Page 39 of Echoes in the Storm
I drop the spoons, yet keep my eyes shut for one more blissful minute. “Then whatareyou trying to do, Duke?”
He sighs, getting off the bed. I set the spoons aside and open my eyes. He stands with his back to me, as though he’s ready to walk out but for some unknown reason, he can’t find it in himself to physically do so. His head drops, and he looks to the floor as he admits the reason for this detailing of my faults. “You drive me crazy with your annoying habits, Cam, and yet …”
Yet?I scoot up in the bed, holding on for his next words.
“And yet that piece-of-shit car breaking down was the best thing that’s happened to me in a hell of a long time.”
I fold the covers back and move to the edge of the bed, hanging my legs over the side as an amused smile curls my lips up on one side. “Why, Duke. Would that be a compliment you just gave me?”
His laugh is low and throaty, supressed. “I guess.”
What is it about this man that he can’t let himself loosen up? I get that he’s angry about what happened to him, but damn, live a little, laugh.
He drops a frustrated sigh as he runs a hand through his hair. “I put those pictures on top of your sideboard. Figured you could reframe them when you felt the time was right.” He takes a step toward the door and hesitates, looking back at me over his shoulder. “Get some sleep, okay?”
“Sure. Thank you for the spoons.” I give him a soft smile and let him go, more for his own relief than mine.
I could have kept him close for longer, picked his brain and possibly, maybe, got him to kiss me again. But I’m not blind; he needs space to think things through. He needs to work out exactly how he feels about what just went down.
As do I.
Sleep. Yeah, I won’t be doing much of that. Taylah’s death cemented two things for me: one, endless sleepless nights where, if I’m lucky, I snatch a few rough hours, and two, that I will never ever take medication to aid my insomnia again.
After all, why should I sleep when my baby is doing enough for the both of us?
Duke
All she had to say was one little thing about a damn sofa and I lost focus of why this woman can only ever be a passing phase in my life. We’re so different, yet she selflessly offered to do something that makesmefeel better, and I’m left with a burning gratitude for how effortlessly kind she is.
She gives her love without expectation of reward, offering only the best part of her. Even when that douchebag ex came over to bully her into picking an estate agent, she never faltered. She could have sliced that sharp tongue of hers across his wounds and cut him down, thrown the fact that the arsehole left her when she needed him most in his face, but she didn’t.
Because that’s not Cam.
When you’re blessed with the ability to feel love and empathy to such a level, you’re also cursed to wear the scars such connection brings. No wonder the woman guards her pain so fiercely. She’s not just unable to move on for fear of losing the last connection she has to her daughter—she’s afraid of spreading her pain to the people she loves.
She’s afraid of influencing others’ lives in a negative way.
One more reason why we’re so different.All I do is layer my anger and resentment over those around me, unsatisfied until they understand why I can never let go of the misery and hate I carry at how that one event ruined so many lives.
With my arse to the timber, I scoot my back into the junction of the sofa and the wall and do my ritual sweep of the room. How long will I be like this? Living in fear despite the fact I’m halfway around the world from where the real threat of attack resides?
This isn’t how to live. It’s not how a man behaves. Shit, if my father could see me now he’d hang his head in shame. I might have lost respect for the arsehole when he cut my mother down and left to be with his mistress, but he still stamped the basic macho beliefs in me that no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake.
Men don’t cry.
Men don’t whine about their troubles to whoever will listen.
Real men stick their proverbial middle fingers up to the world that treads on them, and battle on.
Ishouldbe battling on, but here I am, sitting in a stranger’s house, thinking about what a waste my life is. My future was in army greens. My destiny was to either die young or retire when my ravaged and beaten body couldn’t take another tour. I had purpose, an outlet for my anger. I had respect.
I had the love of a good woman to return to. A new family.
Now …nothing. I’m nothing, nobody. And worst of all, I contribute nothing to this world. I suck oxygen, I eat produce, but what do I give back?
So many bad things are happening right now, so many fights for survival taking place this very second, and where am I? Huddled under a blanket looking for the fucking bogeyman.
Goddamn fucking disgrace.