Jack & Kayla (Imperfect Love Series) Page 4

  It shouldn’t matter that he wants to fire me. But it does. What’s that English saying? The straw that broke the donkey’s back? That’s where I’m at with Boyd telling me to leave.

  But I don’t show him any of this. Not even when I help him from the car and he ignores me. Nor when we’re in the lift, standing against opposite panels, facing each other like mortal enemies.

  We walk in silence to his apartment, one of the lifts pinging behind us as I open Boyd’s front door. An excited squeal chases us down the corridor and I turn to see Wanda running towards us, followed by a less excited, though happy-looking Steve. She’s wearing white cropped jeans and a flowing pink blouse that’s cool and pretty against her brown hair.

  “Hey, mum.” Boyd sounds tired and less than welcoming, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Hey, baby.” She pats him on the shoulder and turns to me. “Hey, Kayla, don’t you look sexy in your shorts and tank. Boyd must think he’s hit the jackpot having you take care of him.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say. Boyd mumbles something and it all kind of falls apart when Wanda asks him to repeat whatever he said.

  “I said she’s leaving. It’s not working out.” He walks further into the apartment and glances over Wanda’s head at me, flicking up his chin towards my room. “You want to go pack your bags?”

  It’s humiliating, but worse, it stings.

  I spin on my heels and close my bedroom door behind me. The sooner I’m out of here, the better. I collect my suitcase from inside the closet and start packing, just as Boyd suggested. My t-shirts go in first, followed by my jeans and skirts. Next it’s my dresses, the ones I can’t wear because Boyd likes them too much. My underwear is last. I’m in the process of packing my pink bra with the black trim when Boyd’s voice thunders through the apartment.

  “Kayla! Get your arse out here!”

  God! What have I done now?!

  I pull my door open, furious that he’s shouting at me while his parents are still in the apartment. It’s not until his gaze drops to my hand that I realise I still have hold of my bra. I tuck it behind my back and glare at him. “What?”

  “You can stay.” His jaw flexes after he’s said this and his eyes look pained. I glance at Wanda. She’s smiling like a crazy person, her eyes almost bugging out, as if she’s pleading with me to stay. Steve simply looks uncomfortable, like he wants to be anywhere but here.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m almost done packing.”

  I go back to my room, aware of hushed voices coming from the living area. My bedroom door slams shut. Boyd is leaning heavily on his crutches, his mouth pulled tight with pain.

  “Boyd, what are you doing? You asked me to leave so I’m leaving!”

  “Yeah, well I’ve changed my mind. I want you to stay.”

  I laugh. It’s filled with derision and he frowns, obviously not appreciating being the source of my humour.

  “Did Wanda tell you to say that?” I ask.

  “Fuck, no!”

  “So why the sudden change of heart?”

  “Because if you leave, she’ll come stay.” I frown, not getting what he’s saying until his sullen expression penetrates and he says, “As bad as it’s been having you stay, having my mother here would be ten times worse. She’ll check on me every five minutes and fuss over me until I can’t stand it anymore.”

  Jack Boyd is upset because his mum might come live with him? Any other time I would find this funny, but today is not that day. “Yeah, well, good luck with that, Boyd, but I’m still leaving.” I continue packing, shoving my shampoo and conditioner down the side of my case before checking there’s nothing I’ve forgotten.

  “You’re not leaving, Kayla, so quit pretending otherwise and start unpacking.”

  My head shoots up and I stare at him open-mouthed. “You think I’m pretending?”

  “Yeah.”

  I thrust my hands up on my hips and lean towards him. “Nothing you can say is going to persuade me to stay. Not after today, Boyd, and especially not after being accused of flaunting my ... what was it, now ... oh, yeah, my tits and arse.”

  “Yeah, about that,” he says, looking way uncomfortable. “I might have overreacted. My leg was hurting and―”

  “Not gonna work, Boyd.”

  He adjusts his crutches as if he’d like nothing better than to sit and take the weight off his feet and shoulders. “Name your price,” he says.

  I quit pretending I’m busy. “’Scuse me?”

  “I said name your price. Shit, I’ll pay you double if you stay.”

  I open my mouth, ready to refuse, but my mind is already calculating how much extra this will be. “For how long?”

  “Same as before―until my cast comes off.”

  “And how long will that be again?”

  He shrugs. “Depends on how fast I heal. Could be six weeks, could be longer.”

  The money is a sweet temptation, up until I start thinking about our arguments and the oppressive tension of being cooped up in his apartment. But the money ... the money would be good. “Okay, I’ll do it, but no more staring and no more comments about my boobs. And I want an apology.”

  Boyd looks like he wants to throttle me. His green eyes glint with anger but he manages to offer up a semi-sincere apology. “I’m sorry, Kayla. No more staring and no more comments about your tits and arse.” He’s staring at my boobs when he says this.

  I roll my eyes and lift my case onto the bed. He’s still standing by the door, watching.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Boyd’s mouth twitches for a second or two before he gives me a sexy grin that transforms his face into a thing of beauty.

  Damn!

  Chapter Two

  Hot and Cold

  KAYLA

  Boyd’s t-shirt is damp from the shower, his face relaxed as he exits the gym. His hair’s longer and his biceps have grown now that he’s exercising again.

  “Home, Boots,” he says.

  This is what he calls me now. Boots. As in, tough as old boots. This tells me he doesn’t know me at all. My exterior might be tough, but inside I’m soft and squidgy―too soft. But Boyd doesn’t get to see my soft side. Another lesson I learned from Liam. Never let them see your weakness.

  Boyd’s now sufficiently mobile enough to stash his crutches in the back of the car. He’s also able to dress himself and I no longer have to kneel at his feet and help him with his underwear. I kind of miss that, seeing him semi-naked and vulnerable.

  Frankie’s home from hospital and Mason is taking good care of her; really good care. He’s taking time out from work when he can, helping her get her strength back.

  Life is good.

  Boyd and I don’t argue quite as much as we did in those first days. And though he can do more for himself I still have plenty to do, maybe more so, especially with all the driving. Seems like I spend half my day shuttling him back and forth.

  I don’t have a problem with driving him to work. Or the gym. I simply park up, find somewhere to get a coffee, and read a book until he’s ready for me to pick him up. But when he visits his friends he makes me go with him and now they call us ‘Jack and Kayla’, as if we’re a couple or something.

  My nose starts tingling at the thought and I pucker up, waiting for the sneeze to hit. When it does, there are three of them.

  “Bless you”, says Boyd.

  “Thanks.” I search for a tissue, wiping my nose as discreetly as I can before stuffing it back in my pocket.

  Boyd twists his head my way and examines my face. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine. Just a few sneezes, that’s all.”

  I drive through the city, windows down, while Boyd checks his messages. He frowns and lifts his phone to his ear. “Hey, Molly, it’s me.”

  I can hear her voice and I catch the occasional word, but there’s nothing I can string together.

  “I can come over if
you like?”

  There’s a pause his end while she’s talking, but now it’s Boyd’s turn again. “I’ll be there in ten.”

  He shoves the phone in the front pocket of his sweats. “You mind if we stop at Molly’s? I’ll give you directions.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  I wonder who she is, this Molly. Do they have history? Are they sleeping together? His voice, when he speaks to her, is always soft and low. I wonder what she did to deserve that because Boyd doesn’t use that tone with anyone, most especially me. We may have been able to sustain the peace, but that’s mostly because I’ve learned to bite my tongue and keep my distance. I also have a new-found habit of playing music through my earphones. That way Boyd can’t talk to me. And if we don’t talk, we can’t argue. Simple.

  Boyd’s directions lead us to a three storey house in a quiet street. It’s a wealthy neighbourhood with well maintained pots and plants on the steps of most of the homes. The windows are tall, bracketed by the long drape of heavy curtains and underlined by the fat curves of wrought iron window boxes.

  “You be okay to wait? I’ll be ten minutes, fifteen max.”

  “Sure. No problem. You want a hand with the steps?”

  “No, I should be okay.”

  I watch him climb, one stone step at a time, until he’s at the top and finally able to ring the bell. A blonde woman greets him. She’s about my age, maybe a year or two older. She’s beautiful. Her blonde hair is cut short and choppy, exposing her perfect ears and highlighting her gamine face. She’s wearing white jeans and a navy top that ends just shy of her waist. Slim, not curvy, her movements are understated, something that’s entirely foreign to me. My hands are always in motion, as if my voice alone is not enough to convey my thoughts and feelings.

  Boyd disappears inside and the door closes. I dig out my phone for a group text to Frankie, Nora and Ella, but the car’s in full sun and it’s too bright to see the screen. I shimmy down in my seat and pull down the sun visor, but there’s no escaping the yellow ball of fire.

  Boyd’s fifteen minutes turns into thirty. My head is pounding, I think I might have a temperature, and my throat is aching too. I turn on the radio, anything to distract me from the heat and boredom.

  I wake to find Boyd beside me, his door shut and his crutches stashed in the back. I push back in my seat and wipe away the drool that’s gathered in the corner of my mouth.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to stay so long.”

  “That’s okay. I guess you had loads to talk about, huh?”

  He says nothing and it’s up to me to fill the gap. “You want to go home now?”

  “Yeah. Please.”

  That’s all he says; no clues about the mysterious Molly or what just went down. He stares straight ahead, silent, his good leg bouncing up and down as he flips his phone over and over.

  Back in his apartment he heads to his room, pushing the door shut with his crutch. I go in search of painkillers and a glass. Boyd’s tumblers look expensive, as if they’ve been designed to hold aged whiskey instead of bottled water. I fill the glass to the brim and swallow the tablets, the cool water easing the ache in my throat. It’s a little early for dinner, but I begin prepping the ingredients for a stir fry, easing the silence with music. It’s low enough not to bother Boyd and I sing along quietly. The chicken’s sizzling in the pan with the veg and noodles when Jack Garratt’s Weathered comes on. This song always makes me cry. Not great big slathering tears, more the slow oozing kind. I sing and sniffle and when Boyd says “Smells good”, I jump and scream, and the hand that’s clutching the wooden spoon covers my heart as I spin round. “Dios mio, Boyd, you scared the hell out of me!”

  He’s solid and unmoving, his green eyes missing nothing. “You’re crying,” he says, like I don’t know this.

  I wave the spoon between us like it’s a fly swatter. “No, I’m not!”

  Boyd stands firm. “Yeah, you are.”

  I stare him out, but it doesn’t work and though I’m loathe to admit he’s right, it’s pointless lying. “Fine. I’m crying. I don’t know why, but this song always makes me cry. Maybe it’s the lyrics, maybe it’s his voice, whatever. I hear it and I cry.”

  “Then why play it?”

  I stare at him, wide-eyed. “Are you crazy? It’s a beautiful song. Why wouldn’t I want to play it?”

  “Because ...” He stares at my cheeks, wet with tears, before biting back whatever he’s about to say. “You know what? Never mind.” He turns away defeated and sits at the dining table. His legs are splayed and his crutches are resting against the back of his chair.

  I turn off the music and dish up the stir fry, giving Boyd a side of bread. Seated opposite him, wafts of Chinese spices rise from my plate and my appetite diminishes as the pounding in my head increases. I take a sip of water, but it’s painful to swallow.

  Boyd’s taking man-sized bites, chewing steadily. Picking up on my lack of movement, he fixes me with his gaze. “You’re not hungry?”

  “I have a headache.” I don’t mention the temperature or the sore throat. It would sound too much like whining.

  He gestures with his chin towards the kitchen. “There’s some painkillers in the top drawer. Take some.”

  “I already have, but thank you.”

  He nods and goes back to his food. When he’s finished I stack the plates in the sink and run the hot water.

  “Leave them,” Boyd says.

  I shake my head and start scrubbing. “It won’t take long.”

  I hear him move towards the sofas. The TV comes on and I’m drying up when I hear the intro to the latest Jason Bourne movie. I leave the last few items on the draining board and go take a seat. The TV’s massive and it’s fixed to the wall. Boyd has the best view, but if I sit sideways I can see okay, even if it strains my neck.

  “Kayla, sit here. You can’t see a thing over there.”

  If I wasn’t groggy with whatever virus I’m fighting off, I might have refused, but I take my glass, cross the three feet of flooring and go sit beside him. His sofas might be ugly, but they’re comfy as hell, and I settle against the cushions. “I love these movies,” I tell him as I curl my legs beneath me.

  “Have you seen them all?”

  “Yeah. Jono had the box set.”

  “Jono?”

  “My ex.”

  “Recent?”

  “Kind of.”

  I can feel his gaze on me. “How recent?”

  He’s firing off questions like it’s a Police interview. I spin my head his way, but he’s watching TV now as if it’s holding all his attention.

  “Uh, not that recent,” I say. “It ended a few months ago.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? How’s that good?”

  He turns his head, eyes shining, conveying a message that’s clear as the water in my glass.

  “Boyd ...” My warning is softly spoken and trails off into nothing.

  He raises an eyebrow and his mouth tilts into the smallest of smiles before he turns his attention back to the TV.

  During the ads I fetch him a fresh beer. We talk about the fighting and I ask him if he thinks it’s realistic.

  “Sure, but it’s been taken to another level. Even the fittest of guys couldn’t sustain those fights without a break.”

  He doesn’t use the opportunity to boast of his own skills or compare himself to the actors. It’s confirmation of what I already know about Boyd; he’s comfortable with who he is. Then again, why wouldn’t he be? He’s beautiful and built, has a great set of friends and a job he obviously loves. In short, he’s pretty much got it all.

  When I sit down he lifts his arm and draws me against him. I should pull away or at least appear to put up a defence, but I don’t. I snuggle into his warmth, taking care not to knock his cast. When his hand doesn’t wander and his lips don’t roam I relax, my mind mostly on the movie, though a portion of my thoughts occasionally strays toward Boyd. I doubt any female in my p
osition could do better. I congratulate myself on my good behaviour.

  Two-thirds of the way through the movie I fall asleep. I realise this has happened when Boyd’s softly intonated, “Hey” rouses me. My face is mashed up against his chest and my hand is resting on his stomach. Actually, make that his lower stomach. I snatch it way and roll upright, knowing my hair is probably tangled and there’s most likely red marks on my cheek.

  But Boyd’s gaze is fixed on my eyes, so I guess it doesn’t matter about my hair or cheek. “You always look like that when you wake up?” he asks.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re a fucking innocent with those big brown eyes all wide and unfocused.” His voice is harsh, almost critical.

  I retaliate. “Don’t worry. It’s not like it’s something you’ll have to see again.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Now I’ve seen it, I won’t forget.”

  I want to snap out a clever retort, but whatever’s got hold of me has turned my brain to mush. I rise to my feet, but the room spins and I take a second to steady myself. Boyd is reaching for his crutches and thankfully misses my stumble. I toss a goodnight over my shoulder and head off to my room, grateful for the softness of my pillow and the comfort of my mattress.

  I fall back asleep within minutes and when I awake it feels as if the duvet is heavy and rough as a tarpaulin. My limbs ache and my head is still pounding with yesterday’s rhythm. My alarm hasn’t yet gone off so I make the most of however long I have left and sleep a little longer.

  When I wake again I’m disorientated. I can’t get a fix on the time and I reach for my phone to check its display. It says six and I know it must be six in the morning, but this doesn’t feel right. I climb from my bed and walk into the living room. I’m wearing my PJ shorts and tank, so I’m decent. Boyd is standing in the kitchen, balanced on a single crutch with a mug of coffee in his hand.

  “Uh, what time is it?” I ask.

  His head shoots up and he places his coffee on the counter before making his way towards me. With only the one crutch his movements are slow and awkward, but I’m feeling lethargic and therefore have all the time in the world.