Thirteen (Love by Numbers Book 4) (16 page)

Wayne.
The prick who banged my car window the other day is currently being restrained by two security officers from Lilah’s building.

“You’ve been warned, you’re not welcome here, so move along or my colleague is going to call the police and have you removed.” The larger of the security guys all but growls in his face, but Wayne is undeterred.

“Fucking call them! You can’t keep a man from his wife, she belongs to
me!”

Anger curls in my gut as I watch this pathetic excuse for a man flail around trying to extract himself from the bigger guy’s hold. The urge to go over there and make sure he never comes back here again, burns in my gut but my head tells me that it will only make things worse and for once, I listen to my head.

“Call the police.” Nicola’s voice brokers no argument as she comes around the corner of the building and witnesses the scene in front of her.

My eyes flicker from her to a still restrained Wayne and back again. She looks venomous.

“Get your weasley arse away from this building and never contact my sister again, do you hear me?” She punctuates the last four words with a forceful prod to his chest. “By this time tomorrow there will be a restraining order with your name on it, so do everyone a favour and fuck off once and for all.”

Wayne’s eyes turn evil, and even from my vantage point in the car, I can see the hate spewing out of his every pore.

This time, I don’t hesitate. I’m not going to stand back and watch what is about to happen, despite the man being restrained, I know it isn’t going to be good.

By the time my foot hits the opposite curb and I’m only a few feet away, I hear, “Watch your fucking mouth, you whore,” and witness as Wayne attempts to lunge towards Nicola. The big guy holding him back only just manages to keep his hands on him, but that doesn’t stop Wayne from hurling a mouthful of spit right into Nicola’s face.

What. The. Fuck.

My next view is of Wayne’s sneering face, right before I draw back my fist and punch the fucker smack in the nose, breaking it instantly and causing a fountain of blood to erupt with volcanic force.

The blow stuns everyone, including me, for about three seconds and time seems to stop. Then, almost like a switch has been flicked, Wayne rears back on an almighty roar and smashes the back of his head into the security guys face, who is luckily, or maybe not for him, still restraining him. The height difference means that he misses his nose but splits his lip and knocks out one of the bloke’s teeth.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Wayne is on the floor in less than a second. Both security guys pin him down, one secures his flailing legs, the other, kneels between his shoulder blades and presses his face into the concrete.

Sirens blare, and I turn to see Nicola standing there in complete shock, spit still running down her face and dripping onto her clothing.

I walk slowly towards her, not wanting to spook her. “Are you okay?” I ask as I hand her a pack of the tissues I found in the car earlier.

She hesitates before opening the packet and wiping the slime from her face, grimacing as it seeps through the tissue onto her fingers.

That is her undoing; she throws the used tissue onto Wayne’s back before leaning down into his face, “Every part of me wants to hock the biggest greeny my lungs can muster and spit it into your ugly, pathetic face… but I’m better than you,
she’s
better than you and you know it. You had something perfect, someone you were unworthy of and instead of cherishing that, you chewed it up and spat it out.” She bends even lower so she can make eye contact with him before continuing in a voice laced with strength, “My sister is a survivor. Meningitis may have taken her leg, but it never took her, yet you think that you can come along and break her when a deadly disease tried to and failed. You’re pathetic. You’re nothing more than a germ. In fact, you’re Gonorrhoea; a painful itch with some discharge that can be cleared with a single tablet. You
disgust
me. Stay away from my sister.
This
is your final warning.”

In one fluid movement, she stands and walks away from the still cursing man on the floor, just as the Police pull up with their blue lights flashing.

I pay no attention to anything that’s going on. All I can hear is ‘Meningitis’ and ‘taken her leg’, and I don’t snap out of my stupor until an officer walks over to me and informs me that I need to come to the station to make a formal statement.

In a haze I do just that, following the squad car all the way to the station with Wayne’s head visible in the back seat. Watching him sneering and yelling as they cuffed him and all but threw him in the car, made me wish I could punch the fucker again.

I park in a space outside the station and watch, almost absentmindedly, as the officers haul a still struggling Wayne from the back of the car and into the building.

I’m still staring at the station entrance when a light tap on my passenger side window grabs my attention.

It’s Nicola. She has on different clothes, and her hair is damp from a shower. I look down at my blood spattered t-shirt and cut knuckles, and finally realise how bad I must look, but I don’t care. I just need the truth before I walk through those doors and a face possible assault charge.

I lean over and open the door for her to get in, but before her arse has a chance to hit the seat, the words spill out, “Is Lilah in hospital?”

The door slams behind her, and she turns to look at me.

Lilah’s face looks back, only it’s Nicola’s; the differences are subtle, but they are there.

“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate.

“Does she have meningitis?”

“No.”

Great, one word answers.

She blows out a long huff then continues, “Listen, Harry. Lilah is going to kill me if I tell you, so you’re going to have to ask her these things, because I value my life, plus I love my sister and it’s not my story to tell.”

She hands me a slip of folded paper, which I hesitate to reach for.

“It’s the address of her hospital. I’ll call and make sure you’re on her approved list of visitors, but if you want the full story, you need to ask her.”

I take it from her, careful not to touch it with bloody fingers.

“Thanks.” The word is soft as it leaves my lips. I’m still trying to piece all this new information together with the Lilah I know.

“Don’t thank me yet. I have more to say.”

I look up into eyes almost identical to the ones I’ve wanted to drown in.

“You treat her any differently to the way you have been, and you will answer to me,” She says, an edge to her tone that I don’t wish to deny.

I nod.

“She’s Lilah, the same Lilah. Not broken, or defective, or frail, or weak. Just Lilah. See it, but more importantly, make her
feel
it. If you can’t, you can walk away now.”

“I’m not walking away.” The words rush from my mouth.

She assesses me for a few moments, judging the truth to my words, before saying, “Good”, then leaving the car.

I watch her walk into the station without sparing me another look.

Broken.

Defective.

Weak.

All words I’ve felt about myself over the last year or so, but never with Lilah.

I’ve never felt those things when I’m with her.

Whole.

Connected.

Complete.

That’s how being with Lilah makes me feel.

Now I need to make her feel it too.

I
t’s been two days since I heard from Harry and I’m bored out of my brain. The only time I get out of my bed is for my physio sessions, and even then I give a half-hearted attempt at effort.

Something doesn’t feel right, but I don’t know what.

My parents visited yesterday but Nic text saying she had too much on with work to stop by. I know how busy she is and the long hours she works, but it’s not like her to only send a text. Generally, if she can’t visit she’ll call and chat to me, but not yesterday.

So I’m wallowing while eating junk food. Who needs modern medicine when a packet of
Monster Munch
and a family bag of
Maltesers
cures all.

I’m searching for a stray
Malteser
that I seem to have lost down my bra when a polite cough breaks the silence of my room. I look up, with one hand still rummaging around in my boobs, expecting it to be a nurse, but it’s not.

Harry stands in the doorway to my hospital room, with a large bouquet of flowers in his hands and a wary smile on his face.

I freeze, my fingers have just found the melted ball of chocolate, right next to my nipple but they release it immediately and my hand flies out to cover my stump with the bed sheets.

“W-what… I mean, h-how are you…” I stammer, unable to find the words as my heart beats erratically and my cheeks flare with embarrassment.

“I think the word you’re looking for is, Hi?” He smiles, walking slowly into the room and placing the beautiful arrangement of flowers on the table in front of the window.

My brain whirs at a mile a minute.

How did he know where to find me? Who let him in here? Does he know everything?

“I’ll be right back; I’ve just got to get something from the hall.”

I gape like a goldfish drowning in oxygen. My metaphorical fishbowl was drained of water the same time my heart was drained of blood.

Seconds later I hear some light clattering and Harry comes back into the room pushing a food cart in front of him. On the top are large serving platters covered with silver metal cloches and beneath I see a large green bottle chilling in an ice bucket, next to a glass domed covered cake.

“W-what’s all this?”

He pushes the cart up to my bed and drags an armchair from the other side of the room, looking up at me with a soft smile on his face.

“I couldn’t wait any longer for our date, so I thought I’d bring it to you.”

I have no words.

I’m panicking because of the fib I told, I’m dying inside a little that he obviously knows about my leg and the fact I also hid that from him, but I’m also blown away by his thoughtfulness.

“A drink?” He tilts the chilled bottle to the side, just like a waiter, and carefully places two champagne flutes on my rolling tray.

“I… can’t…”

“It’s non-alcoholic, I already checked with your Doctor and he told me everything else was fine, but not to bring you alcohol. So, you can.” He gives me that soft smile again, the one that makes the creases around his eyes deepen. I’ve come to think of it as
my
smile, and I like it a lot more than I should.

“Thank you,” I all but whisper as he hands me a glass of bubbly liquid.

He takes a sip from his glass and motions for me to do the same. Crisp, sweet bubbles burst on my tongue, and if he hadn’t told me it was alcohol-free, I would never have guessed.

“It’s perfect.” I offer him a smile but it’s short lived, as I glance down towards my missing leg and shuffle awkwardly.

His hand on mine stills me and I look into a face that is devoid of judgement, even though I deserve it. What I see instead is acceptance, understanding and a glimmer of hope.