“Always believe in me.”
How can I not? What Mac doesn’t see is that I’m her greatest protector of all. “I’ll always believe in you.”
Her lips curve slightly. She’s satisfied with my response and lies down beside me, curling into my side. I hug her close and press a kiss to the top of her head.
“Tell me about your life, Jake. I want to know everything.”
Mac can’t know everything. Ever. The type of man I’ve become is not the man she needs, so I give her the edited version. “I was born Jacob Rhys Romero on May tenth, at Westmead Hospital.”
“You’re a Taurus.”
My brows rise. “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t pick you as someone that’s into that kind of thing.”
“The easiest way to read someone is to work out their sign. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh?” A smirk plays upon on my lips. “Read me, then.”
Shifting to her side, Mac rises on her elbow and rests her head in her hand. “You’re a bull. That makes you a stubborn, hard-headed dick,” she says, returning my smirk. “You’re also strong, romantic, and possessive, and you like pretty things. You’re quick and clever, but underneath it all hides true talent and hard work.”
“You think I’m all that?”
A grin curves her lips, and she shrugs her shoulders. “Mostly just the stubborn part.”
Grabbing the pillow beside me, I use it to whack her on the head. She shrieks, laughing. I use the diversion to my advantage and roll on top of her, pinning her arms to the bed.
“And strong,” she gasps.
I shift a little, taking some of my weight from her body.
“Tell me more,” Mac says. “All the facts I have are that you were born and your father had a brain aneurysm.”
My stomach sinks. I hate to talk about my father. It’s a reminder that the man he used to be is not the man he is today. Scooting off the bed, I reach for a pair of shorts from the floor. “What more could you possibly need to know?”
I stand and slide the shorts up my legs as I scan the floor for a shirt. I’m a messy bastard, I know. I need to work on that.
Mac’s voice hardens. She’s getting annoyed. “Don’t be evasive.”
I find a crumpled shirt half hanging from the drawer of my dresser. I grab it and turn to face Mac. She’s sitting up in bed, long hair tousled and bed sheet pulled to her chest with one arm holding it in place.
She’s utterly enthralling, like a butterfly come to rest on my hand. I want to stand here all day and absorb her beauty, even though she’ll soon fly away. That will be my next tattoo—a butterfly on my hand, complete with wings of absolute fire.
“What?” she asks.
I’ve been staring. “What do you mean what?”
“You’re staring at me.”
The shirt is bunched in my hands. I shake it out and tug it on. Then I walk over and dip down, pressing my lips to hers. Pulling back a fraction, I give her a grin. “I was just thinking of how beautiful you are.”
“Oh …” Pink warms her cheekbones. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”
“Accept the compliment, Princess.”
Her green eyes sparkle and she concedes. “Thank you, Jake. Now stop being evasive.”
With a deep sigh, I turn and sit on the edge of the bed. “You know my mother died, so it was just me and my father. We lived in a normal house. I went to school, came home, watched TV, played computer games. It was all completely ordinary and boring.”
Mac shifts until she’s sitting beside me. “What did your father do before he got sick? And where is he now?”
“He is … was a music professor. He taught music history, composition, and performance at the Academy of Music and Performing Arts in Sydney.” I swallow bitterness. “Now he’s in an aged care facility.”
Her slender palm reaches for mine. She takes it and gives me a comforting squeeze. “He must have been an incredible musician.”
“Not so much. He knew everything about music but when it came to instruments, he was a jack-of-all-trades and master of none. He loved the violin best. When played right, he said the sound was clearer than glass and purer than snow.”
“And you end up playing the drums.”
“Yeah.” A laugh escapes me. “It was always my favourite. Dad liked to joke that my first word was rhythm. I could find it in anything—banging pots, slapping tables, cardboard boxes. When I was seven, I discovered I could use different parts of my hand to get different sounds.” Letting go of Mac’s hand, I hold mine up and point to the base of my palm. “This part gives you a low beat.” I point to the middle of my hand. “This gives you a higher pitch. And here…” I point to my fingers “…gives you fast rolls and pops.”
“Why do you like it so much?”
I give Mac a grin. “Because you get to hit things. And they don’t hit back.”
She laughs. It’s a light sound and I like it. I lean in and rub my nose against hers. Mac is close enough for me to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “They’re also fun,” I say. “And when I play them I feel happy.”
“Did you have a drum kit when you were young?”
“Dad bought me one when I was ten.”
“Is that the one you use now?”
“No.” I draw back and stand, scanning the floor for some shoes. We’ve barely left my room since Mac got here and it’s time to get outside and enjoy some fresh air. “We should go do something.”
Mac doesn’t budge. “Not yet. I want to know more.”
She’s a dog with a bone. Heaving a deep breath, I turn to face her and fold my arms. “It was sold when he got sick. His insurance only covered so much, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” Mac tells me. “About what happened. I wish I wasn’t such a bitch to you that first night.”
“You didn’t know.” My jaw ticks, fighting back the ache. It throbs like a fresh wound in my skin. When does the pain get easier to bear? “I barely felt a thing that night anyway, but now …”
“Now?” she prompts.
My throat feels raw and I swallow. “Now I don’t know how to feel. It’s like he died, Mac, but he’s still here.”
Mac stands. The sheet falls away, revealing her naked body. She’s confident in her skin and doesn’t care. It’s beautiful. She walks toward me and slides her arms around my waist, pulling me tight against her.
“It hurts,” I admit, returning the hug. It hurts like holy fucking hell, but Mac is here in my arms and it feels so good I don’t know how I’ll ever let go.
JAKE
“I want out.”
Leander, Luke, and I are sitting at the round breakfast table in the nook by the kitchen. Mac is in the shower, and I’m tapping my fingers against the pale timber, anxious to have this conversation before she gets out. I’ve been thinking on it for weeks. About how I’m not good for Mac. But maybe I can be.
If I got out, we could have a future together. I have a load of cash saved. Enough to get me through university and still pay for my father’s care. After that, I could get a job. A real one.
Luke’s brow pulls together in puzzled lines. “Out?”