Vengeful Love (6 page)

Maybe it was unintentional and maybe I
can’t
ever cross the line again but to dissolve the dull throb in my sex isn’t crossing the line. He’ll never know. No one need ever know. And if I don’t, I’m going to be walking around like a raging bag of estrogen, desperate and denied.

I clean my teeth and dry my body, taking my time with my sensitive, erect nipples, and slip under the bedcovers in a short, silk nightdress. His face comes back to me without effort. His severe jawline, his dark features, those godforsaken fucking delicious brown eyes. I lick two fingers then slide them under the covers to the source of rolling thunder. There was no need because I’m already drenched.

I gasp as my fingers slide across my clit. It’s been so long since I’ve touched myself. It’s rare. Completely unlike me. I picture him in his navy suit, the sharp suit from the first day I saw him. My fingers slip down to my entrance and glide back up my centre, dragging a moan from deep within me.

Closing my eyes, I see him taking off his suit jacket, standing tall at the bottom of the bed, looking down at me through hooded eyes. He kicks off his shoes and socks then smiles that excruciating half smile as he unbuckles his belt. I move my free hand to my breast, circling in time with my fingers swirling around my clit. He slowly unbuttons his white shirt and lets it fall down his arms to the floor, revealing firm, lightly tanned abs and pecs.

My hips squirm, rising against my fingers, up and down. I groan as his hands move to the fastening of his trousers and I lick my lips as he draws down the zip. The steady rhythm of my fingers has my throbbing bundle of nerves building. He bends, taking down his trousers and tight boxers, then rises, proudly displaying his hard length.

“Gregory!” I whisper his name as he crawls up the bed toward me.

Taking his weight on his toned arms, he hovers above me. As his cock thrusts inside me, my fingers push deep, the rhythm becoming hard and fast, lift me to a delicious peak. I flip over to my front, my hips grinding against my hand in time to Gregory’s driving into me.

“Fuck!”

I thump a hand against the pillow and bite down as my muscles tighten around my fingers. I thrust harder, faster, over and over, until I reach the brink and mumble my climax into the pillow, my insides in a frenzied spasm.

Oh God, that wasn’t wrong. It was so incredibly right.

My breathing calms, my pulse relaxes and I turn onto my back, satisfied and feeling much more in control of the whole situation with Gregory Ryans. It’s out of my system now. No more crossing the line.

Chapter Six

An uncommonly bright autumn sun streams into my bedroom through a gap between the drawn curtains. The line of hot light across my face wakes me from the most pleasant dream, the details of which are amiss. For the first time in months, I feel content, happy even. I turn onto my back and lie in the sunlight, replaying the unexpected events of last night.

I must have been crazy to agree to go for dinner with Gregory and Williams. I wish I could blame Amanda, or Williams, or convince myself that I couldn’t possibly refuse dinner with a client. But something else made me go. Perhaps intrigue, maybe hope. I’ve known Gregory for less than two weeks. I don’t even know him, not really. I know a version of him. But what I do know is that no man, not Luke Davenport in the six months I was with him at University, not Josh Parker in the eleven months I was with him during my training contract, has ever made me feel the way I feel when I’m near Gregory.

My mind knows that he’s out of bounds but my body responds to him, the sight of him, the sound of him, his masculine scent. The thought of him alone fills me with yearning.

Is it possible he could feel anything like that for me?
Of course not.
I’d be a fool to allow myself to think it. A man like that, handsome, successful, rich, how could he ever see anything in me? But he did flirt, I’m certain of it. There was a charge in the air, energy around us. I felt it in his gaze. I felt it surge through my body. How could I have felt something so strong and him feel nothing at all?

I lie in the sun trying to rationalise my thoughts for some time and begin to think of my mother. I wonder if she ever felt the same way about my father. I would never discuss things like this, female things, with my father, even when he was well. When I got my first boyfriend at school, it was Sandy I told and begged to keep it secret. It was Sandy who slipped out to the shop to buy my first sanitary towel whilst I hid in the bathroom because I didn’t want my father to see that I’d changed. After my first kiss it was Sandy I asked whether it’s possible to give a bad kiss.

Sandy is a mother to me in so many ways but sometimes, times like these, I can’t help wondering what it would be like to have my real mother here. Would she think and feel the same as I do? Would she tell me stories about how she felt when she met my father?

Was it all a lie?

I hate her for leaving my father, for leaving us, but I sometimes think about what it would be like if she was here. Maybe my father would never have gotten sick. Maybe I’d always wear the right things and do my hair in the right way. Maybe I’d be confident like Amanda and maybe men like Gregory would be interested in me.

The smell of bacon drifts into my bedroom and I resolve to get up. Perhaps I’ll discuss Gregory with Sandy later. That is, I
would
discuss Gregory if there was anything
to
discuss but there isn’t.

Following the smell leads me across the landing into my father’s bedroom. Sandy’s perched on the foot of his bed and they’re laughing together. Leaning against the frame of the door I watch them, enjoying listening to the incredibly sweet sound of happiness.

“What’s going on here?” I ask jovially.

“Scarlett, Sandy was just telling me a joke,” my father says, his shaking hands resting on the bacon sandwich in his lap.

“You know who I am?”

My father’s brows furrow before turning to a smile. His eyes sparkle as he shakes his head like I’ve made a joke.

“Well, what would you like to do today?” I say, instantly cancelling any plans I could have had, unable to contain the excitement that bubbles to the surface in my words.

“Perhaps we could just sit in the garden together?” my father offers. “Whatever it is that’s had me locked up in this bed must’ve been good. I still don’t feel one hundred percent and Sandy tells me I’ve been here for a little while now.”

“Okay, great!” I beam, washing over his questioning tone.

Running from his bedroom and back to my room, I throw on a pair of leggings and a shirt from my wardrobe, tie my hair roughly in a knot on top of my head and quickly clean my teeth.

“Ready!” I yell a few minutes later, bouncing to his bedside.

My father chuckles. The sound is so magnificent and playful it makes me laugh.

When my father is dressed, Sandy and I help him from his bed. He’s gracious as we lift his upper body forward, despite each vertebrae cracking through its own inertia. Only his eyes expose his true pain. He’s become shockingly weak. His legs are skinny and frail and no longer meet in the middle when he stands upright. His trousers, once perfectly tailored, sag from his lower back. His arm feels so thin in mine that I’m afraid it will shatter if I hold on too tight. We walk with him to the stair lift, each linking one of his arms in our own.

“Why is there a bandage on his arm?” I whisper to Sandy as we send him on his descent.

“He has a bed sore. I can’t get it to heal because he forgets that he shouldn’t put his weight on it.”

“Does he need medication?”

“The doctor came out during the week and gave me the dressings I’ve been using and some cream. He told me to persevere for now.”

“Oh,” is all I manage to utter.

I should’ve been here. I should’ve spoken to the doctor. Instead, work and gallivanting with some rich CEO were top of my priorities.

Sandy squeezes my hand tightly. We walk to the bottom of the stairs and help my father stand. We struggle to walk him through the house and down the three small concrete steps into the garden. He apologises with each shuffle forward.

The garden is bright with sun shining on the yellow ash leaves on the trees and in piles on the ground. Birds are chirping and fluttering down to nibble nuts from the bird table my father and I haphazardly handcrafted one spring day when I was nine or maybe ten. We thought it would last a year or so at best but here it is, wood flaking from its roof and remnants of bottle green paint scattered around its legs, but still standing strong.

My father is more content than I’ve seen him for too long. He closes his eyes and leans his face to one side, pointing it in the direction of the sun. He sits on the wooden bench that he claims to have rescued from a secondhand market shortly after buying our town house. He once told me, “There’s life left in it, all it needs is a good home.” He was right, as he always was.

“When I feel a little stronger, I think I’ll trim those conifers,” he says, nonchalantly, causing Sandy and me both to turn our heads to the overgrown row of evergreens at the bottom of the garden.

“We could always arrange for someone to come in and cut them for us,” I suggest.

My father looks at me, his face is taut and I know what’s coming, what comes every time. I’ve tried avoiding his questions and I’ve tried lying to him but he spent too long working in the medical field to be fooled. Each time his moment of realisation comes, it cuts through me in the way he would take a scalpel to his patients, slowly breaking my skin, cutting deeper as it moves.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asks.

A deep breath fills my lungs but doesn’t give me the strength I need. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Dad, you just forget sometimes, that’s all.”

“I forget?” he asks.

The too familiar sense of confusion lingers in his words. His scalpel cuts deeper, a laceration so deep it’ll never heal.

“What do I forget? How often do I forget?”

No matter how many times we have this conversation, it never gets easier and I never get any better at dealing with it.

“Sometimes you forget people.”

“Do I forget you?” he asks, his eyes glazing over, leaving him seeing the world through frosted panes.

“Yes.”

“What is it, Scarlett? What’s wrong with me?”

When my response doesn’t come, he asks again, demanding an answer.

“You have Alzheimer’s.” I say it quickly, swatting away the tears that escape from my eyes. I never used to cry.

As he absorbs my words, silent tears slip from his soft blue eyes. He grabs one of my hands from my lap and shuffles on the bench to face me.

“I’m sorry, my Scarlett. I’m so very sorry.” He’s weeping.

“Stop it,” I say, taking his wet cheeks in my hands. “It’s okay, you’re fine right now, you’re here, let’s enjoy our day.”

He closes his eyes and leans into my palm. “You’re a good girl. In case I forget to tell you, thank you for being here with me. Today. Always. You mean everything to me, you always have and even if I forget to say it, you must remember that deep, deep in my heart and in the depths of my old, broken mind, I love you. I love you now, forever and always. I’ve loved you more than life itself since the first day I held you in my arms and I will never stop loving you, my beautiful baby girl.”

I throw my arms around his neck and we sob together, holding one another, rocking gently. His embrace is familiar and warm.

“I love you too, Dad. Please never forget that.”

Sandy makes tea and later sandwiches and cakes, which we eat in the garden. Despite the air dropping cool, my father is reluctant to go inside, preferring to place a checkered blanket over his legs. We pass the afternoon easily, reminiscing about times we all remember. My father watches Sandy and me play cards and attempts to join in when I let him see my hand. To my amazement, he remembers the rules of the card games we play, although he doesn’t have the energy to play himself.

In the late afternoon, his blinks becomes longer and though he forces his eyes back open, they seem to weigh more each time he tries. I don’t want him to sleep just as much as he wants to fight against it. We both know the world could be a very different place when he wakes.

Eventually, Sandy suggests that we move the card games into the bedroom where my father can rest as he watches us play. The move upstairs is more difficult now, my father’s weary body feeling much heavier than it did this morning. I’m grateful to be here to help him get ready for bed but as he huffs and pants with each small effort, he avoids meeting my eye. I can tell that it hurts his pride to have me help. When it comes to changing his trousers and pants, I make an excuse to leave the room. He visibly relaxes and Sandy sets about helping him.

Once we’ve settled him into bed, my father asks if I could just sit with him and talk. I wish we had longer, I wish he would never go to sleep and this day would never end. We talk for more than an hour, about life, my work and the kind of deals I do. He’s surprised to hear that my training is complete.

“I’m so proud of you, Scarlett. You’re a wonderful, clever young lady. I wish I could remember everything you tell me.”

“I never tire of telling you things, Dad. It doesn’t matter that you forget them. They don’t mean anything.”

“But they do. I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are. And this,” he says, prodding his temple repeatedly with his index finger, “this can’t have helped at all.”

“Stop that,” I say, pulling his hand away from his head. “I get my work ethic from you.”

I return his faint smile with my own and swallow the tears that form a lump in my throat.

“You keep working hard,” he says. “You deserve all the success in the world.”

He holds his next blink for seconds. His eyes are distant and sleepy when they reopen.

“Time to stop fighting and go to sleep,” I concede, kissing his forehead.

He nods his head and lifts his arms to me, asking for a cuddle. I turn out the lamp on his bedside table and climb onto his bed, settling into his embrace, resting my head on his chest. His heart beats come slower and his breathing calmer.

* * *

My head cracks off the floor after he pushes me from his bed, screaming for help.

“Dad!” I say, trying to control his arms as they swing for my face. “It’s me. It’s me, Scarlett.”

“Help!” he screams. “Help me, somebody!”

He swings for me again and this time his fist lands on my temple before I can grab his arms. I fall to the floor again. Sandy bursts into the bedroom and restrains his arms but he keeps screaming and kicking his legs.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I cry.

“Call the doctor!” Sandy yells at me above my father’s cries for help.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I leave the room.

* * *

The doctor injects my father’s leg with a sedative. It shoots straight into his bloodstream, taking hold in seconds.

“My hands won’t stop shaking,” I say to the doctor as he sits with Sandy and me in the lounge.

“You’ve had a shock,” he tells me. “You should have a cup of tea with some sugar. If you can’t settle later I can give you something.”

I shake my head. “I don’t need anything. I’m so sorry. It was my fault. I fell asleep in his bed. It was stupid. Now look what I’ve done to him. Look what I made him do.”

“It is nobody’s fault, Scarlett,” the doctor tells me. “Your father is very, very sick. His rate of deterioration seems to be increasing.” He places a hand on my wrist and waits until he’s certain he has my full attention. “It will only get worse.”

My sobs become more violent and Sandy moves to the sofa next to me to hold me still.

The doctor places a prescription for sleeping pills on the coffee table. “Just in case.”

He pulls up the footstool and sits down in front of Sandy and me, his legs spread in his mustard cords. Sandy grips me tighter. We both know what’s coming. She shakes her head.

“I think you need to consider alternative options for caring for your father,” he says to me. “He’s becoming too sick for just the two of you to take care of him here. He needs full-time support from people who can control him if necessary.”

“Give him shots you mean,” Sandy snarls.

“If that’s what’s necessary, yes.”

“I can’t,” I say. “We can’t.”

“Please, just think about it. I could suggest some very nice places where you could see him whenever you like. You could both visit and meet the staff first, make sure you like the place. Just think about it.”

Sandy shows the doctor to the door then makes us tea, which she carries into the lounge on a tray with yesterday’s leftover cake. We talk and watch television as my father rests in his sedative-induced sleep, neither of us discussing what happened, neither of us broaching the subject of a hospice. At least one of us knowing how much my father would hate to be living like this.