Scared Yet? (27 page)

Liv told herself not to look down the hall. She didn't want to see what their life was.

Michelle lowered her voice. ‘Has something happened?'

‘No. I . . . just need to get this done. Cameron had afternoon tea, so he won't be hungry for a while. He's got homework to do and a party invitation in his bag.'

‘Livia, something's wrong. You wouldn't be doing this unless something was wrong.'

Liv lifted her eyes, expecting to see an accusation on her face, or even victory, but instead found concern. It didn't change anything. ‘Tell Thomas he was right. Cam's not safe with me.'

Michelle's hand moved to her belly again. ‘Don't worry. We'll look after him. What about you, though? Are you safe?'

Was she? And what did it say that the only person asking tonight was the woman she despised? ‘I plan to bring Cameron home again, so I'm going to have to be okay.'

She left without saying goodbye. Drove with her hands clenched around the wheel. Fear and hurt and anger and loss hissed and burned like a molten mass inside her, cauterising the tears that had threatened to break her on the doorstep.

At the townhouse, she left the roller door up, slammed the car door, hoped the arsehole was waiting inside for her. She was sick of it. Sick of him. Sick of her goddamn life. She grabbed the umbrella and thought about hitting something. She could do it now. He'd taken her son.

She stalked through the townhouse, swapping the umbrella for the baseball bat on the sweep through the lower floor, checking the second level with it at her shoulder. No one. Empty. Just her. All alone.

Don't lose it, Liv. Don't. Just don't. Then she did, running to the bathroom, spitting up acid-tasting bile into the toilet. She rinsed her mouth at the sink and shrank from the hollow look in her eyes.
Stay on your feet, girl
,
she heard her father say. She wanted to, she did, but as she descended the stairs, her knees ached to give way and her body yearned for the relief of falling to the carpet and curling into a ball.

She stood at the bottom, a hand on the railing. Across the room, the stool at the counter was askew from where Cameron had jumped off it this morning. His socks were on the coffee table, his slippers at the back door. She was never going to stay on her feet here. If she stayed here – alone, without Cameron – she'd fall apart. And she might never pull herself back together.

She got in her car and drove.

36

It was raining hard. Pelting down. Thundering on the roof of her car, the wipers pounding back and forth, tyres sending up cascades of water from overflowing gutters.

Liv drove aimlessly, following dark, drenched streets, up and down in random, zigzag patterns, trying to hold herself in one piece. At the soccer grounds, she slowed. Daniel had said the other side of the playing fields. On Watson Street.

She trawled along Barton then Menzies then Curtin, a suburb of ex-prime ministers. She found Watson Street running off Holt, hoped that Liberal leader's drowning at sea wasn't an omen. She couldn't remember the number Daniel had said but it didn't matter. His four-wheel drive was parked in a carport halfway down.

Liv stopped out front and walked towards the timber cottage, not bothering to protect herself from the torrent. She was already saturated – what the hell did it matter? What the hell did anything matter now? A sensor light came on as she stepped on the narrow path that ran through the front lawn, illuminating the downpour. She
stopped on the verandah, two paces from the front door and eyed the old-fashioned mottled green glass in its centre. What the fuck am I doing?

Before she had time to consider it, a shadow moved behind the glass and Daniel was in the half-opened doorway. He said nothing as his eyes went to work, taking in the puddle at her feet, the keys in her hand, her car in the street and whatever it was that was on her face. Then he pulled the door wide. ‘Come in.'

It was this or drive the streets all night, she told herself. He flipped on a light as she stepped into a hallway, followed her as she walked the length of its worn timber floor to a large, open room at the back of the cottage. There were sofas and a table and kitchen, rain thundering on the tin roof, a TV murmuring, but all she really took in were the four windows with their curtains open. She strode past the furniture, yanked both drapes on the closest window.

‘What happened?' Daniel asked.

She moved to the next window, dragged the heavy fabric across the glass.

‘Liv?'

He watched her from the centre of the room as she moved wordlessly to the next one, catching a fleeting glimpse of a fenced backyard before shutting it out.

‘Where's Cameron, Livia?'

She drew the last curtains together, fists tight, teeth clenched, breathing hard. She heard his footsteps on the timber crossing the floor to her. She didn't want him to touch her, knew tenderness would break her. As he approached, she stepped away from the window and averted her eyes.

‘Where's Cameron?' he asked again. He didn't come any closer, kept his hands at his side.

‘At his father's house. I left him with Thomas's mistress because my stalker gave him a goddamn birthday card. He put it in his hands while I was there. I was right there and I didn't see it happen. I'm his mother and I didn't protect him. He's all I've got and I had to give him to 
her
.'

A sob shuddered through her like an earthquake. The force of it rocked her off balance and as she stumbled, Daniel's hand was at her elbow. Not holding her gently but guiding her firmly backwards. She felt the wall at her spine, pressed herself against it, hoped it would keep her upright. It might have if her legs had held. As they collapsed underneath her, she slid to the floor, dropped her head to her knees and wept.

It felt like a long time before Daniel joined her. He must have left and come back because he had two tumblers with large measures of amber liquid in the bottom. He held one out to her.

‘What is it?'

‘Scotch.'

She gulped a mouthful, wincing as it burned its way down.

‘Go again,' he instructed.

She did and its heat started to ease up the shaking.

‘You want to tell me?' he asked.

She didn't but it spilled out anyway, all the details of the afternoon. ‘She called him Monkey. Thomas doesn't call him Monkey. She's got a nickname for him and I didn't know. I wanted her to be a snivelling, self-righteous bitch
and she told him to hug me. Christ, she's so damn young. And nice. And pregnant.'

‘Why does pregnant matter?'

So she told him. About the failed IVF attempts. The four of them. The last one a week before Thomas left. His relief that he wouldn't have to stay now there was no baby. How he'd taken everything with him. How her father's diagnosis had felt like something else Thomas had engineered.

She railed. She cried. She spat ugly words. Then she stopped. The room was silent, except for the drumming of the rain on the tin overhead. Daniel stayed beside her, knees pulled up in a mirror of her own pose. It was a long time before he broke the silence.

‘Are you done?' The way he said it sounded as though he figured the outpouring was a release. Maybe he was right. Something felt like it had let go.

‘I haven't decided.'

‘Will we need more Scotch?'

‘How much have you got?'

‘Enough to keep you going for a few more hours.'

‘Kill me if I need that long.'

As he crossed the room for the bottle, she looked around. It was a man's space – dark and timber, not much on the walls, no knick-knacks aside from a couple of photos on a shelf that were too far away to see. But he was a homemaker, too – there was a dining table for six, enough sofa space for a family, cushions, curtains, coffee table, a huge rug. The kitchen looked newish. From where she sat on the floor, she could see jars on a shelf,
spices near the stove. The place was neat and organised, no clutter, a little anal, maybe. Fireman's housekeeping, perhaps.

He handed her a towel then poured them both another finger of Scotch. She smiled her thanks, wondering what he was thinking as she wiped her face and hair. He didn't seem bothered that they were sitting on the floor and hadn't made any attempt to move her somewhere more comfortable. Maybe he sat on the floor all the time. Over by the window, behind the sofa – oh, all the time.

‘You want another?' he asked.

‘No, thanks. My head's all fuzzy. It feels great. Sorry about your floor.' She nodded at the soggy footprints she'd left.

‘I was wondering when you'd get to that.'

‘You want me to clean it up?'

‘Nah. I thought you could take your shoes off and pour the rest of the water all over the sofa.'

She grinned a little.

‘So what do you think, Slugger? You done?'

‘Yeah, I'm done.'

He turned towards her, waited until she met his eyes. ‘Good.'

His gaze drifted over her face. Slowly, as though he was memorising the lines. She felt the puffiness of her eyes, the tightness on the still tender bruising where tears had dried, the damp tendrils of hair sticking to her cheeks – and suddenly she wanted to clean herself up, give him a better view. His focus settled on her mouth and something inside her . . . unfolded.

She leaned forward, pressed her lips to his. They moved underneath hers, his hands cupped her face. Then they were drawing her away, putting space between them.

‘Liv, you're upset.'

The words were whispered but they cut straight to the bone.
You fool
. She struggled to her feet, fighting legs stiff from sitting with her knees pulled up for so long. ‘Sorry. I'm sorry.'

‘Liv.'

‘No. It's okay. I must look like shit. Sorry. It was stupid.' She scanned the room for her keys. Christ, she was just like Jason, forcing herself on someone who didn't want her. Why the hell would he after what he'd seen tonight?

‘Liv, wait.' Daniel clasped her forearm as she started to move away. There was regret in his eyes.

‘It's fine. Don't worry about it. I made a mistake. I'm just going to go.' She looked pointedly at his fingers still curled around her arm.

‘You didn't make a mistake, Liv.'

She glanced up at him.

‘I want that too but you've made it pretty clear you don't. You're upset, for good reason. And you've been drinking. I could take advantage of that and, believe me, it crossed my mind. It's just that I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and wish it hadn't happened. I don't want it to be once. I want it to be the first.'

She couldn't think how to respond. After everything, after tonight, he wanted a relationship. Is that what he was saying? With her? What was wrong with him?

‘What do you want, Liv?' He loosened the hold on her arm but didn't let it go.

She closed her eyes. ‘I want my life back. Not the old one. A different one. Anything. Just not this.'

‘I can't give you that.'

She never thought he could. That wasn't what she'd wanted from him. ‘I want to
feel
something else
.
All I've got inside me is fear and loss. It's suffocating me. I'm choking on it. I want something else to fill me up.' She pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I want to feel something other than 
this
.'

For a moment, he did nothing but watch her. Then, as though he'd decided, he stepped closer and caressed her cheek with his lips. It was soft, gentle, his breath warm on her skin and on another day, in a different life, it might have been enough. It might have been everything she needed. But his tenderness made the pain seem worse.

She took his face in her hands, kissed his mouth hard. He followed her lead. Or maybe it was his own desire he was answering. She didn't care. She dragged his T-shirt over his head. He found the buttons on her blouse, the clasp of her bra. His hands were warm on her cool skin, his mouth soft on her throat. On her nipple. She ran her palms over the contours of his torso. He peeled away the layers of her wet clothing. It was a long time since she'd stood naked in front of anyone but Thomas. She'd had a child, she hadn't satisfied her husband, her body had taken a beating. She tried to cover herself but Daniel took her hands, kissed them, looked at her as though tall and athletic and bruised was his first choice.

It was all she needed. And after a week, a year, of having no control over her life, she took it. He seemed to understand, didn't attempt to change the dynamic as she pressed him into the sofa, kneeled above him. She couldn't remember when sex hadn't been about conceiving or closing an argument or wanting to be good enough. She'd forgotten it could be like this. Uncontrolled and driven. Mouths and skin and heat and urgency. And as she tightened around him, as he pulled her against him, the hurt and pain were shoved aside by a wave of intensity.

Daniel found her a robe and pulled on sweatpants. He hung her damp clothes over his dining chairs, joking as he draped her knickers that the Superman symbol on the front suited her better than hearts and flowers. They ate homemade soup standing at his kitchen bench then he took her hand, led her to his bed and made love to her. Slowly, perhaps like he'd planned it the first time. His body was a powerful mass of muscle and his tenderness made her cry.

When he tasted the tears on her cheek, he whispered gently to her, ‘Do you want to stop?'

‘Eventually. In a day or so.'

She wound her legs around him and as he moved above her in the lamplight, his eyes held hers, watching as her breath grew ragged, as she gasped and clung to him, until he pressed his lips to her throat with a long sigh. Afterwards, she fell into the numbing silence of a deep sleep.

She had no idea what time it was when her eyes blinked open to blackness. She sensed movement. A muffled sound. The mattress shuddered. Fear hit like a spear through the chest.

Then Daniel roared.