She snaps her gaze back to me and the sight of my woman coming undone pushes me over the edge. Everything contracts and I come so deep inside her, I hope I never leave. It’s passionate and raw. Claiming. She’s mine and I won’t let her go.
TWENTY-FOUR
Elton
My head is pounding. I can feel the blood rushing round my brain. “How’s her tutor doing? Is he helping her? I worry he sounds overly friendly. Is he the right fit for her? I don’t want him pushing her too hard. Or not enough.” MJ bombards me with so many questions she barely takes a breath. Her voice is sharp and panicked.
“Tutoring is helping. She’s improved in maths. She’s doing well, MJ. I promise.” I let the silence stretch, wondering what side of MJ we are going to encounter next.
“She doesn’t talk to me.” The melancholy in her voice tugs at my heart strings.
“What are you talking about? Of course she does.” She doesn’t. Neive doesn’t even talk to me.
“She still blames me. Not that I’m surprised.” This is where we say hello to the self-deprecatingside of MJ. “Of course she’s mad at me. Who wouldn’t be? I’m a terrible mother. I’ve completely let her down. I let everyone down.”
I sigh, letting my lungs empty of air, hoping to dispel the tension that sits on my chest during every phone call with MJ. Every time I think we might be closer to having her home, we have a conversation like this and I can’t help but feel disappointed.
“How’s therapy going, MJ?” I ask, trying to ignore her victim mentality.
“Shit, Elton. It’s all bloody shit. I hate all this talking crap,” she practically yells at me down the phone. Now, we are jumping to anger.
The rainbow of emotions we go through every phone call and visit. It’s enough to make me want to lock myself in a dark room for a week. MJ feels things deeply, from love to heartbreak. Every emotion is a hurricane of intensity.
She’s still just my little sister. Still a little girl, scared and confused as I barricaded our bedroom door at night. She never understood the yelling and the sound of shattering glass, or why she had to go and live with strangers. She was surrounded by so much unknown and I should have been there for her. She wasn’t allowed to stay with me when I moved into Diane’s. It nearly broke me, but when Diane’s brother paid for me to attend Weston Academy I saw my opportunity to better myself and save her.
A knock at the door gives my brain a small reprieve from her chaotic ramblings. Claire pokes her head into the room. Her warm smile eases the tension in my brain. She slips inside quietly. Despite me insisting she is family here, Claire tiptoes around me when I’m in the office. She pops a coffee on my desk. I smile at her, and she places a hand on my arm as she nods towards the phone where she can hear MJ monologing. Being the wonderful woman she is, she says nothing andcontinues to tidy around me, opening blinds and fussing with papers on my desk.
“MJ, love. I’ve got to go. We’ll come see you this week. Send Neive pictures of the stables, she’ll like that. And do not bring up Wales again.”
She doesn’t respond. I shut down the Wales idea and I won’t have MJ bringing it up to Neive again.
I hang up the phone and bang my head against the desk.
“Here, painkillers.” Claire hands me over exactly what I need with a bottle of water. “You can’t spend all morning cooped up in here. Your girl is out there making pancakes with Neive and you’re missing out on all the fun.”
I love that Reilly is comfortable here. I woke up early to get on top of work before starting our Sunday together. Left her lying in my bed, hair streaked across the pillow. She won’t move in, but she spends most nights here now.
“How’s MJ?” Claire asks.
I huff out a breath, unsure of how to answer that question. “She’s … healing.”
“Are you?” she responds, with a gentle hand on my arm.
“Do I need to?” I ask.
“We all need to heal ourselves. Everyone could do with some re-evaluation every now and then.”
“Can’t you do it for me, Claire?” I give her my puppy dog eyes, but she easily resists.
“Sure, I’ll just get to that in between all the cooking and window cleaning.” I’ve told her a million times I would hire a window cleaner, but she insists it is part of her job and she likes to be kept busy. She pats my arm as Reilly opens the office door with a plate of pancakes in her hands.
“Sorry,” she says, a little flushed. “Am I intruding?”
“Never,” I assure her.
“I’ll leave you two to it.” Claire leaves me alone with the vision in front of me, squeezing Reilly’s arm as she slips out the room. She gives her a warm smile reserved for her inner circle. Which now includes Reilly.
Reilly’s red hair is, as always, piled on top of her head in an unruly bun. Her eyes sparkling with mischief, she’s wearing my shirt tucked into a pair of denim shorts. And she’s barefoot. Deliciously barefoot.
