“I’m sorry.”
“I thought we’d had a nice day, George. I thought we’d become friends, but obviously I was wrong.” He stands and pushes his chair back loudly; I assume he’s going to leave, but he moves around the table that’s between us and leans down into my face “You’re just a girl, a beautiful girl I met in a bar. You’re funny and intelligent, and I’m really pissed off that you think I would do something like go to the press. You’re not famous to me; you’re just someone I really, really…” he looks all over my face, then brings his fingers up to my mouth and brushes the tips over my lips, “…really want to kiss.”
My breaths are coming short and shallow, my heart is beating hard in my chest and I can’t take my eyes from his mouth. He brings it closer, smelling of wine and cigarettes. His hand slides around the back of my neck and he closes the distance between our mouths, his lips gently brushing mine. He pulls me up by my arm and I stand; his lips move slightly while his tongue traces along the seam of my mouth but our mouths are still closed and I resist. His hands rest on my hips and he pulls me into him closer, tighter, my boobs pressing against his chest as my arms wrap around his neck. My fingers slide into his hair, and he lets out a little moan as my nails rake his scalp.
A million emotions are racing through me: this is wrong, but it feels so right; this is good, but it should be bad; I want this but I shouldn’t. Then I realise that while I’ve been thinking, my mouth has opened and his tongue is inside, tangling with mine. He grinds against me. I can feel his erection pushing through the thin material of his shorts and want, need and desire rush through me. From where? I don’t know. I’ve not felt a thing for almost a year. Nothing, and yet instantly, it’s back. I’m a woman of thirty-two, and despite the shitty hand life recently dealt me, my appetite for sex has apparently survived. I grip Roman’s hair hard and grind my hips into his.
“Jesus, Georgia, don’t do that, babe; it feels too good.” He kisses my bare shoulder, next to the thin strap of my vest and then up to my neck. His hand slides up my waist and I tuck my elbows tight into my side, blocking its path to my boob, exactly the way I used to when I was fourteen and Sean first started trying to touch them… Sean, Sean, my boy, my beautiful dead boy…
“I can’t; stop, please stop.” The words rush out of me and Roman stops in an instant. I open my eyes and look at him; his eyes are closed and he’s biting down on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m not ready. I can’t give you more.” He nods and opens his eyes. My stomach aches, really low, low down as I register the desire he has in them while looking at me. I shake my head, pleading for his understanding. “I just can’t.”
He nods again. “I understand, George; we’ll take our time, but we’ll get there.” His eyes wander back to my mouth. “We’ll take it slow but we’ll get there. I want to be the one, Georgia. I want to be the one to help you learn to live again. I want to be the one who makes you realise it’s okay to let it all go. I won’t lie, and I won’t make you promises, apart from promising I won’t sell your secrets to the press.” He winks and smiles as he speaks. “I’m only here till February and then I’ll be gone; just give it till then. Follow me, baby, and I’ll make everything right.” He smiles again, referring to the Uncle Kracker song he sung the night before. “Will you give me that?” He bends his knees slightly so we’re eye to eye. “Will you let me try and do that for you?”
I want him to do so much more than that for me right now. Well, physically, I do at least, but mentally? Mentally, I’m still a married woman, desperately in love with and missing her husband. I need him to go; I need to take a shower and get my thoughts straight.
“Georgia, will you give me that? Will you let me help you?” I nod and he kisses me gently on the mouth. “I’m gonna show you and teach you how to just let it all go. Right now, though, right now, I need to go, coz I want to fuck you so bad, so, so bad.” He kisses me once more, then he’s gone, and I’m standing there, alone, my lips feeling bruised and tingly; a delicious ache is between my legs and an all-too-familiar sense of guilt fills my heart.
Chapter Seven
For the next week, Roman does what my mum would call ‘courting’. Basically, we hang out together.
The busy Christmas season is about to start for the town, and there are lots of new staff at Worldies. I sort of feel in the way; they’re all expert at bar work and waiting tables, whereas I’ve never done work like that in my life. I still go in a couple of days, but there’s not really a lot I can do so I spend my time with Roman. We swim, we surf, we go for walks along the nature trails in the surrounding area, and we go for long drives along the coast road on his Harley. During the evening, I usually go with him to whatever pub he plays at and just sit—at the bar or at the side of the stage—and listen.
On more than one occasion, I get a sense of déjà vu. Obviously, I have a ‘type’, it would seem. Sean and Cam are both dark, dark hair, skin and eyes, but personality-wise, they are poles apart. Roman looks nothing like Sean or Cam but has a personality and a love of music, very much like Sean. He’s been sweet this entire week. He’s held my hand; he’s kissed me passionately, but he’s not tried anything more. As much as my body is craving a physical connection, mentally I have no idea where I’m at. I’m a fucking mess to put it bluntly, and I’m really missing having Jim and Ash to talk to.
It’s a Friday night, and Roman has played at Worldies, but I didn’t stay down at the bar to watch for too long; I have a headache and feel like being on my own. Brooke has already left for Sydney, and I’m looking forward to having the place to myself for the weekend. I think I’m feeling a little homesick and despite what I promised Roman, I’m wondering if it’s time for me to head back to England. The only problem is, I don’t want to be there before next Saturday; next Saturday is the first of December, exactly one year since the day that ended my world, and I want to be as far away from all of that as possible. The press, the television shows, the heartbroken fans—I just can’t be around it, and Australia is about as far away from England as I can get. So for now, I will stay put.
I’ve still not decided what to do about Jodie’s invite. She wants us all to go down for the club opening, but it just feels wrong to be doing something like that on the anniversary of my husband’s death. Jax is trying to convince me to go, telling me it’s just another day; the pain, the heartache and loss I feel, will be no more or less on Saturday than on any other day. Plus, going out and being with people is a much healthier option than staying in bed all day and crying, which would be my first choice.
I lay on my bed, alone in the dark, listening to the sounds drifting up from the bar; there was a packed house when I left, and it was really noisy. I didn’t feel like a drink and I didn’t feel like company, so I asked Jackson to tell Roman I wasn’t feeling well and headed up here. It was a humid night so I’d taken a shower and pulled on a pair of sleep shorts and a vest. Now, here I lie, on the top of my bed, the painkillers I took before my shower just starting to work their magic. I reach for my phone and call Jimmie; it would be Friday afternoon in England so she should be about.
“Georgia Rae McCarthy, how the fuck are you, gorgeous?”
“Jamie Louise Layton… I’ve met someone. He’s sweet and he’s kind and he plays guitar in the bar and he rides a Harley and fuck, Jim… I’m so confused.” I had absolutely no intention of telling her any of this when I picked up the phone but the words just sort of jumped out of my big fat gob without asking my brain’s permission. I can’t hear a thing, not a sound, and I wonder if I’ve been disconnected, but my phone screen says otherwise when I look at it.
“Jim?”