive-green eyes and whispered, "wow". Despite the boldness of her body language, she emitted a timid, almost childlike vulnerability that made me think she'd suffered horribly, and the shadows in her eyes seemed to scream "accept me, please".

There was no way I couldn't fall in love with her.



FINDING her in the bookshop was a shock. Finding her book was a bigger shock. She was obviously an intelligent and complex little thing, and the more I looked at her, the more invisible walls I saw guarding her. She was damaged, maybe irreparably. The sensible thing to do would have been to walk away and never look back, accepting that she looked too jaded. She was too attractive to not be taken, but too stunning to keep herself tied down— the most beautiful contradiction I'd ever laid eyes on.

I needed her in my life, but something about the way she carried herself told me that if I went with my impulse to be inside her physically, she'd feel like she'd fulfilled her purpose and walk away. I got that; I got that she felt like she was worth nothing more than a one night stand. If I wanted her around, I had to find out what lay beyond the beauty.

That seemed easy enough, but I never imagined that she'd look more perfect when she looked free-er, and at the same time more trapped up in her insecurities. She was glorious but she just didn't see it, and she didn't know how to kick back.

The more time I spent with her, the more I understood why her eyes were clouded and distant. The scars, the voices, the feelings of worthlessness... Hell, even the fact that she'd cared too much about the wrong person was something I could appreciate and relate to. I was determined to make her see that she was perfect just the way she was and that she didn't need to meet anyone else's expectations. That's why I took her shopping and showed her how everyone saw her. Her eating habits had already told me that she had a distorted view of her own body, so that grim tale of her past was no surprise.



I should have guessed that I was in trouble when that New York stiff was flirting with her and it played on my nerves. I should have realised that it wasn't some kind of priapic programming that made me want to kiss those brutal scars when I first saw them. I should have been smart enough to know that it wasn't just a case of getting it out of my system when I saw a way to satisfy that lust without losing her. The simple fact of being afraid to lose her should have sounded the first alarm bell.

But I don't regret that I took that chance. I don't regret that the moment I was inside her, it sparked a need to stay there until my dying day. And yes, I'm kind of happy that she got caught up in that disaster with me even though it couldn't have been clearer that she really didn't want to.

I'll admit that I became obsessed with her. Every free evening I had, I jumped into my car and drove to Esme's bar. Not being close to her became a physical ache and a thirst I had to quench. But being close to her just wasn't enough, and no matter how much I tried to screw her stupid until the novelty wore off, it just never did. I woke up in the middle of the night with a hard on after dreaming of her and found myself getting irritable over the stupidest things when I knew I wouldn't get to see her. It was like being a teenage boy crushing on one of the popular girls all over again, so horny the slightest breeze had me ducking away for a 'personal' five minutes.

She was always surprised when I came back and I never understood why. I didn't really understand at all until I found out about that idiot in Japan who'd caused her so much hell. I hated him. I hated that he'd made her feel so worthless. She'd been downtrodden for so long and she thought that she loved him, but me— I knew she didn't. I knew she just wanted to be loved but didn't feel like she deserved it when she came with so much baggage— baggage he'd created. What she didn't see was that I loved her baggage as much as I loved that dimple in her left cheek. In fact, the more I found out, the more there was to love.

That's why I gave her the ring, so she'd have some reassurance in physical form. It was so much more than a gift given with the intention of marrying her, which I would one day, despite my own complications. It was given so she'd feel some permanence in our connection, which I knew she thought was temporary. It was my way of saying that nothing she'd told me could scare me away. My way of telling her that she was mine, and she didn't need to worry about not being his anymore because I wanted her myself, and I wanted him to know that he couldn't have her. His bullshit would have to stop if he had me to answer to when she got upset over him talking to her like dirt.

Nothing made me happier than seeing how much she settled when that ring was on her finger. The day I'd had to spend away from her and sacrifice the opportunity to watch her wake up was worth it. I'd spent the whole drive to Birmingham worried that she thought I was rejecting her as well as worried that she could tell I was on the brink of making a pretty wild gesture and was lacing up her running shoes.

I felt complete when I knew that I'd marry the first woman I'd ever truly loved, a woman who blew all my inhibitions to hell. I just hoped I'd have chance to fix my own life now I'd fixed hers, and that I wouldn't undo any of my own handiwork in the process.





THERE WAS NO way I could have foreseen the way she'd panic when I told her we were going to the mixer. I put it down to the fact that I'd dragged her out of bed and refused to let her sleep. A selfish part of me wanted to take advantage of how receptive she became to honesty and affection after an orgasm took hold of her like a drug. She was the most open with me after we'd made love, and I wanted to string that out so she'd learn to never be afraid to say anything to me. And I wanted her to curl up into me and just be held— let me brush my fingers through her hair and tell her how gorgeous she was without recoiling like she usually did.

Looking back, I guess she didn't do it because she didn't know how. She'd never been with the person she wanted before, so she'd never let anyone in. She'd never been loved. I don't think she knew how to be held and worshipped. She trained herself to fall asleep in self-defence so nobody could ever try to make that kind of romantic connection with her. Some of the most basic parts of life most people picked up in their teens didn't hold a place in her heart because she'd never learnt them. Spending those years hating herself had stolen her life, and that explained so much.

I was going to teach her how to be loved, and show her that loving didn't have to hurt. I thought that I might be halfway there already.



WHEN I walked into The Roses with her on my arm, I felt like the luckiest man in the world. She couldn't have looked any more different from the woman I'd met, but I knew that she was still in there— fragile, lost and confused. But she was wearing a ring that I knew she wouldn't have accepted under sufferance when there was such an easy exit. That was all that mattered to me; that she loved me enough to take it even though she would never say it out loud. She had enough faith to take the risk. She loved me more than the man who made her ill, and I'd earned that love fair and square.