Blazed(50)

The joy of those three immature pals of mine was that they were transferable. I made believe that Blaze didn't exist, and when my friends found out why, they were only too happy to join in the facade. As far as I cared, his incessant voice mail messages were left by cold callers, his lurking shadow in every restaurant, cafe, arcade, shop and bar was any other stranger, and the quickly scrawled out notes he shoved through my letter box every morning never needed to be acknowledged, let alone read, because they were put through the wrong door by a foolish passer-by or suitor for a neighbour.

My work days were not spent at work. Instead, Mrs Reynolds sent me to the flat above the shop that we used for extra storage and had me invent banal and unnecessary organisation and filing systems that we would use, but were no better than what was already implemented. She was furious for me, and she didn't want to give Blaze a reason to come into the shop by keeping me in eye shot. It wasn't likely that he'd get out alive.

Instead of drinking out in public view at Esme's, we kept ourselves hidden on the small VIPs only balcony that overlooked the club's ground floor, and had table service from the charming barman who adored his boss. If I wasn't at work, I was always in the company of at least one of my friends, never alone, never left unguarded, never allowed to change my mind.

I'd surrounded myself in an efficient bubble that contained me and the whole world, everything except him. He was locked out of my mind and exiled to a cramped little box that held all my other nasty little monster memories that had teeth strong enough to snap steel.





IT HAD BEEN almost a blessed week of blissful ignorance when that box burst open. There had been no note that morning, so figuring that he'd finally got the hint, I agreed to go back to my old humdrum task of restocking the shelves in Double Booked. That was my first mistake.

It was just after my lunch break when it happened. I'd worked through it and ate on the move like old times, and Mrs Reynolds had run across the street to get us some 'real' coffee from a cafe that had opened the day before. That window of opportunity stood open to be abused by all kinds of lovelorn actors/rockstars/bastards, and it was. By a man who epitomised all three occupations in the same sadistically beautiful vessel.

He stood next to me looking almost genuinely surprised that I might actually be working to earn my wage. His eyes were bloodshot, red ringed and surrounded by grey bags. His hair was messy and style-less, six days of stubble spread from his chin up to his cheekbones, and he was still wearing the suit I'd left him in. It was his broken 'I got dumped by the ultimate' look and he still looked like a f*cking magazine cover model. I spared him one single cold and empty look for a full two seconds, and resumed brutally shoving the poor tomes into their spaces.

"Wow, it's kinda cold in here." Reflexively, I made an involuntarily glance down at my chest and cringed when I heard his soft satiny laugh. "I was referring more to your shoulder, but now you mention it..."

Turning quickly and folding my arms around me to obscure his view, I forced away my scowl and blinked at him, making direct and vacant eye contact like he was a stranger. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Are you going to tell me what I've done wrong?"

I made a hard step past him and positioned my back in his direction. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't believe I've heard of that particular publication. Might I suggest you ask my colleague at the front desk to search the system for you when she comes back in a minute?" I hoped he heard the warning.

"Oh Emmeline, stop being a brat." Obviously not. Had he intentionally used the insult he'd heard Hunter use on me before?

Resisting the urge to swivel around in a rage, I groped around aimlessly behind me to my left, hoping he'd have the decency not to take advantage of my blind spot and get a good look at my bare hand. I got a firm, unhampered grip on the handle of the book trolley and yanked it so hard it nearly overturned. "Brat? You didn't tell me what you did wrong so why the hell should I let you exercise double standards?"

He stiffened behind me— I felt it— and his voice took on a harder edge. "Double standards? You think I'm being dishonest? After you failed to tell me that your parents are loaded? I never lied to you."

It was true. I'd never asked specifically if he had a wife. Our 'relationship' wasn't concerned with honesty and openness, just acceptance of what we gave up voluntarily, so even if I'd thought of it I probably wouldn't have asked, the same way I hadn't asked about his freakish intelligence or mystery dead father. Besides, I was trying to play at pretending it had all never happened— I'd been in love with Hunter for as long as I could remember and had wanted him inexorably before all this. I could go back to that hopeless cause, so I shouldn't have cared. Blaze was just a pretty diversion from my failing mission to find completeness at a dead end.

But I had never been so irrationally dependant on another person to feel happy as I had been in the moment I found out Blaze belonged to someone else. However occasional and irrational our bond may have been, it clung to me like a heavy perfume— or more aptly the smell of smoke— and refused to release it's grip. The fire he'd sparked in my blood was a blessing and a curse. Blaze was a complication that was likely to set me back off down a reckless road, and for that reason, I had to quench those embers.

"The roots of my gene pool are not the same." I argued. "And I never lied either."

His eyes flared. "The same as what?"

"Don't harass me while I'm at work, Blaze." The sudden meekness of my voice was a poor and ineffective way to dismiss him. The moment my words came out with no conviction, I knew it wouldn't be as simple as him leaving then and there. Part of me didn't want him to go. The same part was happy he'd chased me. But it didn't want to explain what he should already have figured out and have to put words to it. It hurt so damn much to say it. You're already married to someone else.

"Where would you like me to harass you then? Because you haven't taken my calls for six days and have your rock-dumb friends as a meat shield whenever I get close.

""Don't harass me at all." My legs set on a non-negotiable trail for the stockroom where he couldn't reach me before I finished my thought. "Go harass your wife."

That was my second mistake. The moment I got to the stockroom door I was trapped up against it by six foot three inches of solid, furious looking male. I might have been scared if not for the fact I could see the fear clouding his eyes, that lacked their usual sparkle and gravity. "You look like shit, Blaze."

"Who told you?"

I tried to force my gaze away but it was stuck to his. "Tallulah."

"What the f*ck..." He stepped back and ran his hands into his hair. Hating that my body was still betraying me by burning up and bowing towards him, I mirrored the gesture and squeezed my palms into my eyes under my glasses until I saw spots. "Why the hell didn't you tell me who you are?"

"I did tell you! I told you everything. Nothing about me changes because my family is well off. God knows if it did I'd be poncing around in a bloody Bentley telling people to fetch me coffee and wipe my arse. I'm as f*cked up as the day you met me and no amount of money changes that." And then I realised what he was doing and I hated that he was trying to deflect the blame. While the opportunity was open, I reached for the door handle behind me, hands trembling, and darted behind it before he could stop me.

I grabbed a spare chair to jam under the handle just as it started to rattle. "Emmeline! Damn it, let me in!"

"I won't let you turn this around onto me," I shouted through the door, "my secrets don't hurt anyone— yours do."

"Cupcake." Blaze ended his attempts to break in and I could imagine him leaning his head against the door frame, splaying his hands across the wood like it would bring us closer. It hurt more now that'd I'd seen him and how lost he looked without me. It hurt when I saw the panic when he knew that I knew. It hurt most when I realised that he'd never intended for me to find out.

"I'm at work. I don't get paid to beat down bigamists."

"Please don't send me away. I've been trying to get you on your own for six days, Emmeline. Six f*cking days. People are dumping spare change in my coffee when I walk down the street."

"Use your f*cking travel mugs." I pretended not to hear his quick gush of a laugh, resentful of the fact that he'd dared to do it, but I knew it was choked with tears.

"I was going to tell you, Emmeline. I just wanted to do it right."

"Not telling me at all was not doing it right. Any point in the three months I was unwittingly your mistress would have been the right time." Steeling myself, I slowly slid the chair back and opened the door so he could see my face— see what he was doing to me. Like I'd imagined, Blaze had his head against the frame, but straightened the moment he saw me. He looked sorry. Ruined. He knew that keeping his complications secret and letting me believe that he was perfect was the biggest mistake he'd made. Turning up at my workplace to verbally beat me into submission until I told him was just a supplementary faux pas.