The Letters (Carnage #4) (7 page)

Kitten.

“You wanna drink, baby?” the bloke, the key-dangling fucker, kissed her temple and asked.

I was torn between telling him to take his hands off my woman and smiling at her. I opened my mouth to speak when realisation of who he was started to seep into my poor, stupid, love-fucked brain.

The singer from the band.

Mac?

Maca?

Something like that.

I looked from her to him, he’d kissed her and he was holding her hand. I looked at her face. Her mouth was slightly open, as if she were about to speak, and her eyes were wide. My gaze swung back to him to find him looking at her as if she were the most beautiful, amazing creature to have ever graced the earth.

He’d kissed her.

He was holding her hand.

I couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Gia, what’s wrong?” he asked her gently. Love, devotion, concern, and worship all too obvious in his voice. My heart stopped beating. For a few split seconds, I thought I was going to choke on it as it crawled from my chest and lodged itself in my throat.

Two days.

I’d been gone for two fucking days.

I needed to get out of there.

I needed to … I had no clue what I needed, but it needed to make me numb.

I turned to walk away.

“Cam?”

That voice. Her voice. She was calling my name, talking to me. Hope began to infiltrate the empty spot my heart had just left vacant, and stupidly, for a few seconds, I allowed it to affect my way of thinking. I’d got it all wrong, they were friends, just her brother’s band mate. She’d probably known him for years. I had nothing to worry about. She wouldn’t do that to me, not my Kitten.

I swung back around, and the control I had over my own fists was hanging tenuously by a thread.

Bailey jerked in his stool. He could read me like a book. Him and I were the same, it was in our genes. We could read a person’s body language from ten feet away and sniff out trouble from twenty.

Because I needed to do something—anything other than stand there, dying—I held out my hand.

“Cameron King, joint owner of the place.”

“Sean McCarthy.”

My world ended. I nodded my head in acknowledgment of this fact.

“You’re Sean? The lead singer of Carnage. Of course.” I had no clue how I managed to string that sentence together.

He looked from me to her.

“Do you need a minute to talk?”

He knew. That fucker knew about me.

I sure as shit knew about him. Sean. Her Sean.

She gave her head a slight nod in answer to his question.

I wasn’t sure whose head I wanted to rip off the most—hers, his, or my own.

He said something in her ear and then turned to me, “I’m gonna go get a drink from the other bar.”

Good. Fuck off and don’t come back. I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Bailey stated in his rough voice.

“Cam.” She reached out to touch my arm, hesitated, and then put it back down to her side.

Touch me. Please touch me and tell me that I’ve got this all wrong. I need that. I need you, Kitten.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”

No. No. No. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go.

I’d bought a house.

For us.

A fucking house with stables.

She was killing me. Every word she spoke killed me a little more.

“I thought you were away till Monday. I wanted to tell you then, face to face.”

I thought she felt the same as I did. I thought what we had meant something to both of us. I flew home early. I bought a house. I bought a house with fucking stables. For her. It was all for her. I needed to make her see. I should’ve gone after her Thursday night. I should’ve told her on the phone how I felt. I should’ve done things differently.

“I came home early to surprise you. I wanted to see you, to tell you, to show you how sorry I am for my behaviour on Thursday night. Kitten, you remember that? Thursday. Two fucking days ago?” I was losing it.

I had never hated and loved someone so much in my life, would never have thought it was possible.

“Two nights ago, Kitten, when I stupidly thought you were in a relationship with me.” I punched my fist into my own chest, but it did nothing to subdue the anger building inside me.

Georgia flinched. “I was. We was …”

I glared at her whilst battling to control the rage burning in every part of me.

I picked up my drink from the bar and downed it in one go. I needed more—more than bourbon, more than beer. There was only one thing that would give me what I needed. One thing that would make me feel like I was invincible and not dying a slow, painful, excruciating death with every word that came out of her lying, cheating, whoreish mouth.

“Sean McCarthy, now why didn’t I work that one out?” I asked her through gritted teeth, barely holding back the need to throw up at the mention of his name. “I knew all about Sean. I just didn’t realise it was
that
Sean.”

Why didn’t I? How had I never worked that one out? Because I was a love-fucked cunt that was why.

“I didn’t stand a chance did I? Me or a twenty-two-year-old fucking rock god?”

“Cam, please. It’s not like that. I’ve known him since I was eleven years old. He was my boyfriend from the age of thirteen.”

She looked at the ground before looking back at me with those beautiful and oh so blue eyes.

“He’s the only boy I’ve ever loved.”

Boom. There it was, the very last of my will to live leaving my body.

“Thanks, Kitten, thanks for that.”

I turned and walked away, leaving my love and my life at Georgia’s feet.

I grabbed a couple of bottles of bourbon from the bar downstairs and took them home with me. I’d almost finished the first one by the time I’d pulled up outside the wine bar.

When I got to my flat, I went straight to my bedside chest of drawers and found an old contacts book.

All it took was one call. One call, and all of my hard work to get and stay straight the last few years went to shit. What did it matter? I had nothing to live for anyway. If I died, I died. Anything was better than thinking, than remembering her.

Georgia

I’m not sure what wakes me, probably the turmoil that I’ve got going on in my head right now.

This weekend has been horrible and it is all my fault. I thought I was ready to finally have a read through all of Sean’s old letters. I was wrong. It isn’t just about the words they contain, it’s a combination of hurt, anger, and guilt. It would’ve all been so different if one of us had just reached out to the other. Our lives would have taken such different paths if we hadn’t remained apart for those four years.

But then what?

Where would Cam have fit in the picture if Sean and I had married and started a family at eighteen like we had planned? Would I have had him in my life? Would we have still somehow ended up together? Would our children even exist if Sean hadn’t died? I always thought I would have given anything for Sean to still be alive, but I would never give up my family and what I have with Cam.

So what does that mean? What does it say about me as a person? A wife and mother?

I am so sick of it all going around in my head. I am driving myself nuts, so I’ve no clue how Cam must be feeling having to watch me struggle with all of this. Again.

I had never doubted us or the strength of our relationship until yesterday. When he didn’t get up to take the kids to dinner with me, I really thought he’d finally had enough of me and my meltdowns. I made excuses to the kids about him being tired and forced my food down when we got to the restaurant. I smiled and joked with the kids the entire time we were out, but on the inside, I was falling apart.

On the drive home, One Direction’s “History” came on the radio. I am just grateful that the car is dark and the kids are too engrossed in their phones to notice my tears.

I couldn’t lose him. I wouldn’t survive without his love. I went over a hundred scenarios in my head, considering different ways to convince him not to leave me.

I’d drunk a bottle of wine once I got home and the kids had gone to their rooms. When I finally plucked up the courage to go upstairs and face him, I found him still in our bed and in the middle of a nightmare.

He’d told me it was jetlag. He tried to reassure me that he was fine and that we were good, but I wasn’t convinced.

I slide my leg across to Cams side of the bed to find it cold and empty. The surge of adrenalin that happens when the self-doubt I’d been suffering from makes a rapid reappearance, makes my stomach churn. I get up and go to the bathroom, before grabbing a T-shirt that Cam left hanging over the back of the chair and put it on. God, I love the way he smells. He has a half dozen different aftershaves in his bathroom cupboard, but the Givenchy he’s been wearing since we first met is still my favourite.

I pad down the stairs barefoot and along the hallway to our family room.

Empty.

I make my way back down the hall to Cam’s office, which is also empty. It’s as I’m backing out that I notice a thin sliver of light coming from under the door to
my
office.

Fuck
!

There’s only one reason he would be in there, and it not so that he can add himself to the kid’s growth charts pencilled on the wall.

My husband is an inherently nosey person. He, Marley, and Lennon often have conference calls about juicy bits of gossip they may have heard about someone we know. I kid you not, Ash, Jimmie, and I have nicknamed them T. M. and Z. They are as up on the gossip as my girls. For someone who doesn’t “do” social media, Cam still manages to know the names of every one of those Kardashian kids.

I push at the door with my fingertips and it opens silently.

He’s sitting at my desk with his back to the room, a stack of Sean’s letters to the side of him, two sheets of paper in one hand, and a crystal whiskey tumbler in the other.

It’s three in the morning. My husband is sitting in my office, reading the words of love, Sean, my now dead husband had written for me, whilst sipping on whiskey.

For
me
? Is that really the right term? He’d written them
to
me, but I’m not sure he ever planned for me to see all of them. Some, maybe. But there were a few I think he may have removed before letting me have a read.

I guess I’ll never know.

Cam takes a sip of his drink and lets out a long sigh.

“What are you doing?” I ask him quietly.

The glass he has in his hand jerks in surprise at the sound of my voice, and I watch as the amber liquid sloshes from side to side. As the light from my desk lamp catches it, I can’t help but to compare the colour to Sean’s eyes. His were brown, with little flecks of gold, whiskey coloured. Cam’s are a rich, warm brown, looking almost black when he’s turned on or angry.

Tallulah is the only one of our children to get my blue eyes. The other three have dark eyes like their dad.

I wonder what colour eyes Baby M and Beau would’ve had?

“
Shit,
Kitten you made me jump.”

And it’s those kinds of thoughts that are tearing me apart. Two of my children had to die in order for the other three to exist. Is that how it works? I am not a believer in God, but surely if he did exist, he wouldn’t force us to make choices like that?

“Georgia?” Cam interrupts my theological musings.

“Wha?”

“I said get your arse over here, woman.”

I blink a few times before stepping fully into the room and making my way over to him.

I climb sideways into his lap. He wraps one big arm around my back and one across my hips, sliding his hand up my T-shirt so he can cup my bare arse and pull me into him.

He rubs his nose into my hair, over my ear, and down my neck. I tilt my head to the side, allowing him better access. Enjoying the sensation of goose bumps spreading across my skin from each point of contact his nose and warm breath make.

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I turn myself to face him. He’s biting down on his bottom lip and his eyes are searching my face, looking sexy as fuck while he does it.

“Georgia, would you tell me if I ever weren’t enough for you?”

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

I open my mouth, but he speaks again before I can.

“I know I don’t get the whole music thing and your love of it. I can’t paint, or draw, or design clothes and furniture. I’m not always good with words. I can’t write songs for or about you like he did, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you any less than he did. I just …”

My eyes fill with tears, and I don’t even attempt to stop them from falling as I interrupt him.

“No. No, Cam. Please stop. Of course you’re enough. You’re everything. Too much sometimes.”

I hold his face in both my hands and kiss him repeatedly, speaking through my tears.

“I love you, Cam. You’re my whole world. You and the kids are the reason I exist. You’re my everything. Every-fucking-thing. Please don’t ever doubt that. These last few days, yesterday especially, have been horrible. I really thought I’d pushed you away. That you were finally sick enough of my bullshit to leave me.”

“I’d never leave you, Kitten. Never, and it pisses me the fuck off that you’d think for a moment that I would.”

“Well, that’s how I feel about you thinking you’re not enough. Why would you ever think that? You’re more man than most women could ever handle.”

Cameron King is the most confident—almost to the point of being arrogant—man I’ve ever met, and I absolutely hate that I’ve made him doubt himself.

He tilts his hips up and makes small circular movements, grinding his dick into my arse.

“I’m not talking about the size of my dick and the ability I have to fuck you into multiple orgasms with it.”

There he is. That right there is my Cam. My TDH.

“Then what, Tiger?”

“I can’t write you love songs or send you love letters telling you the way I feel.”

So, that’s what this is all about? I might just set a torch to those bloody letters and never read another word.

“But
he
didn’t have a nine-and-a-half-inch dick.” My attempt at humour fails miserably.

His face remains blank as he blinks his eyes whilst staring at me for a few seconds.

“What the fuck has that got to do with anything? My dicks bigger than most blokes.”

“And most blokes can’t write songs or a love letter like Sean McCarthy.”

“I’m well aware of that; I’m one of them.”

“But I don’t need you to, Cam. That was
his
thing. That’s what I had with
him,
and it’s irrelevant to you and me. That’s not what I have with
you
.”

“No, all you get with me is a big dick and multiple orgasms.”

“And four beautiful children and the confidence to know that I’m loved, worshiped, and adored every single day of my life.”

“I didn’t give you that yesterday. Yesterday you thought I was leaving you.”

I drop my head back and stare at the ceiling in frustration. I can just make out the mural of a unicorn standing on a cloud and farting a stardust-sprinkled rainbow out of its arse that’s on my ceiling.

I had it painted to remind me that life isn’t always perfect. My life most certainly hasn’t been and wasn’t now but it was perfect for me, for us.

Sometimes in life, bad things happen just
because
. It’s not “meant to be” and it’s not “God’s will”. It just is. My life isn’t about fluffy clouds, stardust, and rainbow-farting unicorns. It’s about everything that’s on the walls beneath the hand-painted sky above our heads. It’s family photos of kisses, cuddles, and laughing smiling faces, pure happiness and joy. It’s hand prints filled with our family rules and inspirational quotes, the pencil-marked walls showing the kids’ heights since the day they could stand. It’s love, warmth, temper tantrums, loud music, and chaos. Barking, bum-sniffing dogs, muddy football boots, and shit-covered riding boots left in the hallway. It’s Harry, George, Lula, and Kiks. It’s Cam and his rules and lack of technological know-how. It’s me and my terrible cooking. It’s everything that I thought I’d never have and everything he gave to me.

Him. Cameron King.

“That’s because of my own stupid insecurities, not because of anything you did.”

“If I were doing my job properly, you wouldn’t have any insecurities.”

I raise my eyebrows and look at him, giving him my best “You’ve got to be shitting me” look.

He rolls his eyes, knowing full well I have him. We both know nothing will put a stop to my insecurities. I’m a woman, they come with the job description. I give him my best smile, telling him, “You look like Lula when you do that.”

“Lu’s my daughter, it’s her that looks like me.”

“Whatever.”

“Now you sound like Harry. Anyway, Lu’s all you. I swear she’s a combination of you and Ash. I don’t think there’s anything of me in there.”

He looks into my eyes without saying a word for a few long moments.

“Our babies,” he says very quietly.

I nod my head, unable to speak around the big knotty ball of emotion that’s lodged in my throat.

“We’re so fucking lucky. I’ve got daughters, George. You gave me girls.” He says it like he’s realising this for the very first time.

“Never in my life did I imagine myself with girls. Boys, yeah, I always expected boys, but never girls.” I can’t help but laugh at the astonishment in his voice.

“For a while, I never thought I’d have either,” I confess. He holds my face in his big right hand and brushes the tears from my cheeks with his thumb.

“And here we are with four,” he whispers.

“And all because of you.”

He shakes his head, leans in, and kisses me oh so gently on the mouth.

“Because of us.”

“And that’s what you’ve given me. That’s why you’ll always be enough. When you’re not busy being too much that is. You gave me
back
my life, and then you
gave
me a life. One that I could never have imagined, hoped, or dreamed of ever living.”

He stands up, holding me tight in his arms. I feel safe and secure as he carries me upstairs to our bedroom. I make sure to lock the door behind us.

As soon as he lays me down on the bed, I pull my T-shirt off. Cam manages to get naked in the few seconds that it’s taken me to undress.

I lean back on my elbows and watch him as he watches me from the end of our bed.

“Bend your knees and open your legs. I wanna see you,” he orders.

I do as I’m told, never taking my eyes from his.

“Are you wet?” He stares between my legs as he asks.

Is he serious right now?

He’s Cameron King. Of course I’m fucking wet, but I won’t be telling him that. I nod my head.

“Rub your clit for me, baby. Lemme watch.”

I slide my middle finger into my mouth and suck on it, hard. Pulling it out, I twirl my tongue around the tip before dragging it down my throat and through my cleavage.