Blurred Lines (Behind Closed Doors Book 2) (15 page)

“A hobby?” Suddenly he lights up with anger. “A hobby?” he repeats. “Why don't I know anything about this hobby?”

“Because it was my dream, Wayne.” I look away, my eyes falling on the sketches and I have to turn away. “I gave it up when I came to LA. It's the sacrifice I made for you and you must know I'd never change that decision. I love you.”

He crouches beside me and says, “Do you know what I dream about, Julia?” He puts his finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him. I'm left reeling from the rejection. Hadn't he heard me? “I dream about psychos trying to kill you. So I'd rather you didn't do this for Ash and have your name flashed everywhere.”

“It won't be like that.”

“It will.” He wipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb as he continues, “You know it will. Everything she touches turns into gold. So people will want your clothes and you'll get your own stalkers and I’ll worry about whether you're safe. I'd never let you leave my side if you were a world famous designer.”

But didn't he say I was wasting my time with Ashleigh before? What he's just described is every wannabe designers dream. Even if I think he's overestimating Ashleigh's capabilities just a touch, why wouldn't I stay with someone whose influence could achieve all that? And why does he remind me that my career rests on Ashleigh's success and then tell me I'm wasting my talents on her? I don't understand anymore. He's contradicting himself and its confusing me.

“Please just this one time, Wayne,” I ask, but his expression remains firm. I don't think he'll even consider it further. “Let me prove to you that I'm more than Krystal Valentina's stylist.”

He takes my cheeks on both of his hands and his gaze holds mine, burning me with dying rage and desperation. “You don't have to prove anything, Julia,” he says, kissing my forehead. “You're everything to me.” How do I argue with that? I couldn't tell him being his wife wasn't enough when he was the most important person in the world to me, and if he asked me not to do it then I wouldn't. His eyes search mine. “This means that much to you?” I nod slowly because it does. “And you really want more psychos chasing after you?”

Not at all. But I know the only way he'll give me this chance is if I show him I'm not afraid. But I am. I'm afraid he'll say no. Or worse, he'll make me choose between him and the opportunity Ashleigh has given me, because that's just not fair. Slowly, I nod.

“Okay.” I have to blink a couple of times before it sinks in that he's actually relented. He just said I can do it. I can be everything I ever wanted to be. “But I won't be held responsible for my actions when it all goes wrong and I get to say I told you so.”

“Thank you.” I kiss him because he really is an amazing husband. He's put his fears aside to make me happy. God! That's a real turn on. But I'm useless at this seduction thing. I've never had to do it. So I make an attempt to flutter my lashes over what I hope are come to bed eyes and purr at him. “We're you just threatening me, Detective Swift?”

His eyes darken as one hand begins to wonder. His touch is light over the material of my floor length summer dress and ignites every nerve ending. A rumble vibrates from deep within him that fuels the burning low in my stomach. Maybe I'm not so bad at this after all?

I know he knows what I want. There's a heat in his voice as he teases me. “Not at all, Mrs. Swift.” He rocks forward on the balls of his feet. He presses his entire body, chest to thigh, against me as his knees touch the ground. He's looking down at me with a wild hunger that excites me further. “I'm merely promising you there will be repercussions when this goes wrong, and I'll be waiting patiently with open arms for you to coming running to me.”

He takes my left arm into his hands, looks at my forearm, and hesitates as though he’s remembering the cast that was there until a few hours ago. Then he presses tender kisses along the bone line as he closes his eyes. I swear my insides are highly inflammable. One touch and I'm ablaze. But he pulls away and the regret I know he feels fills his pained expression. I just can't let his mind go back there. We have to keep moving forward.

“You're not supposed to make these repercussions sound tempting,” I whisper. “I really don't want to wait for psychos to stalk me before you instigate those repercussions.” He suddenly looks at me and it's like he can't believe his luck. “What else can I do, Detective?”

A deep rumble left his lips. “Aw, babe, I think you just did.” His lips capture mine so fast and I fall backwards under the pressure and melt into my hot, hot husband.

Chapter Fifteen

April 2010

My schedule is super crazy. I can't seem to keep up with all the events Ashleigh has coming up. I've been so busy that we almost run out of food in the house because I just couldn't find time to go to the supermarket. I have so many emails and telephone calls and to do lists they've crawled into my sleep and I dream I've already done them.

Wayne is furious I’m so busy at the moment. He hasn’t said anything, but I know he’s mad from the increase in sarcasm. He says it's amazing, all I do is shop all day and yet I can't manage to buy basic provisions. I had to try the supermarket’s online shop and drop facility this week. Annoyingly, even though I asked them not to substitute out of stock items they sent granulated sugar instead of cubes. I only remember when I open the cupboard and remembered I haven't had time to buy any cubes yet.

Wayne won't be happy. Since his promotion to lieutenant two years ago, he’s been in charge of the case of the stalker-turned serial murder with the fondness for petite blonds. There was a break in the case two days ago and he hasn’t been home since. He really wants to catch this guy before they bring in fresh eyes.

Nerves tingle in my tummy as I reach him at the top of the stairs. Even though he’s sleepy, his expression warns me the last few days have not gone well and therefore he’s in a foul mood this morning. He snatches the cup from my hand and gives me little opportunity to explain. He sips from the cup, then screws up his face like he’s eaten dirt. His eyes flame with fury and he explodes, “What the fuck is that?”

“I—I...” The cup, hot coffee and all, heads towards me and I leap out of the way. There's nothing beneath my feet. I start to fall as Wayne screams out my name.

I tumble. Every step bumps against a different part of my body; an arm, a leg, a hand, my face smashes against something solid at the bottom. My head is still spinning but I think my body has stopped. The thundering sound of my fall is still thumping inside my head.

“Julia!” Maybe it was Wayne’s footsteps? It's stopped now and Wayne is by my side. His hand touches a tender spot on my shoulder. I hiss at the pain. “Are you okay?”

“Ow.” I blink. Once. Twice, then open my eyes. I try to shift out of the uncomfortable position. “Did I just fall down the stairs?”

“Stay still,” he orders me in a police officer tone of voice that makes me wonder if I was really at home or in a public place. Through the haze I start to wonder if it’s really Wayne; maybe I just think it is. After all, my head has taken several hard whacks in the fall. “You could be seriously hurt.”

“I'm not.” I try to smile for his sake but I'm pretty sure my nose is going to explode. “I need to sit up.” He backs off a little to give me room and the second I'm upright blood gushes from my nose. Wayne's cursing like a sailor and then he's gone. He's just left me here without a word. Alone, clutching my nose and trying not to choke on the mouthfuls of blood I get when I gasp for breath. Where the hell has he gone?

I gather up my floor length summer skirt and hold it to my face as a struggle to my feet. I go dizzy. My head spins and I have to lean against the wall for a moment before I attempt to walk back upstairs.

Now I'm in our en suite bathroom. I'm dazed. I'm a little confused. Not sure how I got here. I must have walked.

“Julia?” Wayne's worried voice comes from the bedroom. “Are you in here?” He appears in the mirror's reflection. “You should have stayed where you were.” He steps towards me with what I think is an ice pack in his hand. “What were you thinking?”

What? Me? How was this my fault?

“Surely, you must have known you were so close to the top of the stairs.”

Well yes, but—

“Why would you step back like that?”

“Y—you—” I don’t know what to say.

“That was really silly of you.”

“You threw a cup of coffee at me and I fell downstairs.” His face turns a ghostly shade of grey at my withdrawal. Instantly I feel guilty, like somehow falling down the stairs had nothing to do with the cup of coffee heading in my direction. I reach for his hand and hope that somehow he’ll explain why he threw the cup at me. Was it really because of the sugar? “Why?”

“It’s work stuff,” he explains and replaces my hand with the ice pack.

Its hell and I wince, step back and he flinches. Now I feel bad. I hate the ‘work stuff’ excuse. What he does bothers him so much sometimes and I know he has nightmares about what he sees. He wakes me up sometimes muttering and mumbling or thrashing about in his sleep. I think he needs to move into a more pleasant area of the force, but he says he loves his job and he wouldn't know who he is without it.

I understand. I have felt inadequate and incomplete in my job for years. There was a time when it almost felt like the right fit. But the resistance to choose my work over my marriage holds back any natural progression of my career. Now I consult with all the other designers, say yay or nay to their options, give them my suggestions and ideas. I could never ask him to give his job up for me, not the way I have for him.

“I went to this one crime scene—” Wayne says and brings me back to the present and the pain blistering across my face “—and it was a ritual with a human sacrifice.” I gasp. “One guy kept his mother in the freezer for six months.” He tries again with the ice pack and although it stings I let him. I focus on what he's saying rather than what he's doing. My husband is opening up to me. “I've had so many cases where people have been robbed and refused to give up their belongings, or have been in a hit and run and not survived and random people being found behind dumpsters and on the beach.” He closes his eyes. “My team was called to a fire at an abandoned warehouse. The fire crew found a woman and her children bound and gagged and locked in a small storage cupboard. They suffocated on smoke fumes.” His hands drop to his lap as he whispers, “How do we bring children into a world where people would do something like that? Kill innocent babies.”

This time I do pull away from the ice pack. I pull away from him altogether because I know what he's trying to say and I don't believe he's saying it.

”I've tried to tell myself that we can't bring children into a world like this and it's for the best that you can't have them.” The only word I hear is you. There’s a part of me, deep down inside, that’s saying ‘I told you so.’ I knew this day would come. The day he blamed me for leaving, for running into the path of that psycho. I knew he’d never be happy just the two of us.

“I seemed to say it to myself every day but it won't go away.” He doesn't look at me and I suddenly get this awful feeling. He blames me for not being able to give him children. “I just didn't know how to tell you.”

I know it had taken a lot for him to open up like that but still... I can't give him what he wants. Even if I could, he can't control his anger. If this is what happened when I fail to make his coffee the right way, what will he be like when I fail to make a baby month after month after month? We weren't ready for kids. We wouldn't be able to handle the heartache time and time again. “No.”

The way he looks at me, it’s like the bottom of his world has fallen out. I feel like the world's most heartless bitch but... I can’t do this. What if they were wrong? What if I can't have children at all?

“Are you going to leave me?” He sounds so miserable. “I won't blame you if you do. You should. It's my fault. I was angry. You always get hurt when I'm angry.” His hand trembles as he reaches towards me with the ice pack. “I promise I'll control my temper better if you stay. I won't hurt you again.”

He keeps saying this. He keeps saying that he’s to blame for my injuries. But aside from hitting me the night I was attacked by the serial killer, and the night I broke my arm, he’s never touched me. Never hurt me. Not physically. He scares me. He gets so angry sometimes that I’m too frightened to be with him. He follows me, shouting the most awful things. Things he knows will hurt me and I only try to get away from him faster. There are nights when I lock myself in the bathroom. I’ve hidden in the closet. But I’m the clumsy one. I trip. I slip. I fall. I bump into things in my attempts to get away.

“You're not the one who hurts me, Wayne.”

“I do, Jules.” He shakes his head. “I have scars where you've scratched at my hands to make me let you go.”

“But leaving you has never ever crossed my mind.”

“And kids?”

“Maybe we can look into adopting?” But I know that once they hear I was targeted by a serial killer they'll dig deeper into my medical history and find all kinds of dark accusations from the medical professionals. They ask so many prying questions and make up their own conclusions rather than listen to your answers. I refuse to go to the hospital anymore.

“It’s not impossible.”

“It's going to hurt us, Wayne. We're going to be disappointed over and over. Can you live with that kind of failure? I can't.” Especially not now that I know how much he wants children and how long it's taken for him to find the courage to tell me. But how can I withhold the chance from him? I focus on our hands clasped together between us but all I can see is those creepy eyes and his raspy voice calls to me from a memory.

Wayne’s finger tucks under my chin. He forces me to look him straight in the eyes. “You were hemorrhaging,” he whispers. “Jules, you were in surgery for hours.” He rests his forehead against mine. “I want to see you grow. I want to feel our baby kick inside your belly. I want to go for sonograms and carry a little black and white picture in my wallet.” And then he kisses me.