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More tears. I'm inundated in them, sobbing like a child, soaking the blanket under me.
When my body goes flaccid, Charlie pulls me down to the floor with him and gathers me in his lap. He rocks me back and forth, telling me again, “Everything's gonna be all right. I promise.”
I bury my face in his chest and cry so hard that my belly hurts, often squeezing out hiccupping whimpers. I don't even really know why I'm crying. Am I sad because whatever is happening between Charlie and me will be over soon? Do I miss Maksim? Am I just angry? Have Charlie's words cut too deep?
I just don't know.
“I'm sorry,” Charlie whispers against the top of my head. “This was never supposed to happen.”
27
I wake alone in bed the next day, and cold, but I'm okay. I feel no anger, no confusion, or a sense of being lost. Having a little cry seems to have helped because I actually feel okay.
Once I've showered and dressed in the usual, I go downstairs. Charlie isn't in the kitchen, and he hasn't made breakfast, I notice, checking inside the oven, so I wander into the living room on a hunch. He's in here, amongst piles of clothes and handbags and shoes. He doesn't greet me with the usual, 'morning Blaire'. He doesn't even look at me—it's as if he can't. He just stands there at the other end of the room, by the huge window, wearing gray joggers—no top. His glossy black hair is freely curling around his neck and face, and his broad, masculine body looks exquisite under the morning's sunshine coming in through the window.
“Morning,” I say, smiling at him.
He doesn't answer me, and I feel my heart sink a little.
“Did you rob a clothes store?” I laugh warily, grabbing a pair of trainers from the coffee table. They're nice. I turn them over. And my size.
“It's all from a truck robbery.” He glances over everything, his expression dark and almost empty. “I'm holding it all here for a friend.” There's something tense in his voice.
When I peer up at him again, I see two Mexican looking guys by the open doors that lead off the living room, onto the garden. “Hello, Miss Blaire,” the taller of the two says.
I force a smile to say ‘hi’ back. Charlie tells them to give us a minute, and they do, head bowing respectfully to him, and then me.
“How are you feeling this morning, Blaire?” Charlie says, crossing his arms. He stays the other side of the living room, behind the couches, and I see it's true—he can't look me in the eyes.
“I'm fine,” I dismiss him because I don't want to go over last night. I lift the trainers to show him. “I like these.”
He frowns, staring at the trainers in my hands. “Have them if you like them. Have whatever you want.”
Sitting down on the leather couch, I kick off my trainers and put on the new ones, twisting and turning my ankles to get a good look at them.
“Take them up to the bedroom so they don't get taken,” Charlie says. He still doesn't sound like himself. His tone is flat, a million miles away from here.
“What's wrong?” Putting my old trainers in the box, I get up and roam over to him, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my hands. “Why do you sound like that?”
He turns his back on me and gazes out of the window, his broad shoulders rising and falling with long, drawn out breaths.
My stomach twists with rejection.
“Charlie?” I touch his shoulder, desperate for his attention.
“You put a fucking gun to your head last night,” he's speaking to the window, “that's what's wrong.”
I'm stunned, and I know I look it. I revealed to him an inkling of what sick, twisted things I've done in my life, and he's upset because I put a gun to my head?
I should have pulled the trigger. The world would be a better, safer place without me in it.
“I'm hungry, Charlie.” I decide not to answer him—not that he asked me a question, but I know he's expecting me to say something.
“Tojo!” he calls out, making me jump, and a dark-haired guy—the taller of the two who were in here a moment ago—pops his head in through the open back doors.
“Have the housekeeper whip up some eggs for Blaire,” Charlie says.
Tojo nods and leaves immediately.
