Hard (14 page)

34

Holland

Jensen’s face contorts, shifting dazedly from relaxed and satisfied, to confused, shocked, then wary, and finally settling on furious.

“Untie me,” he demands.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but—”

“Untie me, Holland. NOW.”

I roll off of him, his rage radiating through him so forcefully I can feel his muscles vibrating. Jensen has never truly frightened me, maybe because I didn’t care enough to be scared before, but I’m afraid now.

I’m afraid I’ve pushed him too far. Afraid I’ve overstepped far beyond my duty as his fuck buddy. Afraid I’ve allowed myself to care about him too much. Afraid it will all have been for nothing.

I hesitate too long, only enraging him further. Every muscle, every hard tendon throughout his arms, shoulders, and neck swell and twist, bulging with his movements as he yanks on the ropes. The headboard groans in protest, the wood giving under the pressure. One bedpost snaps in half like a twig. I startle as the sound ricochets off the walls loudly.

Jensen uses his now free hand, swiftly releasing his other. He bends forward quickly, his eyes narrowed slits, intent on his mission. I’m still in shock, standing frozen beside the bed. My legs feel like Jell-O, my knees threatening to give.

He doesn’t say a word once he’s uninhibited by the ropes, but he doesn’t need to. His anger is potent. The air thick with it. He scoops my dress off the floor, flinging it toward me. It hits me square in the chest and slips to the floor. I’m still slow to move, still shocked—by him, by me, by my actions that have led to his actions. By all of it.

My eyes are stuck to his back, watching him stiffly shove his legs into his jeans. The pull of his zipper is loud in the heated quiet. It jerks me out of my stupor. I scurry to dress myself, not wanting to be naked when he finally says what is so clearly clinging to the tip of his tongue.

My stomach churns painfully when my eyes meet his. Not because his are filled with wrath, like I expected, but because what I find staring back at me is so much worse.

Jensen Payne’s hard exterior is breaking.

And worse yet, all I want to do is help put him back together. I’m breaking with him.

“It doesn’t have to change anything,” I say barely more than a whisper.

His gaze narrows, locking in on me like a missile and I know what’s about to come is going to be painful.

“It changes
everything
.”

“Only if you let it.”

He scoffs, his nose crinkling like he’s disgusted by my words. By me. My terrible word choice occurs to me and I try to switch tactics.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset with me,” I say. “Because I know something you didn’t want me to know?”

“Yes,” he hisses. “And what the fuck was that?” He gestures, indicating the bed. My gaze follows and I stare at the rumpled sheets, not truly seeing them.

I shrug, completely at a loss. “I wanted to prove to you that I don’t care whether you can see or not. That life can still be good—can still
feel
good.” I shake my head hard, flicking my eyes back to his. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He looks at me almost apologetically. “It doesn’t matter to me if you care or not. At the end of the day, you’ll still have your sight and you always will. The same isn’t true for me.”

“So you’re angry with me because I’m not going blind?”

“Yes. I don’t know. You tied me up and seduced me instead of talking to me about it. That shit doesn’t sit right with me. How long have you known?”

I run my hand through my hair in frustration, my fingers tangling in the knots. “Seriously? This coming from you? The master of bondage and seduction?” I let that sink in a moment before I continue. “I found out today. Retinitis Pigmentosa is genetic. I’m the one who should be upset right now. You hid this from me.”

“Well,” he chuckles darkly. “It’s not like I was hiding a husband.” He smirks, the look so smug I kind of want to hit him. But he’s right. I didn’t tell him about Darren.

“Great,” I say flatly. “So we’re even, I guess.”

He cocks a brow, but remains quiet. I wish I understood what was going on inside of his head. I make
another
attempt, trying an alternative approach.

“There are worse things than losing your sight,” I offer softly.
I should know, I’ve lived through a few of them
.

He laughs without humor. “Not to me, baby. And to be perfectly fucking honest with you, I really don’t feel like getting a motivational speech from a woman who only shows signs of life when she has a cock to fuck.”

I really wish that didn’t sting so much, but the truth is generally what hurts the most.

I nod slowly, keeping my tongue caught between my teeth until I taste blood. “I’m going to go.” The words are like sand in my throat, choking me.

I leave without so much as a goodbye and he makes no attempt to stop me.

35

Jensen

I was invincible until I was twelve years old.

Then one tiny black eye floater popped up in my vision, reminding me I was vulnerable.

I had absolutely no control over what was happening to me. I couldn’t hide from it. It didn’t matter how strong I was or how smart or how fast. There wasn’t a single thing I could do to stop the degeneration of my eyes.

I was a good kid. I listened to my parents, I maintained a four-point-O grade point average, I did my chores, I told the truth, I washed behind my ears, wore sunblock, flossed nightly, I confessed all my sins every Sunday at church, and yet the only thing that mattered was who my father was.

That kind of injustice fucks with a kid.

That kind of injustice fucks with an adult.

Every goddamn day.

I grew up listening to my parents tell me going blind wouldn’t stop me from doing the things everybody else does. That I could live a happy, fulfilling life. I could have what everyone else has.

They meant well, but every time they said shit like that to me, it made me think. And slowly but surely, a list began to form over the years. All of the things I wouldn’t be able to do started cataloging in my brain.

From there, my thoughts were constantly split in two. What I wouldn’t be able to do, and what I needed to do before the chance was gone.

On my birthday that year, I received a camera from my mom, and it felt like a cruel joke. Pictures are meant to be kept for a lifetime so years down the road they can be viewed, memories can be revived and relived. What use would I have for pictures then? But I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I used the camera, and something magical happened inside of me. I knew that someday I would lose the ability to see
everything
. So when I looked at the world, I saw it differently than everybody else. And with my camera,
with my photos
, I could make them see what they took for granted.

I could hold each one like a precious gift. I could stare and store each one to memory. And I’d never lose them this way. Each and every one was mine, always.

Capturing beauty became an obsession. A compulsion. I chased it like my life depended on it. My camera was a part of me.

Right around the time my mom passed, my vision took another hit. Clouding in my peripheral. From then, it’s been a gradual decline. It started to get harder to pick up my camera. The idea of taking a photo some day and not having the chance to see it edited and printed started to eat at me like the shadows moving into my eyes.

By the time I was notified about Pop’s liver going to shit, I was ready to retire photography for good. I almost didn’t bring my equipment home with me when I left New York. It was tempting to leave it there, leave it all behind. But Mom bought me that first camera and it just seemed wrong, like I would be abandoning her dream too. Abandoning her. I brought it all home. Everything. All my gear. Every last photo. But I was done. For months, I didn’t take a single picture. I refused to even use the built-in camera on my phone.

It was like living in limbo. I wasn’t blind yet, but I had stopped seeing the world around me.

And then I walked into The Pub to drown my sorrows and there was Holland.

At my lowest point, she awoke the artist in me. She stoked the embers, refueling my passion. My obsession. She had the kind of beauty people look right past. To everyone else, she was a pretty face they forgot about the moment they turned away. The quiet girl in the corner. But I saw her differently. That kind of beauty, sad, hard, damaged, raw—it was captivating. It told a story. One I needed to know the ending to.

Once I saw her, I couldn’t look away. I tried. I really did. But she makes me weak from the inside out. She crumbles my defenses, compelling me to forget I’m a clock on a countdown. She makes me forget I was ever miserable.

But what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

36

Holland

One day turns into two. Two days into three. And soon, the days are all running together.

I wake every morning alone in my bed, inside my empty apartment, and I can’t fathom how I ever preferred solitude. I know I did, I remember it clearly, but it seems like the memories of a different person.

How many
me’s
can there be? I don’t know how to tell anymore.

My days now consist of reading. Not books. Books make me emotional because there are mothers in books and children in books and friends in books and lovers in books. Each one reminds me of what I don’t have. What I
do
have is a shelf full of half-read novels.

My current reading is strictly research. Retinitis Pigmentosa research, to be exact. I purchased a laptop and had internet installed just for this purpose. When I’m not working, I’m studying up. I look at pictures, trying to understand what Jensen sees. I read articles and medical findings until my own vision starts to blur.

I do this day after day. And I wonder if I should go see him. If he wants to see me. If he misses me like I miss him.

It’s stupid. I know I should just drive over there and talk to him, but I’m a coward. Not because I’m afraid of him not wanting me. But because I’m afraid he will. And I know there’s no way we can move forward until I can dust off the skeletons in my closet.

I’ve recently begun Googling grief counselors. I do it so much, I’m starting to feel insane. According to the websites though, I’m actually normal, which came as quite the shock.

I like to tell myself I don’t make an appointment because I’m one of the only people on the planet without a phone. Usually the lies we tell ourselves are the easiest to believe. But I already know I’m full of shit, so I’m not fooling myself. There’s a perfectly good phone at The Pub. I just refuse to use it.

I’m my own worst enemy.

It’s funny in a not-so-funny way, Jensen is living in fear of his future and I’m barely living, terrified of my past.

We make the most perfectly fucked-up pair, he and I.

37

Jensen

I’ve spent an extensive amount of time on these knots. The entire length of black rope forms an elaborate zigzag pattern along her back from neck to ass. It loops around the front, accentuating each breast, and continuing downward to frame her pale pink pussy.

It’s some of the best work I’ve ever done and will make for a great shoot. I should be happy. Proud. Excited.

Instead, I feel absolutely nothing.

Because Lindy’s face is not the one that plagues my dreams. Her hair is not fiery red and smelling of rosemary mint shampoo. Her skin is nearly the color of honey, not the creamy white I’ve worshipped for so long. Her eyes do not haunt me with their depthless emerald pools of pain.

I don’t ache for the touch of her hand or the scrape of her nails. Her lips have no unexplainable magnetic pull. The scent of her sweat beading on her flesh leaves my lungs feeling empty.

Lindy isn’t Holland. Just as Arebella wasn’t her yesterday. Or Leanne the day before that.

I keep hoping one of these women will stir something inside of me. Or at least get the blood flowing to my cock again. It’s fucking useless.

I finish the shoot with cold despondency and send Lindy on her way. If I’m going to be lonely, I’d rather be by myself. There’s no need to pretend when I’m in my own company.

I press my palms against my eyes and release an aggravated breath. Every inch of me wants Holland to come back. Each cell in my body misses her. The blood traveling through my veins swims in search of her.

I was never mad at her. Pissed she knew—that she saw my limitations. Pissed I couldn’t stay inside the bubble of denial I was able to create with her. Pissed that I am who I am and I can’t change that. But never angry with her.

It’s getting harder and harder not to pound down her door and bring her ass back into my bed. I’m past pride. The only thing keeping me away at this point is the thinnest veil of self-restraint.

But I stay away because I don’t want to resent her. Later, when my sight is nothing more than pinpricks of light, I don’t want to envy her or hate her because she has what I want. I don’t want her to take care of me or have to point me in the direction of the person’s hand I’m supposed to be shaking. Holding my arm to lead me down a flight of stairs or explaining what’s happening during a quiet part in a movie. The idea sends bile rushing into my parched throat.

I can’t give her a good life.

I can’t even give her a normal life.

She deserves so much more. So much better. I want that for her.
Need
that for her.