Detained

She pulled out of his grasp. It wasn’t his fault he was this way, and she wasn’t frightened of him.

“Yes we were together. We covered a lot of ground: detention rooms, beds, floors, bathtubs, balconies, piano tops, elevators,” she paused, watching him for any sign of recognition, “clothing closets. Is any of that ringing a bell with you?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Honey, I’ve been with a lot of women and I don’t remember you. Must be a reason. I remember the good ones.”

She gave him a laugh, just for show. “Oh I was good. I made you lose control, that’s how good I was. Shame you don’t remember.” He was so close, she could smell the sweat in his skin, so close she could see his eyelashes were wet, spiky and clumped together.

The side of his mouth ticked up in half smile. “Really, well maybe you could show me. I’ve got nothing but time, honey, and you came all the way here just to see little ole me.” He lifted his hand and with one finger traced a line down Darcy’s bare arm. “Been a long time since I’ve had some action. I’m raring to go.”

She wasn’t going to let this man who wasn’t Will get to her. “You’re trying to shock me.”

He leaned closer. “I’m trying to get you to leave me alone.”

“And why would that be?”

“Because you’re a crazy bitch.”

She stepped back. “You’re the one named after a superhero. You’re the one who punched out a door yesterday.”

“Look, you either want to fuck or get out of my face. Your call.”

There was nothing. She saw nothing in him, not a hint of the man she remembered, of the man who’d nearly died to protect her.

“I’ll take box B. You’re right, I thought I knew you. But I’d never have anything to do with a man like you. I’d never let him touch me. The Will Parker I knew wasn’t crude or ugly mean. He was charming and smart and funny. I loved him and he loved me.”

The man who was supposed to be Will pushed a hand through his wet hair, overlong now and curling. “Yeah. Lucky you, lucky him. Whoever the fuck he is.”

Darcy took another step back. “You’re nothing like him. Oh you look similar, have the same mannerisms, but he would never deliberately demean anyone for caring.”

“Crazy, you’re crazy.” He was shaking his head. He had one fist wrapped around the back of a café chair.

He should be her Will but he wasn’t. He should remember her but he didn’t. And it wasn’t his fault. “Goodbye, Will.” Darcy looked down to pick up her bag.

“What, no kiss?”

She pulled back. He was almost on top of her. He looked like Will. He could be Will. He was breathing hard. What would he do if she took him up on his offer one last time?

She put her hand to his damp hair, stepped into him and kissed him. When their lips touched he jerked like he’d been hit with a bolt of electricity. His plastered hand came around her back to hold her close; the other went to her face, fingers fanning across her cheek. For all his early aggression, he held her with infinite gentleness and his kiss was soft and tender.

She pulled away first, desperate to see who he was now. His bare chest was heaving as if he’d been chased by demons, but his eyes were narrowed and his look was severe. Her sleeping beauty was still out cold, this imposter in his place.

“Like I said, I remember the good ones.”

Darcy snatched her bag from the seat. She wasn’t going to cry in front of him. She wasn’t going to run either, though she wanted to. As she turned away she was aware of him watching.

He called out, “Have a nice life, gorgeous.”

It was that last word, that last remnant of Will that made her stop, hesitate, turn back. But he was already gone. The next thing she heard was the sound of glass smashing, and she wondered what had broken, other than their hearts.

36. Not Alone

“When anger rises, think of the consequences.” — Confucius

Will phoned Bo and was packed to blow the joint, five minutes after having his other hand strapped. He’d lucked on the only pane of glass in the place that wasn’t tempered so all he needed was stitches.

At reception he said, yes, he was aware he had damaged both hands. Yes, he was aware he had a problem with anger. Yes, he knew he was checking out on his own recognisance, without the approval of his doctors or his next of kin. Fuck Pete. And of course he understood he’d be charged for the repairs.

He’d been here five months, at least two months too long. He’d needed those first months, he was weak and confused still, but all the exercise, the fresh air and being able to hold down food again had kickstarted his system. Then he’d been too scared to call himself recovered, and he wasn’t going out in the world not able to talk properly in at least one language. He’d faked through the last eight weeks, frightened of himself and how different he felt. But enough was enough. This could well be as good as it gets. If he had to find a way to live with how he was now, anxious, irritated, angry, then he’d better make a start.