Release (28 page)

“My last boyfriend, Adrian,
hated me drinking.”

“Why?” Curiosity crept into
his tone.

“He got jealous sometimes
and thought that if I was out drinking with my friends I’d get up to no good.
About six weeks after I finished with him, I went out and got hammered on
purpose. I didn’t plan on going quite so crazy, but I did. It was a stupid
thing to do, and when I woke up on a park bench with Leona next to me, I knew
we’d been far too reckless. I swore I wouldn’t drink like that ever again. I
know the exact point where I’ve had enough and I never go beyond that.”

When I finally bring myself
to look at Dane, his gaze pierces mine. “So what was tonight about?”

Shit. Didn’t think of that.
“Chase got us free VIP passes and there was an abundance of free champagne.
Sort of got carried away.”

“Right, so free champagne
comes your way and your limit no longer matters? What was the real reason?” Now
we’re back to pissed off.

Well done,
Brooklyn. Nice!

I try to find a good enough
reason without it being the truth. “This was nowhere near as bad as the park
bench time.” I wouldn’t feel as sober as I do now if it was. My hair isn’t
quite as crappy, but I keep brushing it to give me something else to focus on.

Dane's silent, looking at
me. He’s still waiting.

Dropping my hairbrush on the
side, I turn my back on our reflection and lean against the edge of the
counter. Folding my arms across my tummy, I stare at the ceramic tiled floor
and put it out there as fast as I can.

“When Leona joined us she
said she saw you out with your friends, and it was quite clear to me why you
wanted me to go home. I would’ve appreciated you being honest with me, instead
of making it sound like you were doing me a favor. It was fucked up that you
did that, so I thought
fuck you
and decided to drink you out of my head.
And so you don’t get the wrong idea, my best friend wasn’t spying on you. She
told me innocently. She actually really likes you.”

Silence.

I close my eyes and cover my
face with both hands, because I don’t have the guts to look at him just yet,
and I need to feel less exposed.

Silence is so bloody
powerful sometimes.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters
to himself.

I finally glance at him.
He’s rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “Do you feel like you need
space from me, Dane? Are we too intense?”
Am I too needy?

His gaze cuts to me,
instantly. “No, Brooklyn, I don’t.” He moves in front of me. “I think I ask too
much of you, expecting you to be with me all the time. I think I need to strike
a balance with you. I think you need to
trust
me, I don’t know why you
still don’t. Tonight had nothing to do with me and everything to do with you.
You’re always with me, and I never really give you a choice. It isn’t right. I
didn’t plan on going anywhere – I just needed to get out of this place.” His
soft tone envelopes me.

He always makes me feel
wanted and safe.

Yet, my head tells me other
things, too.

How someone can make me feel
so intensely safe and good, yet scare me beyond anything, and anyone, I’ve
experienced before.

Truth of the matter is; Dane
is an amazing man, but at some point he won’t want this anymore. I want him for
as long as I can have him, and even though that may make me an idiot, I can’t
seem to change my mind about that. I have tried.

I wish I could turn my
feelings for him off.

“I don’t need space. If you
do, then that’s fine, you can have it, but I don’t feel like I need it,” I tell
him.

For a moment, we just look
at each other. “You should sleep,” he states.

“Nice way to dodge the
issue.” That does wonders for my confidence in us.

“Don’t get this twisted,
Brooklyn. You need sleep.”

I’m guaranteed an unsettled
night after everything that’s gone on, sleeping any time soon isn’t an option.
“I don’t want to go to bed yet,” I say. “You should if you’re tired.”

A single brow quirks up,
unimpressed with my suggestion it seems. Dane takes me by the hand and leads me
out of the bathroom, through his bedroom, and across to the kitchen. After
sitting me at the breakfast bar, he fills a rather large glass with water and
makes me drink it all. Then he makes me eat a rather large banana, whilst he
has a drink. I swallow a multi-something-or-other tablet. I’m not much into
supplements, I prefer natural foods, but neither is Dane, so maybe I need this.
Plus, I’m hoping for all the help I can get with my recovery. He takes me by
the hand and leads me into the living room.

After he turns on the free
standing lamp, Dane sits in the corner of the sofa and pulls me onto his lap,
lifts my feet up, and cradles me in his arms. I lay my head on his shoulder and
close my eyes, with no intention of sleeping. At five forty-five a.m. I
shouldn’t get so relaxed, but I just want to focus on the feel of us together.

“I like this dress. You make
it look hot.”

I grin. “Thank you. It’s the
one Mum sent me. Shame you had to see me bent over the toilet chucking up my
guts with it on.”

“True. I didn’t exactly get
the opportunity to appreciate your hotness while you exported all evidence of
your night out.”

“I’m sorry you had to see
that. And the other stuff on the street. I really don’t make a habit of getting
drunk and trying to attack people. I hate violence.” I snuggle further into our
embrace.

“Let me know when you want
to go to bed,” he says, talking with his lips against my hair.

We sit silently for a while.
When I open my eyes again, the room is brighter from the lighter sky.  

“You still not ready to
sleep?” Dane asks.

“No, I’m quite awake now.
Are you tired?”

“I’m good. How do you feel?”

“Not completely hideous.”

We fall back into silence
for a few moments.

“Can I ask you something
about Ray?”

“Sure you can.”

“What was your relationship
with him like? Were you close?”

“Very,” he says, and I’m
stunned.

I raise my head to see his
face. “You don’t talk about him much. Not like you do Elizabeth, which I can
understand given that she’s still a part of your life. But you’ve mentioned
your parents more.”

“No, I guess I don’t. He was
awesome. It was because of him I got in to motorcycles.”

“Really? He rode? Stupid me,
of course he did if he invented something for them.”

“He had a 1948 Indian Chief
Roadmaster. It was freaking beautiful, and he fitted a seat on the back so I
could ride with him. I was thirteen, and the second I got on it I knew I wanted
to ride when I was old enough. Ray said he’d teach me. He knew a bunch of stuff
about motorcycles, and always let me help out with the work he did on it.”

The excitement in his
expression and in his voice, as he talks about this one snippet, gives me a
good impression of how he must have felt as a kid. I’m still surprised, I
decided they didn’t get on, but technically it’s because of Ray that Dane runs
the business he has. I imagine Ray would be so proud. And though it occurred
through sad circumstances, the money they left behind, I also think it’s lovely
that Dane’s parents have played a role in the business.

“What happened to the bike?”

“It’s in Elizabeth’s
garage.”

“She kept it?” He nods, not
looking quite so excited now. “Do you ever ride it?”

“Nah, it doesn’t work.”

“Can you fix it?” I ask,
though I know he can. Maybe the parts needed are out of circulation.

“Yeah, it’s just a broken
rear suspension.” And that’s all he says.

Has this conversation gone
far enough for him? Maybe I should leave it, I got my answer. I lower my head,
back down onto his shoulder.

“He was fixing it when he
had a heart attack,’ he says, suddenly. “I don’t know why, but I can’t bring
myself to do it. I’ve tried several times.” He goes silent.

 Lifting my head again,
my gaze rests on his face. Dane doesn’t look at me. Instead, his head is lax
against the back of the sofa and his eyes are closed.  

After a pause, he continues.
“I was supposed to be with him that day. Got caught up doing bullshit with the
guys. Fishing at the lake. I don’t even like fishing.”

I observe him a little
longer. “You blame yourself for him dying,” I say, as the recognition of it
sinks in.

“For a long time I did.
Things might’ve been different if I’d been there like I’d planned to. Instead
of fucking fishing.” He says it like he still can’t believe he was doing
something so insignificant. He was a kid for crying out loud.

“You still blame yourself.
You don’t know that things would’ve been any different if you had been there.”
Even as a grown man I can see he feels a responsibility, but what a heavy
weight to carry on your shoulders at fourteen.

His brows knit ever so
slightly. It’s a subtle change to his face, but it speaks volumes. He
completely blames himself, even after all this time. Nineteen years of blame.

He opens his eyes, gazing
up. “It’s the not knowing that was the problem. I’ll never know for sure.”

“
Was
the problem? It
still is,” I say, gently.

How do you let go of
feelings like that if you really believe an outcome may have been different if
you’d made an alternative decision, such as going home when you said you would?

As I dwell on that thought,
I realize I relate to it as much as Dane does. Sometimes the hardest thing to
do is to let go of knowing the consequences of your decisions never had to
happen in the first place. If you’d only gone with the alternative then the
outcome could’ve been different.

“One thing I do know for
sure is that, at the very least, Saffron wouldn’t have found him dead. There’s
no arguing that, Brooklyn.” He pauses, thoughtfully.

He’s right. I can’t argue
that, because I’d feel the same thing – I
do
feel the same thing. Again,
I relate. There’s no getting away from the impact of your decisions when they
negatively affect someone you love.

“She had nightmares for
weeks after,” he suddenly says. “It got to the point I’d sleep in her room so
I’d be there when she woke up panicked and scared.”

Now he looks at me as though
he’s providing me with an opportunity.

I can’t accept it. I wish I
could.

I lower my head onto his
shoulder. “Maybe one day you’ll fix Ray’s bike and then I can ride with you,” I
say, hoping it might be an incentive. It’s quite an expectation on my part to
consider myself reason enough to encourage him, but that’s the best I can do.

Something so easy to fix,
which has emotional value, shouldn’t be left broken, almost unloved.

“You can ride with me
anytime you feel ready.”

“If you’re ever ready to fix
it, then I will. No pressure, though. If you don’t want to do it, don’t, but I
think you should keep trying until you succeed.”

“I think you’re right. I’ll
hold you to that statement.”

“Good, you do that.” I
stroke his chest. “Let’s dance.” I want to ease the mood somehow, for both of
us.

“You want to
dance?
”

I laugh quietly at the
shocked sound in his voice. “Yep, I feel fine.” Enough.

Jumping up off his lap, I
walk in a straight line between the coffee table and the sofa, proving my
stability, stopping when I get to the space we usually use for dancing. Turning
to face him, I grin. “See.”

He gets up and heads for the
music system.

I love that he never tells
me no.

We’re in the 1990’s, which
we both agree produced some of the most amazing R&B tunes. We often find
ourselves here.

“T-shirt off,” I tell him. I
can never get enough of the look or feel of that firm, tattooed torso.

Face-to-face we step in
close and start moving to the up tempo beat. Into the first chorus, Dane raises
my hand in the air and twirls me gently. He pulls me back against him. I draw
my hair forward, over my shoulder, so my bare back presses to his bare front.
Now his arms wrap around my waist. Rocking and swaying, hips moving, my
backside pressing against his groin. I know he’s holding back because of my
alcohol consumption and toilet hugging episode, but it’s still perfect.

We dance together often and
we definitely pick songs with messages in them. We haven’t said that we do
this, but it’s obvious. I know that Dane knows, and vice versa. I like it this
way because not only is it our thing, but those words remain mine if I haven’t
actually said them to him. Through lyrics and the way we move we express want,
need, attraction and care, but never a direct ‘I Love You’. I don’t expect
those words from Dane. I don’t intend on giving them, either, even if I have
come close to saying them.