Angie's DIARY | Online Writing Magazine

Sometimes, love hurts.

‘Blindsided’ is Gemma Rice at her most uncompromising, it’s a love story which is climatic and dramatic. Love is patient, love is kind, love is understanding. And love catches you when you fall.

~ Chapter 1 ~
Three long months away from home and I’m back a day early. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I surprise him. My relief is palpable as I park behind his black Mitsubishi Lancer Evo X FQ-400. It’s been a long journey, and I’m exhausted. Sitting for a moment, I appreciate the view of our  house which we had built for us, opening the door of my silver Audi A3 cabriolet to inhale the ocean scent of home.

My eyes track the sunset glinting off sea on its route to death behind the horizon.
How I missed this.
Turning away from the view, I make my weary way to the open front door and up pale marble steps leading into the house. Shining their welcome, the cool tiles soothe my soles as I step out of my shoes, allowing my naked feet to whisper over the floor.
Huge windows overwhelm most of the walls, offering panoramic views of untouched beauty. We’ve left it wild as neither of us has the time for gardening.
I wander through the shadowed cool interior to André’s office, as he’s not in the lounge or dining room, but my cursory glance reveals the room is vacant.
Maybe he’s making dinner?
Pirouetting, I pad lethargically to the Tuscan kitchen – our indulgence. It’s warm, in shades of pale lemon and burnished amber. Copper pans and a pale oak table stand sentry, more silence. He’s not here either.
The front door was open – his car is outside – he must be home.
Leaving my shoes in the entrance to the bedroom passage, I pass the bathroom and spare bedroom into our cocoon of intimacy, which is usually welcoming with its colour-scheme of matt black and pale fawn. It always eases fraught nerves.
I stare in disbelief at the wide, low bed; frozen.
My pleasure at being home evaporates like vapour in the morning sun. His spine is to me, and small plump hands with bright pink fingernails are clamping into his muscular back.
I’ve worked so hard, and I let myself believe we would never do this – he would never do this.
Indecision clutches me as too many reactions thrash between my neurons for supremacy. I want to yell, to lash out, kick the fucker out of the home that I paid for; dissolve in a puddle of acid tears, break her, break him, break everything the way he just broke me.
Paused in a quantum universe as the floor disappears beneath my feet, bottoming out, free falling through the darkest space where there is no air to breathe, the darkness closes in, suffocating; I am the statue-still witness of my own despair.
But I’ve worked so long, too long, and if I lose him, I won’t just be losing my lover, I’d be losing my best friend and business partner – right now losing André isn’t an option I’m ready to face.
So instead, I move quietly to the round chair, sinking woodenly into it. My life continuously shattered by the groans, the giggles, the purring of lovers caressing each other with words of lust and praise.
I can smell them.
Her blond hair is scattered widely over my pillow, as she lays beneath my lover; my soul-mate.
Leaning back, I inhale, counting down from ten. Steepling my fingers together until the nail-beds turn white, I’m light-headed.
Trying hard not to reveal my pain, suppressing the urge to weep as the shards of my heart pierce vital organs, every breath I take is a struggle.
My lungs are so tight.
She gasps with shock when she sees me.
“Lee!” André reacts, pulling the fawn sheet up to cover his nudity – their nudity.
He instantly pales, looking ill with the sheen from exertion polishing his now alabaster face.
Maintaining the grip on my emotions, I smile at him, “Hello, André, I’m home.”
The girl looks like she’s going to bolt, but I’m not going to make this easy for either of them. I’m going to draw this out, until he is a debilitated wreck.
His focus darts nervously, shifting shocked brown eyes from her face to mine, indecision transparent.
Standing with forced serenity, I walk over, ignoring him, staring down at a girl half my age, at least.
Offering her my hand, I deliberately introduce myself, “I’m Leanne. And you are?”
“Trish.” Awkwardly her clammy palm is engulfed in my firm shake.
Staring into her green eyes, then his frozen coffee ones, I suggest calmly, “I don’t know about you two, but I could use a drink. Care to join me?”
He’s floored. He was expecting a myriad of reactions, and this isn’t one of them. Oh how the young underestimate age.
She nods. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, searching mine, looking for clues, trying to understand why I’m not castrating him and throwing him off the cliff.
I wait patiently.
Making the situation forcefully uncomfortable, refusing to leave my own bedroom for them to regain composure, to have a private conversation.
Oh no, there’s three of us involved in this.
I sit down again, waiting, watching.
My heart disintegrates completely when I notice he’s prophylactic free.
She’s shorter than me, and I’m short. She yanks her clothes on faster than a meteorite plummeting through the night sky, while he turns his back to me, pulling on sun bleached blue jeans with forced refrain.
Taking his time, pretending this is normal, we’re fine, everything’s just freaking fabulous.
I deeply desire to snip each of his long tanned fingers off his right hand as he clasps her hand in reassurance, the other hand nervously rakes his hair, looking haughtily down his nose at me. He’s so shocked-white that I want to laugh.
Rising out of my chair, I hold my head proudly poised, deliberately strolling with them behind me, glancing down at Trish on my way to the door; I’m a full head taller than her at five-foot-two. He’s at least two feet taller than her. I’m too tired to do the math.
I did acting, a long time ago, and can fool anyone who doesn’t know me. I flash the nubile plump temptress my friendliest smile, hooking my arm through hers, leading her away from him, smelling him all over her, accosting my nostrils with the love of my life, she’s wearing my soul’s cologne on her sun-tanned skin.
I’m ashen from three months of Canadian snow, living in a decrepit caravan on a movie set, while my lover turned into a playboy, spending my money to woo well rounded girls into our home.
What a revelation.
I’ll never forget this day as long as I live. The third of March, five-twenty-six in the afternoon.

~ Chapter 2 ~
Leading the jittery girl into the kitchen, my command returns.

Calmer, I sashay with deliberate grace to the fridge, asking her casually, “Fancy a margarita?”

She sits on a stool at the table, leaning onto her elbows, a beautiful smile plumping her baby face further, “Oh yes!”

André leans a hip against the deep white sink at the window which overlooks the vegetable garden.

Satisfaction boosts my confidence when I catch his fingers trembling. He grips the sink tightly, steely eyes challenging me, communicating that he noticed my scrutiny.

“What about you, darling?” I smile, knowing it’s forced and he can see it, but she won’t know that.
His eyes have hardened with anticipation of relationship Armageddon.

He’s so tense, I can see every muscle in his naked torso outlining before my eyes.

He’s a demi-god. The Fates were much too kind to him.

No one should be allowed to wander through life with that much talent, dashing good looks, and natural charisma. Six-foot-four, and perfectly in proportion.

In fact, if he’d ever come to a movie set with me, Robert Pattinson would be yesterday’s news. Andy has the look, and demeanour, of a famous heart-throb.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Flashing him a gloating smile, I pour two margaritas, sprinkling salt into both of them. Whoever decided to make this ready-made bottled version just diverted a murder.

Handing Trish her drink, I raise my glass up in salute, “Cheers.”

She clinks hers against mine, gullibly smiling at Andy. He’s only André when he’s in shit. When he’s my best friend and lover, he’s Andy.

He will never be Andy again.

He moves behind her, suggesting gruffly, “I should take you home.”

Rather pleased with my quick thinking, I’ve thought of this already. “I’ll take Trish home. I’ve parked behind you, you can’t get out.”

I flash him another triumphant smile.

Sweat those bullets, you betraying fucker!

His expressive eyes beseech mine with silent imploring.

Ignoring him, I turn my charm onto Trish, leaning close to her like a girlfriend conspirator, “Live nearby?”
I watch her hands with too many rings, they have the added fleshiness of youth that mine lost long ago. Her arms are rounded, and to be honest, I’m surprised André was attracted to her.

I’m lithe, my body toned to perfection despite not ever having enough free time to stay perfectly cut. I work hard on my body, but my face could never match hers in youthfulness.

There’s no escaping the change from puppy-fat to adult streamline. I dye my waist-length hair, covering dark blond and grey with Audrey Hepburn perfection.

This child before my eyes has unruly, curled, shoulder length hair. And she’s obviously young enough to not care that he’s in a relationship.

She sees a catch.

She sees a forty year old man who looks ten years younger than he is. He’s financially loaded, and more charming than Satan himself.

Was I really gone that long, that he had to turn to this for release from sexual frustration?
“I live down in the fishing village.”

“With your Mum and Dad?”

She nods.

Sipping my margarita, I savour the bracing cold of it. I’ve been driving for three hours to get home from the airport.

“So, are you studying?” I interrogate sweetly.

She shakes her head, tousling her hair over bikini straps, “No. I work at Gert’s Burger house.”

I shoot him a glance, watching me with hooded eyes behind her shoulder.

He knows, because his eyes flinch.

Aiming high cowboy, is what my eyes told him.

“Shall we go?” I offer, standing erect with purpose after draining my glass.
“Sure.”

Swivelling in her stool she turns to him, wrapping arms around the waist above his jeans, pressing a kiss into his navel, then staring up him with adoration, “Bye gorgeous.”

I pause, watching as he imperceptibly shakes his head at her. Oblivious to the warning, she prances off her stool with exuberance, tiptoeing on sandalled feet to kiss his mouth, “Bye.”

The urge to decapitate him grips me as he pats her voluptuous derriere, smiling warmly at her.

Waiting, I stall, not leaving them alone, until she joins me.
Hooking my arm though hers again, I lead her down the passage, collecting my shoes, then my keys and sunglasses on the hall table, remarking about the delicious summer heat of the waning day.
At the car, I shoot my shielded eyes at André leaning with his hands hooked casually in front pockets, a broad shoulder propping him up against the wall at the steps.
He smiles, lifting a hand to Trish in farewell as she climbs in and yells before closing her door, “Call me!”
Not wanting to linger, I seat myself, buckle up, and ignite the engine. Reversing the silver cabriolet out of the drive, I sedately direct the car away as she frantically waves.
“So how long have you been seeing André?” I probe.
“On and off for ages.”
She gives me a trusting smile, I return it with ease, “He’s a great guy, isn’t he?”
“The best!”
“Do you mind if I ask you how old you are?”
“Twenty-three. You?”
“I’m old enough,” I respond obtusely.
“You guys are so cool having such an open relationship.”
Flashing her a demure smile, the fib rolls over my ruby lips, “Yes, yes we are.”

I want to know where she lives, she’s my nemesis and I want to know everything about her, so I can mentally profile her, and gain ammunition if I should ever need it. Dropping her off outside a derelict house on the poorer side of town, I drive away, biting my lip to prevent it from quivering.
Her house has a bright blue roof, with peeling white paint long turned grey on the walls.
The veranda floor is stained red, the garden a postage stamp, run down, with creepers swallowing the light away from the home as it trails over the tin roof and around the poles on the veranda.
She’s dirt poor, and she thinks she just got lucky.
Maybe she did.
Seven minutes later I switch off the engine, overlooking the ocean from the Point.
I know he must be desperate to talk to her.
Unearthing my mobile, I call the cellular provider and cancel his phone.
Then I cancel the home phone with immediate effect, telling the woman how my maid has used the home phone and I need to cancel it, now.
Right now.
Once reassured that both phones are disconnected, I sit back and stare vacantly at the tranquil marine vista. I pay for everything. It’s all in my name and god damn it I’m allowed to shut his abuse down with passive aggression.
Succumbing to the wound while waves lull their heartbeat into the interior via my open window, I wrap my arms over the steering wheel and wrack with sobs, crying until there are no more tears and the car is enveloped in a chilling night breeze.
I need to break this ache.
Pressing play, music filters through the speakers into the gloomy interior of the car, and the strumming guitar instantly eases my bereavement.
Oh God. Poor choice.
The bubbling geyser of emotional agony spills tears onto my cheeks as I stare sightlessly at the steering wheel, listening to words which mirror my moment.
I forgot this song sang these words.
Blind through hot watery anguish, he sings directly to my pain; … There’s no comfort in my bed, and I’d like to leave, in a time machine and go back to where we were, all I can say is I’ve been blindsided again … all I can do is take my bow … and if it’s the end I’m going down with no regret because I’ve loved you …
Wailing, I withdraw into my seat, clutching my knees and sobbing harder than ever.
Shattered, my life completely annihilated around me, my security vaporised, my trust obliterated, my emotions scattered, I switch on the lights, breathe life into the car with the turn of the key, and drive with exhaustion intermingling with queasiness, back to my home.
It was my sanctuary. It was my haven.
Now I’m the stranger, and I’ve lost everything I was working so hard to keep.

~ Chapter 3 ~
I find him sitting on the sofa, staring out of the window at a clear starlit night, elbows poised on knees, hands gripped together with obvious tension while his strong bare feet rest on black slate tiles.

The cherry-wood lampshade casts a burnished hue over his skin, contrasting with the midnight black leather of the chair supporting him.
He shoots up, running palms down his jeans, worry smothering his face unattractively, “Lee! Baby, I can explain.”
Dropping my keys onto the polished granite consul lining the wall behind his chair, I stare blankly at the black and white print of my naked form in the kohl frame perched above the table. I stare at the woman he fell in love with.
He told her, ‘I want you all to myself.’
I resisted that idealism.
He’d been married before, so had I.
I didn’t believe any longer that love is forever. Disney is a myth. Happy endings just don’t happen. Instead I’d suggested we keep the relationship open, so that I wouldn’t be hurt when he finally left me for someone else.
But, he wouldn’t hear it. He wanted exclusive.
We stayed exclusive; loving together, writing screenplays together, cooking together. I fell so hard for him I still have bruises on my knees after ten years.
Despite my instinctive warnings, I let him fool me; woo me.
He was fractured. Deeply hurt from his past. A past that I worked hard to erase, replacing insecurity with support. Unwavering support. I turned us into a dominant duo, sought after now by the big producers littering the land of starlets and movie houses.
But he’d told me he couldn’t go on location to do the spontaneous rewrites. He was working on a new script.
When I asked to read it, he fobbed me off with, “It’s not ready yet.”  “I’d be embarrassed to show it to you now, let me polish it first.”
When I called and he didn’t answer his phone, I believed the lies that his phone was off because he was working. Then it was; he’d been working so hard, he had forgotten to recharge it. Now I can recognise the lies and betrayal for what they are.
Finally, I force my broken eyes to connect with his.
Explain?
You couldn’t possibly explain. There’s nothing to explain. The evidence speaks for itself. There’s no erasing young, tanned, fat legs, wrapped around you in my bed. There’s no explaining how you shattered my life into pieces.
One thing I promised him when we were dating, was that I would never behave like that uncontrolled woman he was once married to. The one who made life unbearable.
Fighting has no purpose other than to destroy the few strands of respect left. I don’t fight. I don’t blame. I’ve never seen the point of it.
“Baby?”
I can’t bring myself to speak. I don’t even know what to say.
Turning away, I stroll wearily to the kitchen. I’m thirsty, tired and hungry.
Opening the fridge I extract the cheese, sitting down with a tall glass of soda and a knife, and carve pieces of cheese off the block, popping them into my mouth and forcing myself to chew and swallow.
I’m so tense my shoulders are cramping, and consuming food is a challenge with my throat so tight.
I feel him as his heat infuses my body, running down my spine like a relaxing breeze.
He’s my darling, my inner sanctum, my Mister Perfect.
And he’s showered because I can smell the soap wafting off his body toward me as I keep my gaze fixated on the grain of the table where I’m perched.
Warm hands run over my shoulders, thumbs kneading softly. He says nothing. He’s waiting for a reaction, waiting for me to break the tension.
Eventually he sits opposite me, giving me his boyish coy smile; peering hopefully into my eyes the way our dog does.
Where is he?
“Where’s Chuck?”
“I took him to the parlour. I’m collecting him tomorrow.”
I nod, thinking back to her, Trish.
I’m sleek, like a greyhound. She’s like an adorable English Sheep dog. We are just so different.
A heartbroken sigh escapes me, and I stare rigidly at the table to hide my misery. A hand reaches out, covering mine. Familiar, it feels like home.
“I’m sorry.”
Nodding, I continue staring at the table. I don’t want to burn a bridge I might want to cross again. It’s never good to make decisions when distraught. I know I need time to assimilate and process before making any decisions.
I focus on the practical.
This is my downfall and strength. I’m practical. Using it for stability and support, I stare into warm doe eyes.
“That bed cost me a small fortune. But I can’t, and won’t, sleep in your sweat, sex, and memories. This is my house, and that room is the one I chose as a bedroom because I need that view to calm me. This is my home, you have defiled it.”
He swallows so heavily that his Adam’s apple seems stuck, the sound audible.
“I want you to put the bed from the spare room into my bedroom. You can take the second bedroom and continue sleeping in the luxury I provided. It’s your bed now, not ours.”
“What about us?”
“Us? What us? There is no us, you made that choice, not me.”
His visage returns to skittish nervousness.
Sighing heavily, emotion lacing my tone, betraying me, I continue, “You are my best friend and my work partner. I’m not sure I’m ready to let that go. But you stopped being my lover when you screwed someone else without a condom, in my bed.”
“It didn’t mean anything.” He gives me his most charming and sensuous smile, “I was just playing.”
“It’s not playing when you have unprotected sex and then expect to stick that same tainted appendage into me. I can’t be objective right now. Can we just postpone this conversation?”
I know I’m glaring. I’m bitterly angry and infused with ill disappointment.
“I’ve worked hard to provide the life you dreamed of. We wished for this, but I’m the one who swallowed pride and ran after every lead until we finally made it. We’re a formidable team. I won’t let you end my career because you felt the need to betray my trust. I’m not going to be your mommy any more. I’m not paying for your lifestyle, your phone, your car, your sex toys. I gave you the means, and you took the worst kind of advantage. I trusted you with everything. I thought we were friends. How could you do this?”
Typically his eyes shine too brightly, reflecting honey glints from the ceiling lights off unshed tears. He has the gall to look hurt.
“I’m sorry.”
You will be.
Instead I nod.
“I’m tired, Andy. I’ve been awake for twenty-three hours. I’ve worked in cramped quarters in an isolated and snowed up location, for months. I was desperate to get home, have a hot bath, and curl up in your arms. You were my home. You’ve broken something precious.”
He nods. Squeezing my hand so tightly it’s beginning to hurt, “I know.”
“Do you? Why did I put myself through that? Oh yes, for us. To give your creative genius the freedom to create without worrying about directors and producers. Without having to put up with stroppy starlets no one’s ever heard of, who want to milk their pathetic two lines for all it’s worth. Making me rewrite their lines again and again, not realising the producer doesn’t have an issue with my writing, that better lines can’t make them better actresses. You missed your calling. Think of all the young blood you’d have endless access to?”
His eyes harden under my sarcastic tone. Resistance etches into his features as he defiantly extracts his hand from mine.
“You knew I had but one insecurity. Nicely played gigolo.”
He stands, withdrawing silently from the room.

I couldn’t wait to get here. I was desperate for the blue skies and white beaches of home; the hot days and balmy succulent nights, where I was safe and loved.
When did he stop loving me?
Why?
I stay weeping silent dribbles until I have a throbbing migraine, listening to the thumping of him dragging and cursing as he tries to move large beds and mattresses around on his own.
I’m pretending I don’t care.
But you always do, don’t you?
All you want is a hug. To be told they’re eternally sorry and it will never happen again. Instead they comply to prevent a stand off of wills.
Going along with my wounded request. Unresisting.
I know my heart and soul hoped he’d beg and plead to return to the way we were. Craving reassurances that I’m the one he lives for – breathes for.
Words he once swore as an oath.
My cold logic reminds me of how I told him love falls into three categories.
Lust. Affection. And projection.
That true love, the kind when we fall in love, is simply lust. If there’s compatibility it turns to affection, where it loses the desperate carnal edge. And then you get empty love, from people who tell you they love you, hoping you will love them back. Because they want you to love them, but you don’t feel it. That’s my label called projected love. Where their need is simply projected onto you, or vice versa. I suppose you could call it infatuation.
I’ve served my purpose. I knew in my heart we wouldn’t last forever, but I hoped we would. I’m fifty years old, too old to want to start again.
Inside my own age group I’m a catch. Hot, fit, streamlined, elegant. Established and secure, for most of the time. But to him I must be old now. Young blood is tastier, eager, and forbidden.
He knew I was always afraid he would reach an age when he would begin to desire someone younger.

Empty promises caressed my ears as we discovered each others pleasures and pains, telling me he preferred me this age. He preferred the maturity I offered. I wasn’t as needy as the competing young women, when we hooked up.
But he knew it was my one and only concern, my only insecurity.
Coming home to this nightmare is like free falling onto a stake. My solar plexus is so numb and tense that breathing is difficult.
“I’ve run your bath for you.”
It’s too much.
Crumpling onto the unyielding kitchen table, the hard wood poking my angular ribs maliciously, I begin sobbing anew.

~ Chapter 4 ~
Sneaking through the house with my cell phone hidden in my pocket, I breathe a sigh of relief as I close the bedroom door, automatically unbuttoning the cream shirt.

Dropping it on my way to the en-suite bathroom, I unclip my bra, letting it fall like one more discarded woman.
Leaning heavily against the door frame, I stare at magnolia candles lit all over the bathroom, fresh frangipani flowers float in the basin, and a huge I’M SORRY written onto the wall-to-wall mirror in red lipstick. He’s cleaning that off, not me. Nothing smudges like lipstick.
Stepping out of my tailored shorts and LaPerla g-string, I test the water. It’s perfect.
Frothy foam lines the top like a good draught of Guinness and I conceal my phone inside the tissue box.
Gulping down the hard lump in my throat, it occurs to me that he prepared for my homecoming. He’s bought all of my favourites; new foaming bath oil, new soap, new shampoo and conditioner; the candles are all new. There’s a neatly folded bath sheet waiting on the wide marble lip of the sunken tub.
I’m too tired to deal with this.
I feel guilty.
Is it a genetic defect, this feeling of automatic guilt?
Submersing my aching limbs in luxurious silky moisture, I sag, half floating in the oversized tub, trying desperately to banish the sight burned into my brain.
I can still smell them.
I’m smothered with magnolia, frangipani, and the scent of gardenias from the bedroom, but I can still smell Little Miss Suntan.

Irritably snatching a face cloth off the pile, I wet it and cover my face, hiding my wreckage behind dimly lit buttermilk cotton. Low music wafts into the bathroom.
He did this.
Many zodiac turns ago, he installed speakers into each room, hooked up to a central console, where you can press the buttons to the rooms you’d like the music to play, only.
Michael Bublé purrs his love potion at me. Sultry and husky, suave and debonair, it mocks me.
A shadow appears, lounging against the wall, quietly observing me.
“How are you?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
I want privacy, not Anne Robinson’s encyclopaedia of questions. I don’t win anything if I answer.
He folds arms, his expression woeful and brooding.
“Fucked up properly this time, didn’t I?”
“Up being the operative word.”
I move the facecloth to cover the nipples poking out above the froth.
“I love you.”
“Really? I’m glad I’m not your enemy if this is how you treat the ones you love.”
“Lee, stop it. I’m truly sorry.”
“Fuck off. Just fuck off, you lying cheating whore.”
It doesn’t work at all, saying it doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m so angry I feel like sticking his head in this tub and drowning him. But I know I don’t have the strength to dispose of the body without leaving evidence.
And why do I always have to logically think of shit like that anyway?
Instead, he saunters to me, easing himself down on the step framing the tub. Slipping a hand in, he captures a resistant foot which I’m now unsuccessfully trying to yank away from him. He has it hooked in one hand by the ankle, and if I try any harder to break it free I’ll get a dunking. His free hand nimbly manipulates my tired arch. God he has alchemical hands, not to mention a warlock’s voice.
Watching him, I know that as much as I hate him right this second, I love him too. He’s still the most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. He has a way of speaking that is intimate, no matter who he’s addressing. He never raises his voice, and it’s comparable to satin sheets. Not too deep, never abrasive, smooth, even, luxurious and tempting. When he speaks, it’s as though someone has run a cool satin ribbon down my spine, causing ripples of goose-bumps. I used to sit and listen to him on the phone, just to hear him. His laugh is like soft bubbles popping against my skin.
Maybe I’m a romantic?
Oh for fuck’s sake! Look at him, look at that appalling lipstick on the mirror, the candles and seductive music, and see that we’re both pathetically romantic.
That little voice in my head is throwing grenades that bang don’t fall for it, loudly, impacting painfully with a pulsating vein in my temple.
“I hate you.”
The wounded expression he gives me in reply stings.
“Don’t turn this around and make me the cold heartless bitch. I stayed out of my mind with sexual frustration for three months, just because I happen to think no one could come close to you! You’re the fuck up who doesn’t feel the same way about me.”
“Leanne, when will you understand the difference between inconsequential and hopelessly devoted?”
“Oh, just sod off! Devoted? Screw you. And it’s not inconsequential. Unprotected sex with a dirt poor girl, in Africa, is a death sentence. I’m not that desperate for a fuck that I think what you did is inconsequential or shows how devoted you are to me.” Adding acidly, “Do I look stupid and gullible to you? You’ve been hanging around intellectually challenged teenagers for too long, obviously.”
With mild composure, he lowers his voice even further; dark eyes mirror flickering candle flames at me, hiding their expression, “I was in awe of you two minutes ago. Considering myself the dumbest fuck in the world to be screwing a nothing when I’m virtually attached like a Siamese twin to the most elegant and ladylike woman on the planet. You handled it with aplomb and diplomacy. Your grace and dignity didn’t waver. But now you’re sounding just like my ex.”
Impulsively I splash a solid handful of water at him.
“How dare you judge me? You are lower than mucus in my opinion right now! Do you think I give a damn about whether or not you approve of my reaction? I don’t.”
Despite the venom of my tone, he splashes water back at me, drenching the waiting towel and me simultaneously.
Thrashing maniacally, I retaliate.
Finally getting my foot back, I stand and wildly kick the water out of the tub at him.
The prick has the arrogance to laugh at my pain. Standing himself, hoisting me up, he dunks me bodily into the bath, plunging my head under. The heaving surface undulates his face like a fading apparition, but it’s worked this time. He’s broken through my anger.
Lifting me, saturated with slipping white bubble clusters and fragrant water, his face is deadpan serious, holding me tight as the emotions boil over like the blurring fog from dry ice.
Sitting with me turning his faded blue jeans sapphire with seeping water, his head bowed over mine, clutching me tightly as the sobs I was trying to hide from him betray the shards left of my pride, my trust, our love.
“I know I hurt you. Fuck, I know it. I can’t take it back. I screwed up. But don’t pretend, you suck at it.”
Unhappily I hug him back, seeking comfort from the very ass who made me this upset. He’s still my friend. And that’s who I’m getting this comfort from – my friend.
When he eases his hold, I slap my damp hand so hard on his upper arm that my fingers instantly begin throbbing.
“Why? Tell me why!”
He shrugs, staring away from me, “I was bored.”
“So bored you thought you’d go out and sign your own death sentence? Hoping to sign mine? I know it’s called a penis, and contains the word pen, but do you really need to sign your death certificate with your semen?“
He smiles. It’s a half empty smile of respect. “That’s why I love you. Even when you’re prepared to annihilate me, you do it with eloquence.”
He releases me, moving to the cupboard to extract a towel, absently wiping his body with the hand towel from beneath the basins. “That’s why Lee. That’s why you are the writer, not me. We’re famous because of you. I’ve been overshadowed by you since day one.”
“And she makes you feel like a man? Fuck you! We compliment each other with our writing styles.” Slipping back into the bath, I warn him bitterly, “But if you ever decide to write a serial killer roaming the spruce woods of Canada again, I’ll bloody castrate you!”
He laughs indulgently, slowly walking back toward me, leaning his head over mine, kissing me, then licking a tear off my cheek.
“Champagne? Let’s celebrate baby. You’re home, and I missed you.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not. I’m serious.”
“Fine.”
I agree because I want to be alone. I can’t think straight.

Fifteen minutes later he returns with pink champagne cradled in a black granite bucket. Carefully he places two fluted goblets down on the step, holding out the now empty hand to me, held in a loose fist.
“Take it.”
I open my hand and nearly drop the ice-cube in shock with the jarring temperature change, literally experiencing the blood draining from my face as he lowers the bucket and black towel, revealing his chest covered with running blood.
Staring determinedly at me, he grips my hand with no-nonsense firmness, tracing the cube in my fingers over the wound.
I love you, bleeds at me.
Shocked, I look into his sad eyes.
“I’m willing to cut out my heart and give it to you.”
Shaking my head, my mouth is turning down forcefully in the corners.
He runs a finger through the blood, using it to draw a bleeding heart between my breasts.
I’m not sure what happened next. The dim candlelight plunged into impenetrable oblivion.

• Excerpt: Strike
• Excerpt: Awaken the Highland Warrior
• Excerpt (2): Embrace the Highland Warrior