The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (18 page)

He ran another facecloth under the tap and knelt down beside me, rubbing it on the back of my neck. It was all I could do not to smack his hand away.

It was a good thing I was fired. I needed to extricate myself from this, on Monday, and start over.
Now I had perspective
.

I would seek out relationships and job positions with no possible criminal connections. I could not return to a life of risk.

I pushed his hand away.

“Please. Don’t touch me.”

He pulled back, furrowing his brow. “Charlie.” The way he said my name held meaning, but I was too linear, driving straight, narrow, unable to manage any turns.

“I just, I just need to lie down.” I rose up and felt better, now that I knew how I could solve my problem: get away from Jace. But I could not shake his physical presence. He shadowed me as I made my way to the bed and sat on the edge.

“Can I get you something? An aspirin?”

“No.”

He just kept standing there. How do you dismiss someone? Should I ask him to leave?

“Charlie,” he said, a hesitant tone in his voice. “Why won’t you look at me?”

I glanced at his Adam’s apple. Indeed, I could not raise my eyes to meet his. What did that mean?

“Charlie. What’s this about?”

I pursed my lips. I had no need to lie, I reckoned. I was fired. Also, while we had never discussed Mr. Knight’s criminal background, it was public knowledge, to some extent, and had been an undercurrent in snippets of his past and things he had shared. Therefore, I reckoned I had no need to beat around the proverbial bush. “I do not care for the company you keep, Mr. Knight.”

He blew air out of his nose and crossed his arms.

“Right,” he said.

“Yes, and I think it is best if I remain in here, away from them, until we leave tomorrow morning. I wish to be alone now.”

“Oh, ya do, do ya,” he murmured, uncrossing his arms and putting his hands on his hips.

He had changed into dry shorts, but wore the same short-sleeved dress shirt he had on earlier, unbuttoned. I focused on his belly button.

The silence was worse than an allergic itch. I wanted to flee. I fought the burn in the bridge of my nose.

“Well then,” he snarled, and I stiffened. “X’d out, ay. Wasting my time. Right.”

He had got the message. I exhaled slowly not realizing I had been holding my breath. I greatly regretted I would never again enjoy the connection we had had, but, I reassured myself, it was not worth vomiting into a toilet bowl over.

“Do me a favor, then. Look me in the eye when you tell me to fuck off.”

I struggled to draw my eyes to his face.

When I found them they were challenging me to create a negative emotion in him.

My chest clenched, but I mentally rewound—until I saw him as I did the first day, a striking, handsome stranger.

“I wish to be alone,” I whispered.

His eyes narrowed. He bent down close to my face and hissed, “Well then, your wish is my command.”

Sarcasm.

I jumped a foot off the bed when the door slammed behind him, after he murmured a flurry of foul language on his way out.

I had a long, numbing shower and changed into the one sundress I had brought so that I could sleep in something that provided more coverage than my nightie. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go to bed. But I was too . . . unsettled.

I had initially debated packing up my belongings and heading to one of the budget hotels I had spotted on the drive from the airport into town. But I applied foresight and some imagination to run through various scenarios of walking through The Bangalow’s living room with a suitcase in hand. And every single one ended very badly. Mr. Knight would not appreciate the rest of the group, who were partying again by the sound of it, knowing he and I had had a falling-out. Plus, I could not imagine how Joe might react—nor did I care to imagine his eyes on me departing alone. What if he followed me?

Quite simply, I lacked the courage to leave, and perhaps, the desire.

When I emerged from the bathroom, there was a plate of food on the side table in the corner of the room, and my heart started beating again, or so it felt, inside me.

That was incredibly considerate of Jace, especially since I had been so rude.

And I had been rude. My stomach rumbled along with my conscience. Why had I felt so . . . violent toward him? I struggled to recall the emotions that had lead me to such a terrible place, but they were merely vague ideas. Logically, I understood what had triggered them.

I no longer wished to associate with people who were not honest. No. That was not accurate. I no longer wished to associate with people who were not honest with themselves. My mother’s inability to face her shortcomings had led to her downfall.

But . . . taking care of someone who won’t help themselves was much different from my situation with Jace. Perhaps I had confused my need to protect him (from Sullivan Blaise) with a need to take care of him (a natural instinct since that was my primary experience in life). Jace was
nothing
like my mother, since he did not suffer from mental health and addiction issues. In fact, I suspected Jace rarely “let himself down,” and, thus, others close to him.

I sipped the soup, some kind of delicious coconut curry, as I stared at the empty bed, chewing on a piece of bread with ham. It was his associates who had reminded me of my old life—conniving behind Jace’s back, indulging in illegal substances; all of it tinged with Sullivan Blaise’s accusations. Had it been necessary to let Mr. Knight know how I felt in that moment about the company he keeps?

No, I realized, it was worse than that. I had included him in that company because he had brought me here, and they
were
his associates. And while it appeared simple enough to conclude that he was equally guilty by association, I was bothered by frays in my original logic, which were unraveling by other things he had implied about disliking them. The troubling aspect was, I could not ask him direct questions to resolve my emotional dilemmas—such as why he would need “to deal himself out” with Italians who have bodyguards—because of Sullivan.

Wait—it was Sullivan I was angry with. Yes! That was it. Misplaced anger.

I had felt ill because of my circumstances: being trapped, forced to watch for alleged criminal doing and expose it. Why, as a matter of fact, I would not even examine Jace’s choices were it not for Sullivan’s trap, as it is none of my concern how Jace lives his life, as long as he does me no harm. So far as I could ascertain, Jace had taken great care to minimize and safeguard my exposure to his associates. All of this terrible emotional anguish would not exist were it not for Sullivan’s demands! I would be wise to remember that. And in the meantime, how would I cope with the unexpected emotional disarray? I did not know.

After I ate, my head buzzing, I felt a wave of tiredness come over me, but fearful of the bed, irrationally, of course, as Mr. Knight would never abuse me,
that
I knew, I stepped out onto the small veranda that our master suite featured.

Outside was pitch black except for the room’s light pouring out. The rainforest was abuzz with insect activity and I was grateful for the wrap-around porch screen. The second-level veranda extended out at such an angle that it was utterly private and not overlooked from the other windows of the property. The music was quieter out here than inside. I dropped into the lounger, rolled over on my side and tried to think of pleasant things . . . because I could not deal with the terrible ache in my upper chest, almost like gut rot, but higher up.

I ruled out heart attack because we have no history of it in the family, and I am too young, and I don’t eat a lot of red meat. I thought of Miss Moneypenny and her little face and the way her eyes stare into mine when we cuddle. Jenny Williams from bookings had said she would check in on her while I was away.

I woke up with a start, and sat up, stilling my racing heart. How long had I been asleep? Not long, I decided, and listening, heard the shower running. He turned it off. I sat up on the edge of the lounger, frozen, wondering what the best course of action was.

Mr. Knight had been very cross when he stormed out of the room.

Whenever my mother was cross with me, which, mind you, was not very often, she would not speak to me. And while I do not care much for conversation as a rule, it is a strange thing to be denied that by one’s own mother.

I wondered if he would simply choose not to speak to me.

The click of the bathroom door opening spurred me into action. I sprang to my feet and ended up at the railing, staring out into dark jungle. My heart was thumping loudly in my chest. I longed to be free from this rather dire social situation, but had nowhere to flee other than over the railing, and things were not that bad. So I withdrew inside myself, and hummed notes silently, in my head, a jumble of various song chords—

“You feeling better?” I heard him ask quietly from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, and slowly turned around, holding the railing behind me for support.

“Yes.”

The relief I felt that he was speaking to me was not unlike the way I had felt after vomiting earlier. This was . . . confusing.

He stood in the open double doors, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, his hands buried in the pockets. I could smell how clean his body was. My chest was aching again, and my head, lightheaded. It occurred to me I had not even brushed my hair after my own shower, and having fallen asleep on it, it would be a mess of thick, dark waves. “Thank you for the food.” I added quietly, smoothing the damp mess, staring at his bare feet.

“I reckoned you’d want something to—”

“I am sorry I was rude earlier,” I blurted out suddenly, glancing into his eyes.

He was observing me, like one might observe an animal in the wild.

“I was out of sorts, and felt . . .” I shook my head. What was I doing? Why this strange compulsion? I could not tell him how I really felt about him and his associates.

“You felt what, Charlie?” He took his hands out of his pockets, and stepped out onto the veranda, a few feet from me.

“I am not sure I should I say.”

“Yeah, you should.”

“But,” I hedged, feeling lighter than air. “What I have to say might create a negative emotion in you again.”

He smiled, and I felt my feet touch the ground.

“I appreciate the warning. But you know, that’s how it works, right. You share something bad or scary and colorful, or however the fuck you see it, and then I share something in return. After, when we’re done sharing, we make each other feel better.”

I glanced back down at his feet.

“Because I want to make you feel better and I really need you to make me feel better right now, Charlie.” He rubbed his head, leaving his hand on the back of his neck.

Oh. Right. He had feelings, too.

Oh dear. I was not good at this. No, that was an understatement. I was awful at this. What a terrible sensation, to realize you are awful at something. I sighed. He was watching me so intently he had not blinked.

“Well . . .”

(I never say “well.” It’s a stupid word.)

I cleared my throat. “I realized, earlier, today, that I did not run
to
Sydney, like you said you did when you were a boy. You see, I thought that we had that in common after our conversation.”

He smiled slightly. Both his arms were at his sides.

“But I realized . . . I realized I was running
away
from something,” I whispered, barely able to form words suddenly, as though my capacity for speech was disconnected from my cerebral cortex. I quickly ruled out aneurysm.

He stepped into my space, and grabbed my hand.

“Go on.”

I took a deep breath, but my heart was not cooperating.

“Vice,” I uttered. “I wanted to get away from vice and all its . . . corruption.” It was ever-present in CrissCross trailer park, in its graffiti-strewn cement surrounds and the rusted, idling cars. In my mother’s eyes. I despised it.

I felt him watching me but focused on his mouth, just visible in the twilight.

Why did he remain silent?

The word “vice” stretched out between us.

I could not even hear him breathe.

“Fair enough, Charlie, fair enough,” he said.

My entire body let go of its intense grip on . . . what?

Oh. I was worried he was going to deny the truth about his associates . . . like, like my mother might have.

“Now I’m going to tell you something, and then together we’re going to make each other feel better.” He grabbed my other hand and was rubbing both of them with his thumbs, following my face with his eyes. “You don’t have to run anymore, and sure as ’ell not from me. I want the same thing as you, I swear to Christ, and that’s all I’ve been working toward for years now. I’m gaining distance, putting walls between me and this lot, and their sort.” I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t want to hear more (lest he share something incriminating), but he carried on. “I want a better life, Charlie. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know how that will look just yet. But ever since I met you, I feel a lot closer to it. It’s just within reach.”

My heart was beating wildly, and I knew my eyes must appear shiny in the twilight.

“Now it was wrong of me to make you come with me here, right.” He grasped my head, tilting it up, our faces so close.
Breathe
, I instructed myself. “Maybe I overestimated what you could handle. I never want to make you feel bad or hurt you. But I’m not going to lie to you either.”

His face, and all its symmetry, was accentuated by the outline of his black hairline.

“I’m a selfish bloke, Charlie, always have been, always will be.” He shook his head. “I needed you here with me, right. And I need you now,” he uttered softly. I absorbed his confession like a lotion into parched skin.

“And you know,” he added, bringing our lower bodies close together, “you need me too, Charlie, you just don’t know it yet.”

Did I need him?

What did it feel like to need someone?

My chest did feel much better with him near me, speaking nicely to me.