Beautiful Storm (14 page)

My alarm wakes me from another endless day of pain, and night of alcohol therapy. My head pounds, my mouth feels like a dog has taken a crap in it, and I’m still wearing last night’s clothes. Put bluntly, I feel like shit.

Sitting up on the side of the bed, I rest my elbows on my thighs. My fingers push into my temples, trying to relieve the ever-present tension behind them. I can’t go on like this, but I don’t know how to go on without her. It’s been months since she’s been gone. Yet I struggle to face every day, knowing she’s not by my side. Not mine.

I’ve dealt with a lot of shit in my life, but nothing I’ve seen or done prepared me for the pain caused by a 5’3” woman with the eyes of a storm.

I stand up and rock a little before gaining my balance. I know what I need to do. The only thing I know will focus the pain. My hand digs around in my jacket to find my phone and I call Bear.

“Hi, mate, how are you this morning?” he asks, and I cringe. He sounds like he’s shouting, but I know he’s not.

“Yeah, shit, man.” I sigh and take a deep breath before asking him for a lifeline. “I need a job.”

“You’ve got a job. You haven’t been doing it, Spud has. What are you on about?”

“You know what I mean. I need a
job
. I need to focus.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from him when he understands my request.

“Look, mate, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Uncertainty shouts loud and clear in his voice.

“Fuck, Bear, I need to go on a job. I can’t stand to wake up every morning, roll over, and she’s not there. It’s just a cold, empty space and it’s fucking killing me.
I’m
killing me… please. I need this.” I’m begging my best friend for something he might not be prepared to give me.

“Noah, you’ve been out of the game for well over a year now. Your head’s fucked up, and you expect me to send you on a mission?” he asks incredulously.

“Yeah.” I know I’m asking a lot from him. There’s a silence as he debates what to do, whether to save me from myself or let me drown in my own shit.

“Okay… but I need you to pass the fitness test, and I want you down the range. I need to know I’m not sending you on a suicide mission. You’re not fucking expendable.” The tension in his tone is evident, but I don’t fucking care.

“Cheers, mate.” I hang up, knowing that’s exactly what I am.

My stomach growls and I’m unable to remember the last time I ate. I strip my clothes off as I walk to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I grimace at my reflection. Dark circles rim my bloodshot eyes. My cheeks have hollowed out, my ribcage is clearly visible, and my muscle tone has halved. When I get onto the scales, the numbers register in my head. I’ve lost thirty-two pounds? Fuck. I need to gain some mass, and fast. There’s no way Bear will send me out yet.

But the call to Bear gives me focus. I head downstairs and drag out my protein shake powder from the back of the cupboard. After I finish making the drink, my next stop will be the gym, followed by a quick trip to my lock-up to collect my weapons of choice. My hunting knife, Berretta PX4 handgun, and Heckler & Koch MR762A5 Rifle. Bear will work me until he sees me fit for task, and I’m making sure that’s soon.

He doesn’t need to know that I don’t care if I live or die. I just want to numb the pain the only way I know how.

Two Years and Five Months Later

I
PULL UP
outside my car workshop, kill the engine, and glance out of the window at the white rendered building. A stroke of luck meant I managed to buy this place cheap. It’s in a nice area, but the structure was a shit-hole. With a little elbow grease and a lot of work, I turned it into my idea of what a car workshop should be. It’s classy but practical and modern, smooth lines but with a little attitude—like the perfect woman, but I’ve learnt there’s no such thing.

I get out of the car and can already hear the loud thump of rock music pouring through the air. I shake my head. Spud. He’s worked with me from the start, nearly six years ago, and he’s a good friend as well as my family. It was with both Spud and Bear’s help that this place opened on time. I’ve got a reputation that precedes me in both the field of cars and ladies. Luckily the one for cars is fantastic and earns me a pretty penny. The one with women, not so much. Although saying that, I’ve been offered a few quid in that area too, but I’m not doing that shit. If I’m going to fuck a woman, it’s because I want to, not because I’m being paid.

I stroll into the workshop and spot Spud working in the engine bay of a black Camaro. He’s oblivious to my presence as he concentrates. I take a few seconds to appreciate the car’s curves. It’s gorgeous. I never thought there would be much call for mechanics dealing with muscle cars in the UK, but I surprised even myself by making a go of it. It’s not like we need hundreds of cars coming through a day, so with the one or two restorations a month, plus the general stuff, we are busy enough.

“Bloody hell, Spud, can’t you turn that fucking thing down?” I yell at him, but it barely registers above the radio. It must be at one hundred and twenty decibels, and I’m surprised the neighbours haven’t been around yet to complain.

His shoulders hunch. “You’ve just walked in, mate. No need to jump down my throat.” He’s giving me his, ‘I’m pissed’ voice, and hasn’t looked at me yet. Instead, he walks over to the radio and turns it down a few notches. Spud’s driving me insane this week. He’s as moody as a woman when the monthly painters are in, and twice as bitchy.

“Okay, mate, but what the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been behaving like a spoilt little shit all week.”

He turns to look in my direction. “If you’d pull your weight around here instead of going off shagging everything that moves, my mood might fucking improve.”

Okay, he’s got me there. I’ve slacked off all week. Burning the midnight oil is messing with my livelihood. I need to sort my shit out, but I’m not going to let him know that.

“Hmm, well, if you’d had whatever the hell her name was lips wrapped around your cock, your priorities might be a little different as well.”

“Yeah? I’d also be getting a fucking divorce. I’m sure Cait would love to hear your explanation of why I had another chick’s mouth wrapped around the family jewels.” He leans back against the counter and his blue eyes glare at me.

Spud and Caitlin have been together for nine years, married for two, and are currently expecting baby Spud number one in a few months. I think Caitlin must have gone through the whole sex crazed, shagging your brains out period of the pregnancy that Spud was raving about and now she’s providing him with a drought to rival that of the Sahara.

Although it’s not something I really want to think about.

“Well, tell that wife of yours to do something about it then, because you’re being a real bastard.” I know as soon as it comes out of my mouth that I sound like a complete tosser. But it’s out there, and I can’t take it back.

“Fuck off, Noah. And that’s your sister you’re talking about.” Spud’s fists clench at his sides and his nostrils flare. I’ve crossed the line bringing Cait into it, especially talking about her in such a crude manner. I need to salvage the situation before getting a torque wrench justifiably lobbed at my head.

“So, what’s the story on the Camaro?” I ask, hoping to distract him from wanting to maim me.

Spud glares at me for a few more seconds, making sure I understand his feelings on me running my mouth. He takes a deep breath, looks at the ground, and gives me the ins and outs of the Camaro’s troubled life. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice what I presume is a customer lurking at the door. I hope to God she didn’t hear our conversation.

Note to self: be a little bit more professional when in the workshop. Get your mind on the job and not on last night’s conquest. Feeling like I have suitably chastised myself, and blatantly ignoring Spud, I turn around and pretend I’ve just noticed her.

“Hi, can I help you with something?” I raise my voice so she knows I’m talking to her.

The woman takes small, tentative steps towards me, “Er, I’m looking for Noah.” She stops about two feet in front of me.

“Well, you just found him, love. What can I help you with?” She looks a little skittish so I thrust my hands in my pockets, dip my chin, and rock on my heels. I feel like a little kid, but it makes me appear less intimidating. At six two with a shaved head, piercings, and a full sleeve of ink, I need all the help I can get in the theoretical office; out in the bars and clubs it’s a different story.

“Oh, hi. I’m Layla.” There’s a pause so I look at her for a second or two waiting for her to carry on, but she’s looking at me like I should know her.

I feel like a right bastard, but I’ve got to ask who she is. I just hope to God I’ve not shagged her because that would make me feel like a bigger dick than I already do. She’s quite beautiful, so I’m sure I would have remembered, but you never can tell. With fingers mentally crossed, I go for it.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” There, I said it. Now I’m waiting for World War III to commence.

“I’m Lizzie’s friend. You probably know me as ‘Boo.’”

Fuck. Totally not the answer I was expecting. I feel like The Rock has just come and body slammed me, winding me, and leaving me gasping for breath. I’m completely floored.

I’m quick to gather my senses, hoping my weakness for Lizzie hasn’t just been on display for the whole world to see. Men like me don’t have weaknesses, they can be used against me, and I’m not letting anyone have that ammunition.

“So, what can I do for you, Lizzie’s friend, Layla?” I can’t believe I’ve managed to squeeze her name out of my mouth. Three years later and that shit is still as painful as the day I walked away from her.

I thought it would heal over time, the hurt, the emptiness, the regret, and I gave it time but all that stuff is still lurking within me. I tried to drown the evil life-suckers out, but other than nearly turning into a raging alcoholic and coming close to losing my business, that was about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

When that failed, I tried shagging my way out of it, a different face, different body. Actually, I’m still working on that stage, and up to this point I can guarantee wholeheartedly that shit isn’t fucking working either.

“I know you don’t know me, only know of me.” She looks down towards her shoes, and her fingers pick nervously at the skin around her nail beds. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for what’s happened.”

It’s obvious something’s wrong, but I could be being played, and it wouldn’t be the first time.

“So?” I shrug my shoulders forward trying to urge this raven-haired beauty to get out what she actually came here to say.

“Look, I don’t know who else to go to with this. In all fairness, it could be nothing. I don’t even know why I’m here. Lizzie would kill me.”

She’s talking in riddles, and I have the feeling I’m going to have to shove my hand up her arse to do a ventriloquist impersonation if I’m going to get any information out of her.

What the hell am I thinking? I should just throw her out on her arse. Lizzie has caused me enough pain to last a lifetime and whatever she’s pulling now I want no part of.