CHAPTER 4: The Silence That Broke Them
1076 Words
He was alone in the dimly-lit lounge, sipping from a glass of single-malt Scotch whiskey. Macallan 30, neat.
The last time he had this drink was years ago, the night after the board meeting where he was named the new CEO of The Langston Line.
Jenna had found him that night in the cellar, inebriated, the bottle of the drink on the floor next to him. She had muttered scoldings as she helped him back to his room and tucked him into bed.
Now, she wouldn't be here to save him from himself anymore. She would still be very angry, though, because he had promised her to never lose himself to alcohol like that again, whereas that was his exact intention for asking them to send the bottle and a private entertainer to his lounge.
It was Lucas's first waking moment since Jenna shut her eyes, holding his hand, and never opened them again, that he was truly alone. Imogen had made sure of it, with her smothering concern throughout the impossible weekend.
All around him, Jenna's voice seemed to echo, growing louder, until he felt like he was even seeing her. He craved to hear another real voice, see another real person that was actually there and not a figment of his helpless imagination.
When the door opened, he looked up, surprised at the loud sound of music that whooshed in from outside the club.
The entertainer they sent him stood in the doorway for a moment, all long legs and shadowed curves, silhouetted against the lighting outside.
He waved her in with one hand. “Shut the door.”
She complied. He watched her legs as she approached him, slowly. Was it just him or were her steps reluctant?
She stopped in front of him. “Hola,” she said softly. The Spanish lilt caught him off guard.
They stared at each other. Muffled bass from outside coloured the silence.
“What do you want to do?” He wasn't sure why he asked.
“Nothing. I'm tired of doing.”
He thought he had heard the slick smoothness of that voice elsewhere.
“Will you share my drink, then?” He asked, raising the bottle in her direction.
To his surprise, she took it from him and peered at it.
“I'm not strong enough for this one.” She shook her head from side to side as she put it down.
He flashed her a wry smile. “We're not strong enough for many of the things we face.”
Lucas patted the space next to him. “Sit with me.”
She was studying him as if she was seeing more than just another sad, rich client.
She hesitated, then sat down tentatively, palms under her thighs like she couldn't even trust her own hands.
Up close, her scent was something clean beneath the heavy musk in the club. It stirred an unwelcome flicker of recognition in him. He pushed it aside.
He reached out, slow enough for her to pull away, and brushed a few dark strands away from her mask. She gave a little shiver that made him drag his hand away.
“She went bald,” he said, his tone detached. “I think that was the worst thing for her.”
“She refused to cut it herself. Stopped looking in mirrors after the first clump came out on her brush.” He turned to face her.
The woman's breath hitched. She looked at him with raw, unguarded eyes.
He went on, the words tumbling out of him like the dam restraining them had broken.
“She hated how the rain ruined her hair. It rained so much at the cemetery.”
He sipped his drink slowly and swirled the glass around.
She took it from him and finished the rest of the drink in it.
Then she turned her head away. The center of her chest was suddenly very heavy.
For the third time that day Leha's eyes betrayed her and began to stream with tears, soaking through her mask first before flowing down her cheeks.
She put her head down and made no effort to restrain them. His short sentences echoed somewhere in the back of her head.
After a moment, she felt the warmth of his fingers as he gently held her chin and tilted her head up. He was looking at her with glistening eyes.
“Are you crying…for me?”
She shook her head, but more tears fell. “These tears are for me,” she replied, accent slipping.
Her tears blurred her vision slightly, but she could see through them that he was smiling. A smile that hurt her heart.
“So you're also broken, like me.”
She was momentarily silent. “Some of it is my fault,” she admitted, casting her gaze downward again.
He let out a harsh breath. “It's also my fault I'm broken. I could have done things better.” His voice was so low it came out as a heavy rumble.
“That's why I told you I'm tired of doing. I always do things, with all the right intentions, yet somehow I end up ruining everything for myself. I don't want to do anymore. I want to feel.”
She couldn't help that there was no filter for the place those words were pouring out from.
Lucas's eyes were dim and heavy. “I want to cry, but I can't even get it past my chest. It's like I have dead weights balanced on me.”
She wasn't responsible for the hand that slipped out and covered his own, squeezing gently.
“Tomorrow morning I'll be strong again, and probably never need to mention this to anyone anymore. But for now, I want to let myself feel.”
His voice softened. “Will you let me feel, just for tonight?”
Lucas turned to her and their gazes held. For one suspended second, the grief, the guilt, the wrongness of it all, hung between them.
Then it snapped.
Maybe she moved first, or maybe it was him. But her face was suddenly in the crook of his neck and his cheek was lying against hers, his arms wrapped around her.
Hot tears wet her skin and his, and she gripped his shirt tighter, trembling.
When they pulled back, inches apart, her lips were parted, breath shaky. His eyes dropped to her mouth.
- Writer
