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“Why did you fuck her in the first place? I thought we were doing the thing.”
“The thing isn’t safe, as we’ve discussed, and I was too weak to deny my need for her anyway.”
“Hmm. Weak isn’t something I would ever describe you as. You’re probably one of the strongest people I know.” My brows lift, interest in the accolade, especially because it’s coming from him. “You’ve done well to avoid me until now.” I nod. That’s true enough. “I would have divorced Faith by now if I had even half your resolve.”
“Really, why?”
He shrugs and stands, one hand in his pocket as he walks towards the doorway and indicates that I should follow. “Let’s go get drunk instead of discussing women.” I nod. That I can do. Am fucking happy to do actually. Whether or not it’s the right thing to do is questionable, but I’m still going to do it regardless, without remorse.
Who knows, might find some clarity in it.
We end up in his cellar, picking up wine bottles as if the label on them means something to us. It doesn’t. They’ll all be expensive. All be imported from Europe. I grab two burgundies and a corkscrew, as contented with those bottles as any other, and tip one bottle to my lips the moment it’s open. Deep draws pull into my stomach, all of them fuelling the oblivion I want to fall into.
“They’re my father's,” he suddenly says.
I look at the bottles, not really giving a damn who they belong to.
“Are they?”
“Yes. Expensive. Drink them. Take the whole fucking rack.”
I do, the thought of that oblivion making me lean back against the wall and then slide slowly down it to the stone beneath us. Must be nice there. I snort, eyes closing as another draw floods my stomach with more wine. Itwasnice there. It was warm and hazy, like a never-ending summer. I wanted to stay. Loiter and feel, die eventually. I didn’t.
First bottle drunk and I reach for the next, lifting it just as quickly and efficiently for maximum effect. The eventual result is the bottle poised in my lap, ready for more the moment I feel able to stomach it without heaving it all out again.
“Tell me,” he says. “Why her?”
The back of my hand wipes across my mouth, gaze finding him across the other side of the room mirroring me. “I thought we weren’t talking about women.”
“We’re thinking about them. Might as well talk, too. She means something to you. Why?”
I don’t know what he wants to hear, and even if I did I doubt I’d be able to articulate anything I feel about her. She’s like a storm. A fragile storm that needs cradling until the tempest passes and she settles into herself again. She was like that when I was inside her, angry yet gentle. Fiery yet brittle, as if any sharp move might shatter her.
A sigh breathes out of me, other maddened words uttered under my breath, as I lift the bottle and drink again. If anything’s shattered her now it’s me and my proximity to her.
And that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.
“She just does, Malachi. No other reason than that.”
“Bullshit. You’re in love with her.”
My eyes lower, mind unsure if I can counter that argument in any way, shape, or form. Logic and rationale dictates I’m not, not enough time for love, but nothing here is ever logical, and nothing about the way I am with her is either.
I lift the bottle and toast the air instead of answer, part drunk, part annoyed, and part not giving a damn if I have those feelings or not. It means nothing.
Can’t.
I stand in my own turmoil and move to leave, not interested in pursuing the mind examination any further. There’s nothing to investigate, analyse, or process about what has happened here. It’s done. And in the morning, we leave.
My arm knocks the stone walls, as I begin to climb the steps back out of here, my gaze as unfocused as my judgement. Stupid dick. I look at it and chortle to myself, as I stagger into the main hall, reasonably happy to blame it rather than my own weakness around her. The fuck was that? Stupidity. Annoying. It damn well hurts, too. Feels like it’s been inside the storm, battered and wound up until it had no choice but to attack. She did that to me. Wound me up and found corners of my thoughts that no one else has been inside.
I scowl and look around, more annoyance bedding in. It wasn’t just the fucking. Not just the sex, and the atmosphere here, and the need and envy either. No, she was inside. Is still inside me.
“BITCH!” shouts out of me, the bottle of wine hurled at the wall.
“That a boy,” mutters behind me. “Let it out.” I turn to find Malachi there, a bottle of something in his hand. “They all are.” He tips the bottle at me, pointing. “At least she’s not my wife. Count yourself lucky.”
Lucky? I snarl and keep moving, part needing to get back to something near real and pretend it might be. At least he has a life and isn’t bound by responsibility and guilt. He touches, feels. Lays in someone’s arms and talks his insidious day through.
