Page 17 of Into the Dark

Christ, I still can’t look away from him. I think I’m scared that if I do then this moment will be gone, he’ll be gone, and I’ll be back to reminding myself of all the reasons why I can’t love him. Reasons I can’t remember now he’s here in front of me. Real. So very here and real.

He takes another few steps toward me and then stops, uncertain. He swallows, and his mouth softens into the faintest of smiles. “I heard you play,” he says. “You were amazing, bab—” He stops himself. “It was perfect. I knew you’d be perfect.”

He saw me play. He was there. I speak only when I’m sure my voice won’t give me away. “Well, you always said you wanted to hear me play Bach.” I smile a trembling smile.

When he smiles back it’s not the full, boyish smile I remember. It’s reserved, and there’s some sadness in it. “Well, you play Bach just as good as you play Beethoven,” he says, voice low, and then it’s all I can think of. The night he watched me play, the night I took him in my mouth at my piano. The memory is visceral and loud, exploding into my mind and making my mouth water and stomach clench dangerously. Somehow, I manage to tear my eyes away from him to glance out onto the manicured lawns of Illeam Castle.

The setting sun around the castle is ethereal and glorious, but it’s not what I want to look at. I want to look at him. When I look back at him he’s staring at me hard, eyes narrowed slightly in what looks like concentration.

“You look so…beautiful,” he says, sounding awed. “Your hair’s different.” He casts a curious eye over and down the length of it. It’s not. I’ve barely wanted to wash it since he left, let alone anything else.

I run my hand through it. “No. Oh, I was in France for a few weeks. It always lightens in the sun. Perhaps it’s that?”

He nods. “Yeah. Maybe. I like it.”

I smile and drop my eyes to the lower half of his face. “You have a beard.” Apparently, we’re talking about hair at the moment. Which, I suppose, is a far safer topic than everything else.

He shrugs and runs a hand over it again. It makes me want to run my hand over it too. “It just sort of happened. Cale says I look like a bear.”

“I like it,” I say.

Jake smiles, boyish almost, then nods. “Then maybe I’ll keep it.”

I think he’s about to reach out and touch me, and I want it. Desperately. I need to feel his skin on mine again. Feel the warmth and comfort of his arms as he wraps them around me. I’ve imagined it a hundred thousand times in those moments I’ve allowed myself to think of him, and thinking of how close he is right now almost undoes me.

But he doesn’t reach out to touch me. His arms stay firmly by his sides. I move past him toward the edge of the terrace, leaning my body against the stone balustrade for support.

“It’s good that you’re here, actually,” I say, taking a deep breath. “There were things I said to you that day. Things I shouldn’t have said…to you. Things I’m…things I’m ashamed of.” You disgust me. I can’t love you. I can’t be with a man like you. You disgust me.

I feel him draw close, coming to stand beside me, our bodies almost touching. The heat of him, warm and vital. When I turn to look up at him there’s confusion draped over his narrowed eyes. His closeness is almost overwhelming then—skin and mouth and heart, all the parts of him I want to be close to again.

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed about, Alex. Nothing,” he states firmly, unequivocally. “Everything you said to me that day I deserved. Fucking hell, I deserved a lot more.”

“Even when I accused you of violent sexual assault?” Shame courses through me, so brutal I shudder with it.

His mouth tightens. “Yes. I gave you no reason to think I couldn’t have done that. You knew nothing about me. Because I hid everything from you. I lied to you about who I was, what I was. I was a fucking coward.” He sounds so unbearably sad.

“That’s not true,” I say, and he lifts his head. “You gave me every reason to think you weren’t capable of that, Jake. Every moment we were together was proof you weren’t capable of that. I just…” My voice collapses as I feel the tears come again.

He reaches out for me but stops himself from touching me again. I hate it. I hate the fact that he feels he can’t touch me anymore is painful. You did that.

“I never came here to talk about any of that, Alex.” He shakes his head, looking tormented. “I don’t want you to have to think about it again or talk about it again. That’s not why I came.”

“Then why did you come?” I frown.

“Because I’m a self-serving bastard and I wanted to see you,” he says, gaze intense. “And because Robyn is extremely fucking persuasive. I was going to leave after seeing you play, but she persuaded me to stay. To talk to you. Well, to stay and see if you wanted to talk to me because I was sure you wouldn’t want to even look me…” He looks at me, expectant and sad. He wants me to tell him I did want to see him. And I should say that. Because I did. I’ve wanted to see him every second of every day since he left me.

“She is very persuasive,” is what I say. It feels safer. Less risky. “But now that you’re here…how have you been?” I ask. I want him to say he’s been awful and sad and heartbroken, of course.

He doesn’t.

“Busy. Things have been a bit mental my end.” He runs a hand over his beard again and glances away from my eyes. It makes me wonder what he’s been busy with, whether it’s legitimate or illegitimate. Then, because I’ve forgotten about that knack of his of being able to read my mind, he says, “With the club, I mean. It’s doing well—really well, actually. Don’t think I was prepared for what that would mean. I’ve had to hire a manager. She’s great, but it’s like…work, you know? A lot of it.”

I’m not sure why the thought of him having a female manager working closely with him makes something unsavory twist in my gut, but it does.

“Well, I’m happy it’s working out for you. You deserve for it to be a success,” I tell him, and I mean it. I once leveled accusations at him about what his nightclub really was, but I believed him when he’d told me it was legitimate. Though perhaps my desire for it to succeed comes from a selfish place too. Maybe I want it to be a success because that would mean he wouldn’t need his other illegitimate business avenues. Which would mean I could be with him.

“It’s getting there.”