Second Chance Hero (33 page)

“I forgot,” I reach out and touch his chest, “I
forgot.”

“I’ve got to have you,” he growls.

“We can't,” I step back, thinking distance will put
out the fire roaring through me at the thought of Deacon’s need for me.

“I’ll find a way, Jen.”

I cover my mouth with my hand and shake my head.
He’s hurt, really hurt, and I’m positive there are injuries he hasn’t declared
to anyone. I can't let him hurt himself any more.

“We can't,” I step closer, knowing he can't throw me
around as much as usual and take his face in my hands, “I’m yours. You’re mine.
You have my heart, my soul and my body. And I want yours. If we do this now my
checklist won't be complete.”

“At least come to bed with me, let me hold you.”

“Forever,” I whisper, darting across the room to
find the crutches, and return them to him.

It’s a sleepless night for both of us. When Deacon
can't get comfortable, I pretend I’m asleep so he doesn’t suggest sleeping
separately so he doesn’t disturb me. He has a pile of pillows under his leg,
and I lose count of the number of times he wakes up swearing because his leg
has slipped off or he’s laid on the wrong side. I almost laugh when his leg
falls from the pillows and his foot crashes to the floor, but the pained scream
that escapes reminds me that this is serious. It’s why I’m awake – I’m the only
person here who can get help if something goes wrong. The only reminder of the
crash is the broken leg and scattered bruising. To everyone except me. I’m not
convinced that the inside is safe – it’ll take a lot to persuade me, because I
witnessed every moment his heart rate spiked, or blood pressure dropped; I saw
every wire on his body, heard every beep of the machines. The fact that he’s
home with a few boxes of painkillers isn’t enough to prove to me that he’s
safe. So I lie awake all night, listening to his strained breathing when he
sleeps, and his painful groans muffled by him holding a pillow over his mouth.

I think I finally lose consciousness as the sun
begins to rise. I don't fall asleep; I’m still aware of every movement Deacon
makes, but eventually my body and mind give in and I drift in and out of
overdue sleep. When I open my eyes again, it’s clearly well into the morning,
and Deacon isn’t in bed. I sit bolt upright, panicking and pull on his t-shirt
that’s on the floor, while I’m climbing out of the bed and walking towards the
landing. I had obviously fallen asleep, failing again to do something I’d
planned to do. The house is silent and I worry, knowing Deacon wouldn’t have
been able to go out anywhere; his house is only in walking distance of fields –
he can't walk and can't drive, so my panic goes into overdrive.

A loud laugh suddenly shakes the house and I freeze
in the spot. I’ve never heard that laugh before. And then I hear Deacon’s sweet
yet restrained laugh and feel instantly better. The sound is coming from the
garden, and he obviously has a visitor, so I go to the kitchen to make coffee
and check my messages. I brave the coffee machine, realising it has a simple on
button which sets it going to heat the water and grind the coffee beans. I have
messages from Emma, Mum and Jade, all asking how Deacon is doing. I send the
same reply to each of them:

‘He’s happy to be home. Went
straight to bed last night. Speak soon, J x’

I know everyone is worried, and I know it’s only a
matter of time before the visits begin. Eventually Deacon has to get involved
in everything again. And selfishly, I want to keep him to myself for as long as
possible. Everything seems to be fine when we’re on our own, in our little
bubble of complicated feelings and unsaid words. Until last night. I’ve wanted
to hear him tell me he loved me for as long as I can't remember – I can't
recall there ever being a time where I wasn’t in love with Deacon. I don't want
to share him with the world, which always seems to burst our bubble with their
opinions and judgments and interferences. I even want Deacon’s visitor to hurry
up leave, and I haven’t got a clue who it is.

After a few minutes of leaning against the counter
and looking out of the kitchen window at the fields beyond Deacon’s drive way,
the alarm on the coffee machine goes off and I grab a coffee cup, the blue-top
milk he has stored in the fridge, and pour myself a cup of much needed coffee.
The exhaustion thrums in the distance, behind all the other thoughts in my
head, and I realise I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in God knows how long.
But I think the shock and adrenaline of Deacon being hurt, and then the innate
drive to keep an eye on him and keep him safe is starting to wear off, and my
body is realising just how tired it is. My muscles ache, I’m aware of the
effort it takes to move one foot in front of the other, and the masculine
laughter booms through my head again. I have to find out who this man is.

“Deacon?” I call, peeping my head around the
blind-clad French doors, after I pull a pair of my pyjama shorts on.

“Did I wake you up?”

I shake my head as I step out into the garden and
get a look at the man sitting at the table. He’s about my dad’s age, with a
receding hair line, a beer belly and an incredible smile. It’s on show and
gleaming as he stands to greet me, offering me his seat.

“Jenna, this is Ted. He...was my dad’s business
partner. He runs things down in London,” Deac says as I reach out and take
Ted’s hand, “Ted, this is Jenna. She’s-”

“I know who this is,” Ted holds my hand in both of
his, and I wonder how the hell he knows me, “Dom showed me pictures of his
future daughter-in-law.”

I jerk my hand back, and I know my cheeks are red because
I feel the heat in them. Daughter-in-law? Dom called me that? Oh god, he really
did have a plan for us. Why didn’t you tell me, Dom? I didn’t mean to be rude,
but it shocked me that this stranger knows more about my would-be
father-in-law’s plans for me, than I do. But when I look up at Deacon, I know
it’s shocked him too.

I’m silent, still in shock as I hear Deacon and Ted
talking around me; and for some reason we’re all still standing. I find it
impossible to look anywhere but at the floor, or move my body to sit at the
table. I notice the burn on my knuckles from gripping the coffee so hard, but
when I look up, it’s just me and Deacon in the garden.

“What happened?” I ask, finally able to drop into
the chair that seems closer than it did last time I checked.

Deac rests his crutches on the table and eases into
the chair next to me, his short-clad leg brushing mine, with the skin to skin
contact I’m craving but can't have.

“He had to get to work.” I gasp when Deacon slides
his hand under the table and grips my thigh. I stop with my coffee half way to
my mouth and look at him, “He’s looking after the yard until I’m a bit quicker
on my feet.”

I nod, not really listening to what he’s saying,
because all I can think about is the pattern he’s tracing with his finger on
the inside of my leg. It’s mesmerising, comforting, and has direct access to my
libido. I swallow hard, before I speak.

“I’m starving,” I stand up, spilling coffee and
watching Deac’s hand drop to the side of his chair, “are you hungry? I’ll make
lunch.”

Deacon

           
I’ve never had such a long dry spell since the
afternoon I lost my virginity to Stacey Needy in the park when I was sixteen. I
get hard just thinking about Jenna; finally she’s mine, living in my house like
it’s hers, and walking around in tiny shorts and thin vests, while she busies
herself looking after me. I want nothing more than to get her in that nurse’s
uniform just so I can watch the buttons scatter as I rip it off and give her
everything that’s been building since the last time I had her. It’s been too
long.

            I lie on the sofa, with my fucking leg
elevated on the pile of pillows Jenna insisted on, while she clatters about in
the kitchen making breakfast. And this is our routine. We’re finally together,
and I’m so ecstatic I could scream it to strangers passing in the street.
Except I’m housebound. I feel like I could walk to the end of my road, and
straight off the cliff and still land on my feet. Except the foot on one
fucking leg doesn’t work.

            So for the last week, I’ve been watching
shit TV, and watching Jenna as she cleans the house, or bakes cakes, or sits in
the garden reading. Whatever she does, I watch it and it all reminds me that
we’ve been living together for a week and I haven’t yet made her scream at the
top of her lungs that she’s mine, while riding the crest of ecstasy. Fucking
car crashes.

            I use the back of the sofa to pull
myself up and attempt to put the weight on my broken leg. The leg that’s held
together by pins, broken in three places, and is stopping me from working out.
It’s the only thing other than sex that I take my frustrations out on.

            “You need some help?” Jenna calls from
the doorway of the kitchen and I wonder how she knew I was up.

            It takes a while to answer, because I
have to hold my breath to stop from shouting out in pain. Aren’t I supposed to
feel better after a week?

            “Deac?”

            “I’m fine.” I wave my crutch in the air
and make my way into the home office, “I’ll be in here.”

            I have no idea why I have an office in
here, considering I live next door to my actual office. I added the office to
the plans for the house when my dad died and I discovered the old shoe box I
had decorated for my football trading cards when I was younger. I had given in
to curiosity at first when Mum brought one home for each of us, when she had
been to go over Dad’s will. Once I had opened it and seen the envelopes inside,
I closed it. I never opened the lid again; not even when I put it on the shelf
in the dark, windowless office. I couldn't bear to look inside it, but I felt
like I needed an entire room to dedicate to the day I did. For some reason, I
hobble, straight over to the shelf and slide the box off into my hand. I sit at
the desk and put the box in front of me, staring at the worn drawings of
footballs and little stick men, with ‘Deacon Reid’s Card Box’ scribbled on top
of the lid. I sit back and cross my arms; I remember decorating this box. Dad
bought me a new pair of trainers and my first pack of trading cards when we
went out to the shopping centre when Mum was sick. Brad came too, but I think
he got a Star Wars toy and decorated his box accordingly. I can't believe Dad
kept them.

            I run my thumbs along the lid of the box
and prepare to open it, wondering what other plans my dad had for my future if
he saw me marrying Jenna.

            “Breakfast is ready.” I look up to see
her standing in the door, “I made omelettes. I did call you but you didn’t hear
me.”

            “I wasn’t hiding, baby.” I stand up,
leaving the box on the desk and limp over to Jenna, leaving my crutches against
the desk.

            I slide my hands round the back of her,
pinning her to me with my arms which will need some serious work when my leg is
better. Jenna takes a deep breath, and before she can rebuff me again, I close
the distance and press my lips to hers. She relaxes into me, grips my neck, and
lets me explore her mouth with my tongue. She tastes like toothpaste and
coffee, and I’ve missed the way her perfect lips fit with mine. I kiss her
greedily, letting my hands roam across any part of her I can reach, but when I
step us sideways and crush her against the wall, my cries drown out hers.

            “See!” She says, shoving me off, “I told
you you’re not ready!”

            “Jen, I’ve got to have you. I need you.”

            And I to fix my body before she’ll let
me touch her.

            “Deac, you have me.” She kisses my cheek
and I feel it everywhere, “Look at like delayed gratification.”

            “What’s that?”

            “It’s the ability to wait, not for an
immediate reward, but the reward you’ll get for being patient.”

            “But how does that have any relevance
here? I could spend my entire life buried in your hot, tight little-”

            “Imagine how hard you’ll come when
you’ve been dying to have me. I’m aching to touch you, Deac. But I’m thinking
of the look on your face when I suck you off, the feel of you inside me, and I
can't wait until I feel everything you have to give.” I’m stunned into silence,
rock hard, and painless, “Breakfast is going cold.”

            I hobble after Jenna, desperate for her
to tell me some more. It’s clear that thoughts of each other are all that is
getting us through not being able to tear into each other. I can't stomach
food; my body is too awake, too interested in watching Jenna eat her fruit and
yoghurt. She chews every mouthful slowly, taking sips of her orange juice in
between, and does this ball-busting thing where she looks down and then looks
up at me through her eyelashes. It makes her look cute and sweet, but tempting
and sexy as hell.

            “What are your plans for today?”

            She frowns and narrows her eyes, “Am I
supposed to have plans?”

            I shrug, “I just thought you might want
to get out of here.”

            “Should I?” I shrug again in response,
“I’ve never lived with anyone before.”

            “I don't know how it works either,
remember?” She takes another mouthful of fruit and I stumble over my words
watching, “I thought you’d want to see your parents.”       

            “In other words, you want me to go to
town so I can bring you something back?”

            No, that’s not what I was thinking, but
I’ll go with it. Come to think of it, I’ve been craving sweets for the last
three days. It must be the pills.

            I manage to persuade Jenna to go into
town and see her parents for a couple of hours, and bring me back some Haribo and
a tub of ice cream. It’s the visions of her naked in her bed while I lick ice
cream of every inch of her soft creamy skin that send me flying off the sofa
and out into the garden. In the couple of hours it takes Jenna to do her thing
in town, I’ll pass the pain threshold far enough to be able to spend the night
showing her how much I love her.

            A few hours weren’t enough; it just made
me ache and pass out on the sofa before Jenna got home. I wake up in the middle
of the night and notice she’s covered me with a blanket, left the lamp on by
the TV and set a bottle of water and my painkillers out on the table. I reach
for the water, groaning when my muscles protest but grab it, noticing Jenna’s
writing on a post-it stuck on the label:
I
love you.

            I unscrew the cap, drink the water down
in one and walk, a crutchless, limpless walk, up the stairs and climb straight
into bed. Jenna stirs when I pull her body into mine, and kisses me softly.
It’s the best night’s sleep since before the crash – I know I made myself feel
better.

            I spend the next few days finding
reasons to send Jenna into town, or asking her to go and help out with some
paperwork next door. I feel terrible, and she takes another step back from me,
thinking I’m trying to get rid of her. I am; but for all the right reasons. My
leg is still messed up, but I’ve been working on my posture, my arms, my core
and the other leg. I just don't want her to see the slow progression – I want
her to think it just happened one day. Like a superhero. I don't know what my
obsession is with needing to be her hero, but I’m going with it and it’ll give
her the shock of her life knowing I can throw her on every flat surface in the
house and fuck her like I’ve wanted to for weeks.

~

It’s Saturday, the last Saturday of the month, which
means tomorrow is the last Sunday and I’m going to have to go to the country
club for family day. I can't even play golf because my leg is still in cast for
another three weeks, before I get another x-ray and then a consultation to see
if I can be freed, and need physio.

Jenna has been quiet since we woke up this morning,
making me coffee and breakfast without saying a word, running a bath but not
sticking around to bathe with me; and now she’s in the garden with her laptop
on her lap, her legs propped up on a chair opposite her. But it’s the way her
entire body faces away from me that gets me. I know I’ve been sending her off
all over the place so I can work out in the garden, but I don't know if she’s
angry that I’m abusing her ‘nursing’ duty, upset because she thinks I don't
want her around, or suspicious because she thinks I’ve been speaking to other
girls.

“Jen?” I ask, drinking the last of my coffee.

“What do you want me to get you?” She doesn’t look
up from checking her emails, the tapping of her fingers and her hair swaying in
the breeze the only movement from where she’s sitting.

“Nothing.” I stretch my arm out and comb my fingers
through her hair. I’m hoping she’ll notice the improvement in my arm, but she
just sits forward in the chair, moving out of my reach, “I love you.”

“I love you.” She stands up and goes inside. Shit.

I jump up and follow her to the kitchen and she
pulls out a jug and two glasses.

“It’s because you don't trust me, isn’t it?” I ask,
because that look on her face tells me she knows I love her, knows I appreciate
her helping out. But what she doesn’t know is why I’ve tried so hard to keep
her out for a few hours every day for the last week.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask but she shakes
her head as she pulls together the ingredients for lemonade.

“We don't trust each other, Deac. Let’s be honest.”

“What the hell? I trust you.” Why would she think I don't?
Surely I wouldn’t be sending her out on her own if I didn’t.

“I can't trust that you won't freak out and go and
deal with your feelings the way you always have,” she turns and faces me,
gripping the counter behind her, “and you can't trust me because if I cheated
with you I could cheat on you.”

“Is that what you think?” This conversation is going
in the wrong direction, “You think you’ll cheat on me?”

“No!” She launches the tea towel at me, “I’d never
cheat on you!”

“Then what are we even talking about?”

“You asked me if I trust you.” I’m glad Jenna is
keeping track of what we’re arguing about. It wasn’t meant to be an argument;
it was meant to be me making this situation better. Everything is off when
things between us are awkward. The only explanation I can put to everything
going downhill is sexual frustration. I know I’m frustrated, and I see Jenna is
too in every sly look in my direction, every sharp breath when she’s sees the
way I’m looking at her, and every electric touch in bed.

“Do you?” She looks down, and I know the answer,
“Why do you think I’ve been sending you out?”

She looks up through her eyelashes, and shakes her
head before turning around and continuing to make the lemonade. No she doesn’t
trust me, or no she isn’t answering the question? Jenna hands me a glass of
iced lemonade, kisses me on the cheek and leads me back into the garden.

“I didn’t want to get rid of you, and I didn’t have
anyone here.”

I have to say it. She might have given me a glass of
lemonade, and is sat holding my hand and typing with the other, but the kiss on
the cheek was an I-don't-blame-you kiss. I know she thinks I’ve had someone
here, someone who clearly isn’t as worried about my health as Jenna, and she
isn’t angry because she thinks she deserves it.

“Okay.”

“Fight me, Jen.” I squeeze her hand and pull gently
so she has to look at me, “If I piss you off tell me. Don't just take it.”

“I’m not taking it, I’d just feel bad kicking your
arse while you're handicapped.” She smiles, but I see straight through her.

“Shall I walk you through it?”

“I might be little, but I know how to fight.”