Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) (41 page)

“Oh Taylor, he won’t want me to tell you.” Mum using a stage whisper you could’ve heard in the far paddock.

“I could threaten to beat it out of you.”

The two of them cackled like kookaburras. Jamie ate a biscuit. Was this a work day? He’d lost track of the week days. What did it mean that they were here together? Was Angus with them and somewhere else now? It wasn’t a problem with either of their families or he’d have known. Which meant they’d come entirely to torture him. Which meant Mum had to have called them in the first place. Double agent.

“Can he talk at all?” Jamie.

“He should be able to.” Mum.

Jamie took another shortbread from the tin. “So why isn’t he?”

“He’s scared, darling.”

Damon put his head on the table and thumped his forehead a couple of times. They weren’t even attempting to talk to him, only at him. Jamie ruffled his hair. Taylor pulled out a chair and sat opposite. He could smell the tea.

Mum put her hand to the collar of his t-shirt and he straightened up. “I’ll go talk to the chooks. I’ll be outside if you need an interpreter. Mostly he just bangs things. It usually means he’s unhappy about something. If you can get him to talk I’ll roast a chook for dinner.”

The scuff of her shoes on the old lino as she left the room. The circular clink, clink of a spoon in a cup. The wap the biscuit tin lid made when someone levered it off and on again. But not a word. He reached for his tablet.

“Oh cute. He’s going send us a postcard from London.”

A sound from Jamie: disapproval, warning. He put the tablet down and opened his arms out. A give it your best shot gesture. Taylor took it, but not in the way he expected. He heard her move and the chair beside him scrape. She bumped his shoulder deliberately. Jamie laughed and said, “Really?”

Next thing, smack, slurp, a satisfied moan; they were making out at the family kitchen table. Not pretend either, they were into it. God, was she dry humping him? He pushed away from the table; he didn’t have to listen to this. He got as far as the doorway and Taylor said, “Where is Georgia? Is she still in the UK?

Not the question he expected. He held onto the doorjamb and Taylor was right behind him. “What did you do?”

Saved a life, that’s what he did. How could Taylor not guess at that?

“She’d think we’re in cahoots, you and me. I totally bought the London thing. Is that where she went? Because you sure didn’t. You packed her off like a problem. I thought she might call until I figured out she’d think I was in on whatever this is. She’s the one for you, you bloody idiot. What are you doing, Damon?”

“Go easy, Trill.”

“Doesn’t feel like easy is going to help.”

“So you’re going for bullying instead?”

“I’m going for anything that will get a reaction out of him. I want him back. I don’t care that he doesn’t trust us. He’s doing something big and stupid but I’m there too. We both were, Jamie, for so long, who are we to judge?”

Hands on his waist, Taylor’s arms around his middle, her face against his shoulder blade. He kept hold of the doorjamb because it was doing a better job holding him up than his spine.

“I don’t know what to do, Dame. I don’t know what you want. I got what I want because being with Jamie was bigger than anything else, worth everything else. I thought that’s what you had with Georgia. I took a risk and so did Jamie but you, you gave it all away. I’d help you if I could, but I don’t know what to do, except love you.”

Christ
. He took a step forward and hoped she’d let go, but she clung like a kitten; softness and claws, loveable and deadly.

“Do you have a voice?” Jamie was standing closer now. “I’m not buying you not knowing. I assume it’s bad news. You don’t have to do bad news alone.”

Taylor let go so abruptly he grabbed for the other side of the doorjamb. “He hasn’t coughed once since we’ve been here. Hasn’t cleared his throat. That kinda scares me. He’s been doing that for so long and now he’s not. It means something, and Midge said the surgery went well.”

It did mean something, so did how much easier swallowing had become. But he didn’t trust that. He didn’t want the specialist’s final verdict either, he’d been putting it off. He could pretend it didn’t mean anything, that sending Georgia away was the right thing to do, as long as he lived enclosed in darkness and self-imposed silence.

Because to open his mouth was to grieve aloud for the last words he’d said to her, for not understanding the precise cut of loss. It had nothing to do with his voice and everything to do with his heart, and to get his voice back without hope of mending his heart wasn’t a tragedy he’d prepared for.

He lifted his chin. So much he wanted to say but the person he most wanted to say it all to was thousands of miles away. And he’d lost her as surely as he’d lose Taylor and Jamie, Angus and Heather and Sam, if he didn’t step up.

It was now or never and yet he had nothing worth saying.

He opened his mouth and his first sound was a garbled cough and Taylor buried her face in his side. He got an arm around her and tried again, choked out, “I, ah.” It didn’t burn. “I, ah. I.” It sounded like he had a mouth full of sawdust and there were cobwebs so thick over his vocabulary he couldn’t find a way through them. I fucked up, I blew it. I hurt her.

He took a breath. “Spew spawn.” The first words of his second chance. The words he’d given Vox. They came out not much more than a whisper and Taylor thumped her forehead into his chest. She might be crying. He might be too, because his face was wet.

Jamie said, “And raging blue thunder.”

He cleared the mass in this throat that was fear and not physical and repeated the line Jamie had given him in a scatty tone with wild pitch.

Jamie said, “More.”

He took a shaky breath and focused. “You can shred me,” he wiped his face and squeezed Taylor so hard she squeaked. He took another measured breath. Unlike after the first surgery, there was no sandpaper rasp in his throat, no grit inlaid over his vowels and he had some control over volume. He held out a hand for Jamie to clasp. “But I plan to be annoyingly alive when the darkness comes.”

Mum did cry. But she roasted two chickens with barrow loads of vegetables. No one pressed him to talk, they were satisfied he could. They talked at him, insulting him, picking on him and it felt right. He let them have at it. He’d been a miserable human being, they deserved their fun at his expense.

That night he packed a bag. In the morning he was going home with Taylor and Jamie to see about rebuilding his life.

34: Secretarial

Hamish had written
Damon Tuesday 10am
on a post-it note and stuck it on Georgia’s borrowed bedroom door. “You answered my phone.”

He shrugged. “You left it behind. It kept ringing.”

“It can take a message.”

“I did know that.”

Georgia looked at the yellow post-it, looked at full of himself Hamish. “You don’t get to answer my phone and make appointments for me.”

He laughed. “You don’t say.”

“Unmake it.” She slapped the post-it on his forehead and moved past him. “Damon has a whole twenty-four hours to find something else to do with his Tuesday 10am.”

Hamish followed. “That would just be rude.”

“Answering someone else’s phone and making an appointment for them is rude.”

“No, it’s secretarial.”

She stopped in the kitchen and turned to face him. He looked silly with the post-it note on his head, and he’d never been fond of looking silly. Good. She’d never dared to make him look or feel silly in the past. “Did I ask you to be my secretary?”

“Did I ask you to move in with me and waft around like a hopelessly lost waif?”

“What?”

He took the post it-note off his head. “You need to do this.”

“I’m not doing it. You keep the appointment.”

“Georgie, you’re not very much fun, you know.”

“You think it’s fun to do this to me.”

“I think it’s what you need to do so you can test how you feel. And if needs be, move on. It’s like visiting the scene of the crime and seeing it’s not as scary as you’d made it out to be.”

She reached forward, snatched the post-it from his hand and slapped it back on his forehead. “Good God, you even talk like a therapist now.”

He laughed. “I suppose you could go out. Just not be here when he arrives.”

“Oh, you’d like that. You’d get to complete your stalking exercise in person.”

“I wouldn’t interrogate him.”

“You mean you wouldn’t use thumbscrews.”

“All right. I would interrogate him, but only about, well, you. Maybe your sex life. I’m desperate to know about that.”

“It’s not happening.” She held her phone out to him. “Call him and tell him not to come.”

He ignored her outstretched hand. “Why are you so panicked about this? Why aren’t you chomping at the bit to smack his semi-famous arse for dumping you? He’s very obviously coming to grovel. He flew halfway around the world to grovel, that’s class act grovelling. I’m somewhat impressed.”

“I’m not panicked about it. I just don’t need to see him. It’s been two months. Why does he want to see me now?”

“Why don’t you want to see him?”

“Airport, dumped, duped, miserable, arsehole.”

“See, you do want to see him.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I love the way you tell me how you feel. It’s like the old days, before we were married. It’s so exciting. I can’t wait to hear what you have to say when I tell you the other news.”

“What other news?”

He waved the post-it. “I lied.”

She gripped the kitchen counter. “He’s not coming? Why would you tell me he was? All that class act grovelling, all that being impressed.” She sighed. Hamish had a stupid look on his face. “This isn’t funny.”

“It should be. Now why is it you don’t look happy?”

“Because you gave me a heart attack.”

“Because you really do want to see him.”

She glared at him. He was right. She was terrified of seeing Damon again and devastated she wasn’t going to get the chance. “What’s wrong with me?

“Question for a therapist.”

The doorbell rang. She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. Two minutes to ten. She looked at Hamish. “What did you lie about?”

“You know how I can get so easily confused.”

Oh dear God. “Your house,” she pointed towards the front door, “you get that.”

Hamish lurched for a dinning chair and slumped into it. “I find myself indisposed.”

She stomped past him up the hall. Whoever was collecting, or selling, or hoping to put God in her life was going to get a dose of Godlessness to rock them. A lesson out of Taylor’s book.

“Georgie.”

Hand on the knob. “What?” Hamish had followed her up the hall. She opened the door, shooting him an annoyed look over her shoulder.

“Just remember I did it for you.”

She looked through the open door. Damon stood there. He wore a fabulously expensive-looking trench coat and held his white stick. His dark hair shone, his blue eyes sparkled, an expression of concern, between his brows, a question on his beautiful lips. “Georgia?”

She slammed the door, a hand flying to her hair, not brushed, wet from the shower. She wore baggy old jeans, a jumper of Hamish’s with holes in it and Uggs.

She rounded on Hamish, ready to kick him. “What did you do?”

“I might’ve had a problem with the days of the week. Let the man in, for goodness sake.”

The bell rang again.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Class act grovelling. But if you really don’t want to see him, make sure he knows it.”

“He must already know it. I just shut the door on him. Maybe he’ll go away.”

The doorbell rang.

Hamish smirked. “I don’t think he got the message yet. Is he a bit dull?”

They stared at each other. “I don’t want this.”

“Then tell him, Georgie, and I’ll be here with you. It’s the least I can do.”

She really had no option, but her tongue was upside down, there were too many teeth in her mouth and her hands were numb. But you know what, it was okay, she could do this, be civil. Damon should see she was comfortable with Hamish. Had no need of voice actor royalty and his high-flying lifestyle. Never mind he looked incredible. Never mind she was desperate to hear him say more than her name. He took her breath away. Oh my God, he might already have gone.

She flung the door open and the urge to throw herself in his arms was so overwhelming she had to look at her feet to stop from stepping into him.

“Georgia?”

He had a voice, not the same but not a sanding machine, not a metal grater in his throat like before.

“You sound well.” She sounded pissed off and that was useful.

He frowned. “Is it a bad time?”

“Yes. I didn’t agree to this.” She sounded calm and together and that was more practical. He sounded like he’d been drinking, smoking, shouting all night.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he half turned back towards the street. “Hamish said it would be best to call at the house to see you.” His tone and volume were different. There was a hint of just woken up gravel dust. He had a voice, but it wasn’t the one he’d had when they met, and yet it was still impossibly sexy.

Hamish stepped up beside her. “I’m Hamish, do come in, Damon.” He gave Georgia a shove so there was room for Damon to step across the threshold.

Damon’s chin shifted right so he was looking towards Hamish. “Thank you.” He put a hand out in front. Hamish grinned and took it and the two of them shook. She looked at the ceiling rose. Oh this was fun, both of these men had seen her naked. Both of them had rejected her. She closed her eyes. She had no idea where that thought came from, but it made her feel sick.

Damon tapped his way through the doorway into the hall.

Hamish said, “I’ll lead you to the kitchen.”

She could’ve done that. But if she touched Damon, whatever string was holding her insides together would untwist and leave her in pieces. He was tanned and he seemed taller, bigger, more outrageously handsome.

“Why are you here?” She spoke to his back and he stopped moving.

Hamish kept going, “I’ll make the tea.”