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Velleitie (n.) a wish or powerful desire
For something that nonetheless, is not,
or cannot be followed by actions
meant to pursue it.
___________
Jax has been a gentleman up until right now.
He’s taught me about all the equipment in the studio, and while I’ve learned about it in school, it’s an entirely other thing to be in front of it and talking about it. It brings me back to the night Bordeaux brought me to his favorite place in the world—the recording studio his band recorded their first album in. I remember the call from earlier, the urging of my therapist to have a conversation with him, and the fact that I’ll be going to work in a couple of hours and will most likely see him.
Jax and I are sitting in swivel chairs and he’s letting me listen to a sneak peak of Better Without You’s newest single. Better Without You is a band that has been dominating the rock charts lately, and they just so happen to be working with Jax on their next record. He looks at me, the air in the room shifting along with my instincts to increase the space between us. Before I can, Jax slides his hand to my thigh just as the hook meets chorus. Seconds tick by and we’re locked in a stare-like tango when the door to the studio opens, banging so hard against the wall a clock that was once hanging on said wall falls to the ground, shattering.
Jax removes his hand from my thigh, spinning his chair around to face the door where Bordeaux stands, eyes dark and fists clenched at his sides.
Looks like I don’t have a couple of hours. Hell, I don’t even have one more second. Bordeaux is standing only feet away from me, his eyes deadlocked with mine.
“Isla, we’re leaving,” Bordeaux demands, his jaw tensing. “Let’s go. Now.”
A storm is rolling in over his ocean eyes and it reminds me so much of the morning after everything happened on the road, I almost can’t stomach it. My reaction is visceral and unnerving. I take in a deep breath just as Bordeaux closes the space between us and grabs my hand, pulling me up and out of the chair. His grip is firm, fingers tight around my forearm—not enough to cause even an ounce of pain, but enough to make me realize he isn’t going to give in.
He is leaving. I am leaving. We are leaving this studio together, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, at least, not with the way he’s looking at me.
“I’m pretty sure Isla can decide when she’s leaving,” Jax says, standing from his chair and squaring up toward Bordeaux.
Shit.
Bordeaux stiffens, his body so close to mine I can smell the familiar scent I’ve missed so much. He keeps his eyes trained on mine for a beat longer before turning to face Jax. I want to latch onto him; I want to tell him I’ll go anywhere with him, but that we need to go now before he ends up letting his rage get the best of him. I know the look in his eye—I saw it the night Manuel tried something with me, and I saw it again the night Flynn attempted suicide.
I watch as the muscles of Bordeaux’s back flex through his fitted light gray shirt.
“Let’s go, B.” The words spill from my lips before I can rationalize the use of his nickname and how I’m probably not exactly qualified to use it anymore.
Bordeaux tenses again and for a second, I’m not sure if I got through to him but all of a sudden, his hand shoots backward, reaching for mine. I lace my fingers around his and the warmth of his palm sears through my skin and into my veins, shooting electric shocks throughout my body. We walk away as Jax mutters something, neither of us stopping to acknowledge a word that comes from his mouth, and moments later, Bordeaux is opening his car door for me and we’re riding into the Chicago sunset, the deafening silence between us piercing my ears.
* * *
An hour later, we’re sitting in his car, overlooking the lake, the silence the loudest thing in the car.
I can’t figure out the right words to say to him. I try different apologies in my head over and over again, but nothing feels right. I don’t even think about the studio or how he forced me out of there; it was for the best and I knew it before I even went. Bordeaux was right about him. Jax proved that when he touched me, unprovoked, but that’s the least surprising thing that’s happened in the past few months.
Bordeaux slouches in his leather seat, running his fingers through his hair. It’s different, longer than before. I had hoped when I saw him my body wouldn’t beg for release. I had hoped it would just cut me some goddamn slack, but the moment I saw him standing in the doorway, any glint of progress I made in the not wanting Bordeaux Daniels department flew out the window.
After all the time, I still feel the aftershocks of him.
Bordeaux turns toward me and I can’t help but give him all of my attention. It isn’t like my thoughts have ever relented anyhow.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Isla. Nothing makes sense without you. You’re too good for me. Too pure, too much to ever put into words. You are goddamn holy, and I am fucking worthless in comparison, and I have never meant anything more in my entire life.”
Not wanting to hear him talk about himself like that, I say, “Bordeaux, don’t—”
“Let me finish, Isla.”
I chance a look up and into his eyes and see the storm has lifted. It’s gone, but sadness floods through his beautiful blue stare, and I can’t help but want to slide over the barrier that separates us and into his lap. I want to catch every single tear as it falls and tell him everything will be okay, even though I know it won’t.
“I can’t explain away the fact that I said what I said in that hotel room. I royally fucked up. I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t just leave, Isla. I just needed to be alone. I needed a second. A minute. A day.” He shakes his head, clenching his eyes shut. “I just needed space to come to terms with what my world had suddenly become. I was so fucking worried about Flynn. And the guilt…” His eyes stay deadlocked with mine. “The guilt that consumed every single inch of my body was so…” He pauses, searching for a word that to quantify his pain. “It was so fucking relentless. Unforgiving. Painstakingly, earth-shattering, fucking unbearable. I can’t put into words how much guilt annihilated me. And then I felt even guiltier for thinking about how guilty I felt.”
