Insecure (41 page)

“He will move on, Cin. Or crash-land spectacularly and drop out to raise llamas on some commune. There is that slightly unbalanced edge to him that's part of the way his brain functions. But he's not there yet. He's hiding in work and I have no incentive to suggest he's found.”

“Spoken like a true corporate raider.”

He grunted his disagreement. “I build. I don't raid.”

She knew Jay had other demands today and she wanted to be alone to think about what she'd learned. She could be pleased she'd let Mace go. She could be thankful that sacrifice had paid off, for both of them, much as it still caused her pain. “I should let you get on with things.”

“Like you are, huh?”

She gave him sixteen-year-old eyes again.

“Jacinta, you need to move on too.”

She matched it with sixteen-year-old ‘tude. “I've moved on. How can you say I haven't? I have a new career, I have friends, I have a life I like.”

He snorted. “Like.” He spat out the word as if it was deeply offensive. “You're walking around as if you've had a stroke.”

She shook her head. “That makes no sense.”

“Half of you is doing new and exciting things, the other half is all limpy and shrivelled and lacking in competence.”

“Limpy? You're jet-lagged. Remind me not to come to you when I need my ego stroked.”

“You know what I mean.”

She sighed. “I still miss him terribly, if that's what you're waiting to hear. But life isn't designed by Disney. Romantic happy endings are a storybook thing. And I'm not a stroke victim. I'm on my feet and I'm excited about what I've got the chance to achieve for myself. Excited and appropriately freaked out.”

“Limpy. It's not good enough.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Dr Summers-Denby?

He inclined his head and held his glass out for more juice. “Yes, professional, therapeutic, and medicinal.”

She looked at the glass. “What did your last slave die from?”

He tapped the glass on the benchtop. “It wasn't too much Disney and it wasn't a broken heart.”

“I don't—”

“Cin, my darling, if you don't have a broken heart then I'm not the man you'd have broken it over if I swung that way, and Mace is not the man using work to make his heart pump.”

She snatched the glass from his hand and blushed like a sixteen year old. He was right on all counts, but there was nothing she could do about it.

After the swearing, after the room emptied of freaked out employees, Dillon didn't say a word. He sat at the meeting room table and stared at Mace. His silence was full of disbelief. He exhaled panic, snorted doubt.

Mace had made two mistakes. He'd fucked up big and small. The small fuck up, an error in the software platform he'd had to cop to, was something he could fix, was fixing—the crisis would be averted.

It should never have happened, a rookie mistake, but the roar in his head was a constant now, a loud discordant jangle of thoughts and images that stopped him processing clearly, and the more he'd tried to ignore it the worse it got.

His focus was off, his attention wandered; he'd stopped listening to his team, and while every analyst in the sector was watching, waiting for them to blow it, he'd almost screwed them, set them back a year, maybe longer.

He could hardly hear anything around that roar now, nothing soothed it, but he could hear Dillon's distress like a siren, before he finally spoke. “What's going on with you, dude? You need to get your head in the game.”

The problem was he was playing by the wrong rules in the wrong game, in an arena that had seduced him so thoroughly he'd lost the whole point.

“Is this just the pressure or—”

It wasn't the pressure. He couldn't give a shit about the pressure. It was something else entirely that kept him from seeing straight, kept him too busy to get above the detail and see the pattern.

“You're so distracted I could be tugging one out and you wouldn't notice. God, man, go get laid for fuck's sake. Hit a bar somewhere and pull a one-nighter. Do what you have to do to get your head on straight and do it quick. We can't afford for you to mess up now.”

It wasn't that simple. The one-nighter solution failed to get traction, never developed beyond the notion. “There's something I have to do.”

Dillon palmed his face. He was strung out too, but he'd managed to keep it together like he always did. “Good. Get it done. We've got four days before the investor presentation.

“I won't be here.”

Dillon laughed through his fingers.

This was the big fuck up, the mistake of a lifetime, and Mace wasn't sure he'd ever be able to fix it. “Listen to me. I won't be here.”

“Yeah, funny.”

“The platform is stable again. Everything will be ready for the investor pres, and you don't need me anymore.”

Dillon pushed back from the table. “What are you talking about?”

“I've fucked up. I've forgotten something and I have to set it right.” He had to do it to stop the roar, to make peace with himself, to finally move on.

“You're making no sense. If you're telling me we're over the crisis and we'll be ready I believe you. You don't need to beat yourself up. I just did it for you in front of half the company. Not our finest moment. You took five years off my life, but I'll live.”

“I'm going home.”

“Sure, take the afternoon. We can both relax after Friday.”

“Home, Dillon.”

Dillon sat forward. “Holy fuck. This is about Jacinta.” He palmed his face again, scrubbing his eyes. “Dude, that's seven months ago. Do you even remember seven months ago? It's like seven billion dog years at the pace we've been working.”

Every memory was sharper by the minute multiplied by the time apart, thundering in his head. The privilege he'd had to be with Cinta thrown away for ambition and greed.

“Have you called her? Hell, call her. Take over the video conference room and have virtual sex with her twenty-four-seven for the next week, but you have to be here Friday.”

“I have to see her.”

“Sure. I'm the one who's been telling you that. After Friday you can book a private island and pretend she's buried treasure, but not right now.”

“Right fucking now. I can't do this anymore.”

“What are you saying? You don't even know if she remembers your name. She threw your arse out. She had better things to do, remember.”

Because he let her. Because it was easier than fighting her, and he'd had distant planets in his eyes and was too fucked up to realise he'd have to give up the world where she lived to get them.

“Mace, do I have to get a lawyer in here to point out to you why not being here Friday is detri-fucking-mental to your health?”

“You don't need me. You can do this without me. It's another milestone, there'll be another and another, they don't end.” Dillon would get over this. Or he wouldn't, and that would be another milestone to live with.

“You're tired, dude, you're not thinking straight.”

“I'm going tonight.”

Dillon moved so fast Mace didn't see him coming. Had him by the throat, out of the chair and backed up against the wall. “She was a one night stand who didn't want you, and this is your future, our future. You're going to choose her over me, over us, you'd better know what that means.”

He did. He was logging off permanently. “I quit.”

He let the dream go in the insane hope he'd find something real that was better.

And Dillon let him, throwing a punch at the meeting room wall that should've been Mace's head. He went to his office. Shut himself in. No one was coming near him anyway. He wrote up instructions for the team and he called Jay. He only had one question. Everything else was just another obstacle to get around.

“Where is she?”

“Mace?” He didn't know where Jay was, but by the sound of his voice, he'd woken him.

“Where is she?”

“Jacinta? “ Jay was awake now. “You're ringing me in the middle of the night to ask where Jacinta is? What the fuck is this? Why would I tell you anything about her?”

“Because I love her, and I should never have let her push me away.”

He could hear Jay shifting about, the rustle of sheets. He could hear his own heart; not beating, shrieking, along with the roar in his head.

“Why would you think she wants anything to do with you now?”

“I don't. But I need to see her. I need to tell her what I didn't tell her then. I need to show her. And if she makes the same choice, then I'll know it's over.”

Jay said nothing and Mace thought he'd hung up. “Jay?”

“I'm thinking.”

Mace waited. He might stoke out but he waited, and Jay told him the one thing he needed to know—where he'd find her.

He flew out that night. Days twisted, the date line loomed, and it hardly mattered how long it took him to get to her, or what time it was. She might not want to see him. She'd given him nothing to indicate she did. But Jay told him where she was and though he couldn't imagine why she'd stayed in the loft, it meant something.

It was night again but he'd slept on the flight, the need for respite from the mess his head and his heart were inflicting on him knocking him out. Smart would be calling her, but smart where Cinta was concerned had never been his signature move. She was his boss' boss' boss when he'd first lusted after her. He should have called her months ago and never stopped.

He turned his phone on and it flooded with messages: Jay once. Dillon, till his message bank filled and wouldn't take another call. He turned it off. There were emails too, he ignored them.

He'd didn't want to surprise her in the dark. He'd wait till morning for his grand romantic gesture, one that belonged with Buster's books, with Antonio and Lucinda, out of place with anything off the page, like his founding role in Ipseity was now a text book example of how not to.

He took a cab to the old neighbourhood, planned to find a hotel nearby. He felt disembodied, like a puppet without strings. He had no ties to anyone or anything. He was nobody, expected nowhere, having burnt his life and anyone who mattered to him to get there.

He got out of the cab at the pizzeria. The street was busy, it was warm and he'd forgotten it would be. All the cafes and restaurants were doing good trade. The gallery was open. He shouldered his bag, and when the cab pulled away he had a clear view of the window. But not clear enough to absorb the shock.

He crossed the road, stood in front of the gallery window and looked at his image. Painted not drawn, colour not black on white, different but the same. His eyes open, movement in his eyebrow, a sly smile, no sticking plaster under his foot, but it was him, as she'd first sketched him in her bed and as he'd changed when they'd shared their lives. It was signed Jacinta Wentworth.

He was still staring at it when the gallery owner stepped out to lock the door behind him.

“How much?” It didn't matter what it cost. He'd have this piece of her, if nothing else. The man looked confused so he pointed at the window and repeated his question.

The man abandoned keys in the lock. “It's called
One Night
. Price is on application.”

“I'm applying.”

“You need to understand, the artist is reluctant to sell. She might be angry with me for putting it in the window. I can't guarantee she'll part with this, but for the right price I might convince her.”

The artist, not the student. Jacinta, not Cinta. “Name your price.”

“It's a Wentworth.” The man dithered, turning to the window to study the painting as though he'd never seen it before, then he said, “Ah,” as if he'd settled an argument with himself. “That's you.”

“Whatever she wants for it, whatever your commission is, I'll double it.”

Doubling stopped the dithering. He'd have quadrupled the price to own it. It might be all of her that remained available to him. The door was reopened, details exchanged, an offer figure agreed to. And now he'd have to wait to see if she was willing to sell.

In ten minutes he was back on the street, looking for somewhere to grab a snack before heading towards the one hotel close by.

She came out of the doorway of a restaurant two doors down and his shock had recoil. His heart contracted, his muscles tensed, his throat sucked brain tissue. She was laughing, her hair caught up in a loose knot, a summery dress swirling around her knees. His own nearly gave out. He leaned back against a closed shopfront. Where were her dark suit, her heels and briefcase? A man followed her out, the recipient of her laughter. He knew that hair—Alfie.

Failure was a serrated knife in his ribs, carving the truth into his bones, scarring him deep. Jay might've told him, but then he'd always treated Jay more as a rival than a friend.

He watched Cinta laugh again at something Alfie said and accept his arm around her shoulder. He needed to move if he didn't want to be seen. He needed to turn away before he had to witness her kiss Alfie, take him home to the loft. But as much as it hurt, he couldn't. He was watching still as Alfie tried to kiss Cinta and she shoved him playfully away, turning her head and laughing again, until she saw him standing there with his shattered dreams and his scar tissue, torn and bleeding.

Their eyes locked.

Her hand came up to her face, her body jolted.

He had an ache in his chest the shape of anticipation.

She waved Alfie off with a few quick words, but she never looked at him again. Alfie scowled, sent a mock salute Mace's way and went in the opposite direction.

And in all the known universe that mattered to him there were just the two of them.

He'd come halfway across the globe on a hopeless quest, but he couldn't walk two car lengths to get to her.