Sweet Seduction Sabotage (11 page)

Like where he lived, for instance. What his favourite colour was, or what movie he'd watched more than five times. I knew he played golf, but only because he had been with Dom on Sunday. I hadn't been aware of that pastime before then. What was his favourite meal? Where did he like to holiday? Were his sheets flannelette or cotton?

I watched as he slid into his side of the car, closed the door and immediately buckled up. I'm a buckle up after you reverse out and put the car in gear kind of girl. Drew was a buckle up before you go kind of guy.

Another piece to the puzzle.

He started the vehicle with a strange looking key and then backed out of the carpark without saying a word.

Auckland city crawled past the windows as we got engulfed in rush hour traffic. Queen Street to Ponsonby Road was not that far, but it would take a good twenty minutes at this time of night to make it.

Then it occurred to me that Drew had never been to my house. Our liaisons had been purely out on the town or at Gen and Dom's barbecues. I'd never invited him home, it just wasn't what we had been.

"Do you know where I live?" I asked, as the car moved another few metres closer to Ponsonby.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"How?"

"I know where you live. That you've lived alone since Abi moved out. I know you drive a Ford Focus, but usually catch the bus to work. I know you like tequila, but will stomach gin and tonic at a pinch." I wasn't so sure about either right now. "I know you love super supreme pizzas and gooey caramel ice-creams." He flicked me a smirk at that one. "And I know your underwear comes in every shade of purple, occasionally black."

Hmm. Was that the extent of it? Just what he'd picked up when we'd hooked up and at Gen's. Nothing more, because like me he hadn't asked.

"What's your favourite movie?" I threw out there.

"The Shawshank Redemption." Wow, OK.

"How many times have you watched it?"

"Too many I've lost count."

"Favourite colour?"

"Any shade of purple, occasionally black." I snorted.

"Meal?"

"Steak, medium rare. Fresh asparagus drizzled with a balsamic glaze. Baby new potatoes and mint."

I burst out laughing. Drew turned and gave me a bright smile, only slightly lopsided.

"Drink?" I spluttered, still amused at the precise menu he'd just relayed.

"To go with the steak? Merlot."

"I like a Merlot," I murmured. He turned back to the windscreen and negotiated a tangle of cars.

"Where do you live?" I whispered.

"Cockle Bay. Alone," he added, as though it was the next question I was going to ask.

I nodded, and looked at my lap. I couldn't ask about the sheets, it seemed too provocative. As though I was trying to invite myself to his house, and if that was a normal thing for a couple to discuss, then I didn't know. I guess I'd find out.

A few minutes later Drew pulled up outside my little two bedroom villa on Vermont Street, managing to get a park right out front, behind my Ford. I stepped out of his car before he could make it around my side, no doubt with the intention of opening it on my behalf. Drew might have had a wild side that kept up with mine, but he was all gentleman.

I opened the picket fence gate and walked up the front path to the porch, pulling my keys out of my trouser pocket when I got there. Turning back to Drew, I sucked in a deep breath, ready to thank him for the ride.

But he simply reached forward and tugged the keys from my grip, slipping the right one into the lock and opening the door.

"After you," he murmured, handing them back.

"You don't have to stay," I managed to get out.

"I'm not going anywhere."

I frowned and received that crooked smirk in reply.

"Kelly, first lesson of an exclusive relationship; we get to stay at each other's homes."

"You want to stay the night?" I asked, dumbfounded. God knows why I was confused, but this was all such new ground, I didn't know the rules.

"I want to stay with you," he said, pushing the door open further at my back. The move brought him closer, as he'd reached out over my shoulder to make his point. I inhaled without thinking, searching for that cologne he always wore.

He wore it now and somehow its familiarity calmed me.

I let a long breath of air out and felt my whole body relax.

"So," Drew whispered, his face no more than a few centimetres away. "Are you going to invite me in?"

"Why, are you some kind of vampire?" I shot back with a soft snigger.

Drew smirked, shook his head and muttered, "You watch way too much TV."

Then walked through my door.

I realised I was smiling by the time I cottoned on to the fact that I was simply following too.

Drew took his time surveying my home after we'd walked in. It was an unusual sensation. He'd not been here before, but others had. Although their interest had not extended to my artwork or eclectic Kiwiana cushion collection.

That smirk of his hinted on one side of his luscious lips, as his eyes darted over the lounge room walls and furniture. Finally coming to settle on me. I was standing at the door to the room, watching him taking in my world. Trying to accept this turn in our relationship. Trying to think what a normal person would do right now.

"I like it," he said simply. "Is the kitchen through here?" He nodded toward the far exit of the room.

"Yep," I managed to get out, but my throat constricted making further conversation impossible.

He sauntered through the doorway and I heard the fridge door open, then the sound of frozen goods being shifted around. Curiosity finally unglued my limbs and I walked, like a zombie, into the kitchen after him. He was wrapping a bag of peas up in a cloth. I blinked as he turned to hand it to me.

"You're starting to bruise," he said, when I stiffly accepted the package. "Sit down, Kelly," he urged. "I'll fix us something to eat, if that's OK."

The fact that he asked made me realise he was a little out of his depth too. Drew didn't ask, he took. Not in any way nastily, but certainly assertively. Right now his tentativeness was actually endearing, at the very least making me feel not quite like the only fool in the room. I sank down onto a stool at the bench and lifted the frozen bag of peas to my jaw as I watched him rummage around in the pantry for something to eat.

He came out a minute later scratching his head. Yeah, my pantry was not the most impressive sight. He turned to the fridge again and leaned in to get a closer look. My eyes fell to the bench surface, knowing what he would, or wouldn't, find there. I ate out, a lot. Bought dinner on the way home or ordered in. I rarely had anything perishable in the house. This was a base to return to, nothing more.

Drew stood up straight, the door to the fridge still held open, a strange look on his face.

"Well," he said, slowly closing the door as though by doing so something miraculous would suddenly jump out of the depths and surprise him. "There's pasta shells and a can of Spam. Not so sure about the milk."

He came and sat beside me, pulling his stool closer, but didn't say anything more. I wondered if he was waiting for an explanation. I studied the pattern on the Formica surface of the bench. Words eluded me. This was my life and the more of it I exposed and actually
saw
, the more I didn't like.

Who am I?

Red or black?

I'm so fucking lost.

"I had a flatmate once," Drew suddenly said into the strained silence. "He used to eat Spam like it was a divine offering. He'd peel back the lid and shake the can upside down onto a plate. I can still hear the glug, glug, glug of that gelatinous substance working its way past the suction of the tin. It would land in a splat, little bits of jelly breaking off and decorating the dish. Then he'd grab a knife and carve a shape out of it. Dinosaurs, bats, a dirigible once when he was feeling really creative. The whole process would take half an hour. I guess by that time he'd worked up enough appetite to actually be able to digest the bloody thing. It was art in motion, really. But I have to admit, I can't fucking stand the stuff. Let's not eat that, OK?"

I stared at him, the frozen peas forgotten on the bench. My jaw was numb from its effects, but bizarrely my heart wasn't. A warmth had settled there. He'd been talking nonsense, probably a memory from when he was at Uni and living it a little rough. He had no idea what Spam meant to me, yet for some reason the story did something. For a fraction of a moment it allowed me to see that can of Spam in a different light.

"It's not there to eat," I pointed out, wondering why I mentioned that at all.

"It isn't?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at me. "Then why is it in your pantry?"

"A reminder." And now would have been a good time to stop talking.

"Of what, Kelly? What not to eat?"

I shook my head and turned back to look at the surface of the bench.

"Do you like it?" he asked, softly.

"What? Spam?"

He made a snorting sound at my ridiculous attempt to delay answering.

"Yes, Kelly. Spam, the intriguing topic of conversation we're currently having."

A small smile tipped the edges of my lips. Oh, hell. It was my fault having the can there. It was my fault letting Drew in enough to stare into my pantry and open up my past. And it was definitely my fault for divulging even a snippet of why that fucking thing was there at all.

Is this what couples do? Peer inside each other's souls and see the dregs of our pasts? Why was it so hard to talk about this? Spam.

I took a deep breath in and stared across the kitchen at nothing.

"I didn't even know what Spam was until I turned thirteen," I admitted. "But by the time I was sixteen I'd pretty much got its number."

Drew had gone still beside me. I let a long breath of air out, feeling the weight of my wretched teenage years weighing down on me. Would it help to talk? It never had before. Even with Genevieve.

"Go on," he encouraged, his hand snaking over and clasping mine. He gave it a soft squeeze, then started stroking a gentle thumb swipe over my knuckles.

Such a simple move. So sweet. But I couldn't handle the connection, not when talking about my past. And suddenly I wanted to get a little of it out.

I pulled my hand away and settled it in my lap, clasping my other one. Drew withdrew his hand and sat silently.

"I came home from school one day," I started, "and they were fighting. It wasn't unusual, other than the fact it was happening mid afternoon and not after my father got in from work at six. I ignored them, like I always did. And went to my room and turned my music up loud." I just breathed for a few seconds, replaying that day over in my head. "I was going through a Wilson Phillips stage."

Drew shifted slightly. I could tell he had turned more to face me, probably surprised at my preferred music choice back then. I could relate. I haven't listened to Wilson Phillips since that day. We don't even play them at Sweet Seduction. It was my only musical rule, and Gen, like she always does, complied with my wishes and banned them from the store.

"When I came downstairs for dinner he was gone."

Drew let a slow breath of air out and in a whisper quiet voice said, "Who was gone? Your father?"

I nodded, refusing to let the tears fall. He'd had enough of those from me.

"For a week we pretended everything was OK. He was just away on some job for work, but considering he was employed in an electronics store and had never been away from home on work related business before, we both knew it was a lie."

I twisted my hands in my lap. So far this wasn't making me feel any better, just revisiting a painful part of my life. But I'd decided it was time for a new me. Start fresh, clean the slate, try and get it right this time. Find a little meaning in my life, other than the blank hits of bliss I'd been chasing.

I didn't have an answer, but I wasn't so blind as to not connect my past,
that day
, with where my life went off track. Maybe talking about it would make sense of why I am the way I am. Maybe by saying it aloud I'd figure it all out.

I didn't know, but anything was better than this sensation of being lost. I have a lot of faults, but cowardice is not one of them. I
will
work this out. I
will
become a better person by the end of it.

Just getting there might hurt like fuck.

"By the end of the first week we'd run out of food and, unbeknown to me, money. He'd cleaned the bank accounts out. Left us what was in the house, I guess in his mind that was a fair exchange. But my mother didn't work, she'd never worked. She'd always been a stay-at-home mum. No skills, other than being a housewife and mother, and those are hard to gain employment with."

My fingers clenched, my nails digging into my palms, but not drawing blood.

"For the first week she thought he'd come back. For the second she tried to earn some money to fill the pantry with food. By the third, when I guess she realised the bank account was going to remain empty and so was the other side of her bed, she changed. She'd had a few knock backs at job interviews by then. Social Welfare was giving her the run around because they still believed my father lived at our address. Two months, they said. We had to wait eight weeks before they'd acknowledge we needed help. By the time those eight weeks were up I knew intimately what Spam was and how my mother earned enough dollars to put it on the shelf."

Drew's hands clenched into fists at his side, but he didn't say a word. Waiting to see if I'd spew any more horrid memories out onto the bench between us.

If this wasn't enough to make him run, I didn't know what would be.

Another sucked in breath for fortification and I said, trying for a light tone, "So, the Spam is there to make sure I never become like my mother." And in case he needed further explanation, I added, "Dependent on a man for anything other than pleasure."

Silence. It lasted a little too long for comfort.

"And your father?" Drew finally asked.

"That's a story for another day."

"I'd like to hear it."

I finally turned to face him, to see what expression he wore. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't a false façade to humour me. It was full of genuine concern and interest.

"Why? It's fucked up." Like me.

"It's a part of you. A part of who you have become."

"So you can understand me better," I snapped back. Regardless of the fact he'd hit the nail on the head. Just as I had begun to suspect, that time in my life had made me who I am today. Or, more precisely, who I was on Friday.

Today, I'm not sure who I am anymore.

"I already understand you, Kelly," Drew surprised me by saying. "Can't you tell? I know what you need. I know how you get through each day. I'm prepared to give it, too. For now. But what I'd like, is to hear you say it. To have you open up. To watch you make the connection and through that find the answer you've been searching for." He leaned forward and lifted his hand up between us, tapping his finger lightly on my chest. "It's in here," he said, soft grey eyes holding my gaze. "And in here," he added, tapping the side of my head twice. Gently, tenderly, but still making his point. "You just have to want it enough to say it aloud."

I shook my head at him and stood up from my stool. Great. I talk about my past, something I have never done before with anyone, and he pushes for more. As though I haven't just accomplished a miraculous thing. Drew Kline wants all of me, every sordid detail. A snippet is not enough.

I walked to the fridge and threw the soggy packet of peas back in the freezer, then slammed the door shut.

"You're angry," he pointed out.

"Good deduction there, Sherlock."

"Why? Because I want you to stretch yourself? Because I'm asking you to do something that will hurt? Because I know you can do it, but you don't?"

I snorted. Now he was just being self-righteous.

"You're not a coward, Kelly. You're one of the bravest women I have ever met."

"What would you know!" I rounded on him, hands on hips. "How am I courageous? I'm not perfect. I'm not a conformist. I seek pleasure in multiple men's arms."

His eyes narrowed. "Not anymore."

Something snapped inside. "What? You think you can fix me? You think I'm fixable? What if I'm not?"

"You're the one who has decided to start fresh. Wipe the slate clean."

"Not clean enough, obviously. I missed one. Maybe I should just cut you loose too."

"I'm not going anywhere," he announced, as though that was that.

I kept shaking my head, feeling a headache coming on. "I can't do this. I was wrong. This isn't for me."

He stood and within seconds was in front of me, then slowly began crowding me back, step by step, against the bench on the far side of the kitchen wall. His large frame loomed over me, anger evident in his steel grey eyes. They'd darkened, no longer soft, but turbulent with emotion. It was mesmerising. I wasn't sure if it was him, or his beautiful eyes that stole all the air from the room. But it
was
the sexiest thing I had ever seen.

His hands lifted to rest on the bench on either side of my body, bracketing me in. Trapping me. He held my gaze and said, voice low, "You can and will do this."

I just stood there and said nothing. It was more than his physical presence. It was more than the captivating glint of steel in his eyes. It was more than being surrounded by Drew in every possible way; sight, sound, scent. Touch.

My hands shifted of their own accord, my fingers digging into his chest, then running over his pecs. His lips twisted, it wasn't his usual lopsided smirk, this was almost in pain.

"You need me," he whispered, and although it sounded arrogant, I knew it wasn't. Merely an observation that unfortunately was correct.