Insecure (Love Triumphs 1)

“Long enough to see how hard you’ve worked.”

He might’ve whispered sex in her ear, naughty, joyous crudities; the words that made her lose her breath, curled her toes to rigid points on legs that hugged his hips. “It’s about wholeness.”

He reached forward and circled a finger around her ear. “Ah-huh.”

He was often abrupt and offhand with her and she got it. He was deadly tired and couldn’t afford to slow down. He was inconsiderate and insensitive because he was tense and anxious, and it spilled over in dozens of unexpected little ways: a burst of temper because they were out of milk, a phone call that never came, a commitment forgotten. They stabbed her like pricks from a sharp spike. But not tonight.

“Sometimes that’s a straight equation, two identical halves. Sometimes it’s more complex and the pieces don’t necessarily reflect the whole.” Did that make sense to him? Would it make sense to anyone who came to the show? She gave him the edited version, tense about this moment being spoiled if he lost interest.

“Your life. My life. Our life. Our whole is a lot lopsided right now, baby. I’m sorry about that.” He leaned forward and kissed her gently. “Don’t sack me yet, okay.”

She was an industrial spill, a trip hazard of bone gunge and sinew sludge, muscle mucus and organ mud. He got it.

All the wrappings were off her heart where it came to Mace. So when he hurt her, no matter how incidental, no matter how she understood it wasn’t deliberate, she bled hard. She’d made use of that hurt with a brush and a canvas and he wasn’t hurting her now.

The quickest way to him was over the table. She came up on her knees and launched herself at him. He caught her under the arms, pushed his chair back and hauled her into his lap. It’d been so long since they’d fooled around, since he’d done more than given her an absent-minded kiss, or touched her with the same intention as he pocketed his phone, for the efficient habit of it.

“You get it. I’m so scared people won’t, or they’ll think it’s too basic, too simplistic to be worthwhile.” She was so eager to talk about this, and so impatient to be closer to him.

He rubbed his nose along her cheek to her temple, but his hands lay still on her thighs. He didn’t reject her kiss, but he didn’t fall into it either. He made an ambiguous murmur, more complaint than compliance and she knew her rationing of time was over. He was mentally already at his desk, even while she tried to convince him there were other ways to spend the evening. He left her in the kitchen with the rest of the after-dinner clean-up and went back to work.

She threw cutlery in the sink. She chipped a cup. She slammed the fridge door. She knew emotional turmoil, she knew loneliness, but she’d never experienced them from so close up, with such a soft belly. And yet she’d been ready for this. But it was harder, more hurtful than she’d imagined.

She took that complex war between love and patience, resentment and tolerance, to the studio day after day, night after night, and used it to complete her paintings for the show. It was good fuel, it burned clean, so the work felt solid, but it also left her aching.

When she’d first started to

paint without hating it, sometimes the mood would strike in the middle of the night. She’d slip out of Mace’s arms and leave their bed. He always woke and came looking for her. She’d feel his hands, his chest, his hot breath on the back of her neck and the scratch of his stubble when he nuzzled close. He didn’t speak, he didn’t interrupt. He’d shuffle back to bed, but he’d let her know he was aware she’d gone missing.

Would he know she was missing now? Not misplaced like house keys, not put away somewhere safe but forgotten, but missing from his life, as he was from hers. She lay in bed and knew he wouldn’t come in until she slept, if at all. She’d have to show him. She’d have to bring him to bed. She went to the office. He had two screens in front of him and a notepad on the desk. He had his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands.

“Mace.” He jerked upright with a grunt.

She stood behind his chair. “You’re done in. Come to bed.”

“In a minute.”

In a minute meant in an hour, in a day. It meant when the problem was solved or brain function ceased to produce more than sitting upright, breathing and blinking. She’d been there a thousand times and there’d been no one to suggest a better way.

She put her hands to his neck, so tight. She didn’t have his skill at massage but she pressed her fingers in to the unyielding muscle and stroked up towards his hairline. “Whatever it is, it will be easier to fix if you sleep.”

He groaned and pushed into the chair, tipping his head back and looking at her over the top of it. “Please. I have to get this done.”

She was being dismissed. Again. Well, not this time. “Why don’t we see if I can help?”

“Cinta, it’s late, go to bed.”

“I want to help.”

He sat forward and thumped his hand on the pad. “Can you rejig this program so it doesn’t produce dross?” He twisted his head to glare at her. “I don’t think so. Go to bed.”

“You’re wrong. I can help.”

He swung the chair around and she had to step back out of the way of his knees. “Go the fuck to bed.”

She shook her head and straddled his lap, bracing her thighs against the arms of the chair. If he wanted her gone he’d have to work harder than that.

“Cinta, stop fucking around. I need to do this.”