Mr. Imperfect(22)
"Marion and I have been friends all our lives. My name's Christian Kelly."
Not Marion's lover but Kezia's. Relief made him laugh, before all the memories fell into place. "I've heard about you." He eyed Christian with amused contempt. "So the guy who deserted Kezia sees fit to pass judgment on me?"
"You're misinformed."
"So are you."
"Am I? I beg your pardon. Sit down, Joe, have a drink on me." The insult hung in the air.
"I don't do that anymore." Joe braced himself, for the first time admitting it to a stranger. "I'm an alcoholic. I've been in rehab these past three months."
"Uh-huh." Christian folded his arms. "Let me guess, and now you think you're saved?"
Joe ignored the skepticism. "I'll always be a recovering alcoholic, committing to sobriety a day at a time."
"Wow, you've got all the jargon, haven't you?"
Screw you, thought Joe. "No doubt you've heard it all before," he drawled. "Marion told me your dad was a drunk."
He saw the man stiffen, but Christian answered casually. "Yeah, the two of you would have had a lot in common."
"The big difference being that I've stopped drinking."
"The big difference being," said Christian in a hard voice, "that I didn't have anyone to protect me from false promises. Marion and John Jason do."
Joe clenched his fists. "Leave my son out of this."
"Or?" The word was full of menace and Joe itched to break the guy's straight nose. But that would just play into the bastard's hands. "You'd like to provoke me into a fight," he guessed, "to convince Marion I'm still a loser. Does she know you've taken on the role of vigilante?"
"Crawl back into the gutter where you came from, asshole. You won't be dragging your family with you."
Disgusted, Joe turned toward the hotel door. "Let me talk to someone who doesn't have their own shit to deal with."
He lifted his hand to knock and found himself flying through the air, landing with a painful thud on his knees in the street.
Joe picked himself up. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed himself down with shaking hands. He faced Christian, who stood, fists raised, on the porch steps.
Squaring his shoulders, Joe took a deep, deep breath. "You just don't get it, do you?" he said. "I don't fight anymore. Like I don't drink anymore. Like I don't run away from my responsibilities anymore." Though he spoke quietly, his voice was steel. "I'll be back. Because there's nothing you can do to me that will stop me trying to make amends to my wife, and nothing short of killing me that will keep me away from my son."
He limped to his car and opened the door, glancing over his shoulder. "You know, we're not so different you and I. My father was a drunk, too." He gestured at Christian's glass. "I'd watch that if I were you."
Christian waited until the Holden's taillights swung left at the T-junction before he relaxed his fighter's stance. He sank into his chair, picked up the cigar. The aftermath of the encounter kicked in, fine tremors in his hands. He stubbed out the cigar, reached for his drink, then paused. I'd watch that if I were you.
Oh, yeah, Joe Bryant was good at deflecting attention away from his own behavior. Christian downed the shot in one swallow and refilled his glass. To hell with him. Even if he was sincere, in Christian's experience those with good intentions ended up doing the most damage. When they failed, the disappointment was worse than if the promise had never been made.
Like his mother telling him she'd beat cancer. Like his father, when sober, saying he'd forgiven Christian for her death. Like Kezia at eighteen promising that nothing would ever keep them apart. And every one of them had meant it at the time. Yes, indeed, he thought bitterly, savoring the whiskey, the world was full of people with good intentions.
Except this afternoon he'd learned that Kezia had changed her mind about going with him all those years ago. So why had she lied about it on Wednesday? He'd left Marion's house fully intending to confront her, but as the last couple of kilometers ate up his anger, Christian asked himself some difficult questions.
What difference could it make now to rake over old ashes? It was a bitter pill to swallow that he'd lost Kez through a twist of fate and his own impetuous nature but it didn't change anything. They were two very different people.
She was country, he was rock n' roll. And if the fight with his father hadn't erupted, if Kezia had left with him, what then? Would two eighteen-year-olds playing grown-ups still be together? He doubted it. But, oh, God, he had loved her.
He pushed himself up wearily and took his glass and the empty whiskey bottle into the kitchen. He dumped the bottle in the trash and his glass in the sink. She'd probably lied to him to save her pride. The very least he could do was respect that.
He wouldn't tell Marion of Joe's visit, it would only upset her. Come to think of it, better to keep it secret from Kezia, too. Feeling disturbingly virtuous, Christian went to bed, confident that despite Joe's defiance he'd scared the drunk away for good.
LONG DARK HAIR PILED LOOSELY on her head, wearing a strapless red dress, gold-tipped Manolos and an air of phony bravado, Kezia hesitated at the top of the stairs. She felt as though she was about to jump onto a funeral pyre. Hers.
She had intended to cry off the wedding until Christian had mused whether Suzie would interpret Kezia's absence as sour grapes.
Too bad, she'd retorted. Christian suggested he could probably mollify the bride by telling her about Kezia's latest sexploitation of him. At which point she had asked, through gritted teeth, how much she owed him for her share of the salad servers. He had let her see but not touch them; perhaps her murderous intentions had been too clear.
Whatever lingering hope she'd held that Christian was bluffing had been shattered over the past twenty-four hours. He'd come back from his run in a distracted mood, remained distracted ever since. Twice she'd reminded him the banister needed fixing. Twice he'd reminded her there was no point in repairing a condemned building-unless Kezia had something to tell him?
His attitude had hardened her resolve to make him suffer as long as possible before conceding defeat. Now her time had run out.
"You look beautiful."
She hadn't realized Christian stood in the hall below, watching. Her heart began to race. That was why she was dressed to kill, to pretend her heart and pride weren't withering away. With controlled steps she started down the stairs, wishing the corset bodice of her dress allowed for deep calming breaths.
Christian's gaze met hers and Kezia's breath came faster. He looked gorgeous-dangerous and urbane in an expensive linen suit worn with the carelessness of a wealthy man and the confidence of a handsome one. And she'd hoped to score points wearing her Sunday best and a pair of borrowed heels. "I have something to tell you." Kezia reached for the banister.
"Don't lean on that, it's dangerous." Christian was at her side in seconds, holding out his arm. "Lean on me."
Oh, God, she thought dizzily, I have no stomach for these games anymore. His forearm was strong and vital under her cold hand.
Even through the cloth, Christian felt her chill and unconsciously put his other hand over hers to warm it.
"You win." Kezia's voice was so colorless, so toneless that it took him a moment to understand. Then jubilation and relief flooded through him.
"You'll accept the hotel?"
"I'll accept the hotel."
"Thank you, it means a lot to me to be able do this for Muriel." He hesitated. Something didn't feel right. "And you, Kez. I've seen how much you've suffered through this."
"Really." She freed her hand and continued down the stairs, leaving him frowning after her. She moved like an automaton, without her usual flowing grace.
"Wait."
Kezia turned back, her face pale, her expression polite, and Christian's disquiet grew. "This was never about having the last word or revenge. It was about … " He stopped, unsure what his true intentions were. Yes, he wanted to free himself from this town, his past, from the power of this woman once and for all, but it was also about honor, a tenderness he couldn't articulate and didn't want to explore. As he searched for the right words he sensed her withdrawing further. It was almost a physical thing and it left him cold.
"It doesn't matter." She turned to the door. "You got what you wanted."