Command (Storm MC #7) Read online

  Today is going to be a good day.

  Half an hour later, I sat at a table in the corner of a little café I’d discovered recently. Mum had given me the day off and I was at a loss as to what to do with myself. Life had been crazy busy lately between working at the café, which was hectic at the moment, and doing night shifts at Indigo. Between the two jobs and doing my best to get through each day, I hadn’t had much time to myself. Today was a gift from my Mum and I didn’t want to waste it, but the options of how to spend my time jostled for my attention and I felt overwhelmed trying to choose.

  In the end, I’d decided to find a quiet corner at the café, drink some coffee and do some journaling. Getting my thoughts out of my mind and onto paper always helped give me some clarity.

  I was deeply engrossed in my thoughts when my best friend, Cassie, phoned. “I just spoke to your mum and she told me you have the day off. What are you doing?”

  “I’m sitting in a café, journaling. Apart from that, I have no idea what I’m going to do.” I sighed. This should not be so hard.

  She remained quiet for a moment. “You could go make some art.” She’d been quietly suggesting this to me for weeks and I had been avoiding discussing it with her. Picking up a paintbrush had been the last thing I wanted to do.

  “Cassie,” I started and then stopped when she made a strange noise on the other end of the phone – it was the noise she made when she was about to argue with me. I leant my elbow on the table and rested my head against my hand. “Go on, say what you need to say.” I settled in to listen to her thoughts; she’d been far too quiet on this for far too long and I was sure she had something to say.

  “Girl, you know I love you and I would do anything for you, and that’s why I have to say this to you now. I truly believe your art will help you cope with everything you’re struggling with at the moment. We were working towards selling some of your paintings and then you got pregnant, which caused you to put everything aside while you were making plans for the baby. And I get that, but art to you, Harlow, is like air to me. It’s how you used to get through your days, and I think you’ve forgotten that.”

  I sat up straight and let her words circle through me. “I’m not ready to start selling my art, Cassie.” She’d been the one working towards selling my art - the thought actually struck fear through me. What if people hate it?

  “I’m not saying you need to sell it; I’m just saying you need to make it. For you. For your soul.”

  My psychologist had said the same thing, but she didn’t know me as well as Cassie did, so she hadn’t pushed me on it. My best friend, on the other hand, would push me. Best thing I could do right now was tell her I’d consider it. “I’ll think about it, Cass.”

  “Promise me you will. In fact, promise me you’ll go home and sit in your art room while you think about it.”

  “Okay, okay! I will go and sit in my room. God, you’re a pushy bitch.”

  She laughed. “I swear if you don’t do this, my last resort will be telling Scott what I think. And we both know he’s bossy enough to take your ass into that room and put a paintbrush in your hand. I’m actually surprised he hasn’t done that already.”

  “He’s had a lot going on with the club. And he still does, so please don’t bug him with this; he doesn’t need anymore headaches.”

  “From what I know about your man, I’m pretty sure he’d want to be bugged about anything concerning you. I’m going to check in with you tonight to see where you’re at.”

  We ended the call and I let out a long breath. I loved my best friend, but sometimes she pushed me when I didn’t want to be pushed. Just because someone thought they knew what was best for you didn’t make them right. Sometimes we had thoughts and feelings locked away from everyone that if they knew, they’d understand why we couldn’t yet do what they wanted us to do.

  Art might have been like air to me, but my greatest fear was that breathing again might cripple me. Art had a way of unlocking the parts of my soul I kept even from myself. It took a strong woman to confront those kinds of buried truths, and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough at the moment.

  * * *

  I remember the first day I realised art was my therapy. Sixteen at the time and working through my grief over losing my father, I’d locked myself away every afternoon after school and painted. I’d shut my friends out, but I hadn’t missed them, and I’d actually discovered I needed time with myself to heal. Some people needed to surround themselves with others to get through the hard parts of their lives, but I was the opposite – I needed to go within.

  Mixing colours, playing with different techniques and allowing my soul to wash itself over the canvas had been my saviour.

  After my conversation with Cassie, I’d left the café and headed home. I wasn’t sure I’d drag my paint out, but I’d sit in my art room and think. Maybe I’d journal. I’d at least go in there, even if only to be able to tell her I’d done what she’d asked. I didn’t want her harassing Scott with this. Not when he needed to be focused completely on Storm.

  My art room sat perfectly organised and tidy, nothing out of place. Scott had cleared out his spare room when I’d moved in so I could set myself up in here, but I’d hardly used it. I eyed the bookshelf that held my paints. So much beautiful colour in one place. Moving to the bookshelf, I picked up a tube of turquoise and unscrewed the lid. I squeezed the tube and allowed some paint to escape onto my finger. I then reached for one of my art journals and swiped the paint onto a random page.

  My body stilled as I stared at the page in front of me. I’d expected a rush of inspiration or a feeling or a thought or something. Anything. Instead, empty taunted me.

  Make it stop!

  I don’t want to feel this way anymore.

  Stepping away from the bookshelf with the paint, I moved to the desk and dropped the art journal on it. I yanked the chair out and slumped onto it. In frustration, I reached for a pen and began scrawling random words and sentences onto the page with the swipe of turquoise across it.

  Why do I feel so lost?

  Blank.

  Suffering.

  When will this end?

  What is wrong with me?

  Hope.

  I will get better.

  I feel like I’ve lost myself.

  A tear splashed onto the page and another one sat on my eyelash. I didn’t wipe them away. They needed to fall. I need to fall.

  I put the pen down and flipped to the first page in the journal. Settling back into the chair, I began to go through my art and read what I’d written. This was the last journal I’d worked on before I had my miscarriage so it held my most recent thoughts.

  Over the next hour, I devoured not only this journal, but a few of my other ones. When I was finished, I pulled my legs up so my feet rested on the chair, and wrapped my arms around my legs. And I let the tears fall.

  The woman who had bared her soul in those journals was not the woman I was today.

  How did I change so much in such a short period of time?

  That woman had confidence and faith and belief.

  I have none.

  I’d been going through the motions of life since my miscarriage and had been so consumed by the daily grind of life that I’d forgotten to live.

  Where do I even start to find myself again?

  I shoved the chair back and stood. God, I was seriously annoying myself with the back and forth of emotions. This couldn’t be healthy for anyone. Could it? Raking my fingers through my hair, I blew out a long, pissed off breath.

  I wanted to scream.

  I wanted to kick something.

  I wanted the madness in my mind to stop!

  Stalking back to the bookshelf housing the paints, I grabbed as many tubes as I could hold and carried them back to the desk. I then opened my art journal again, picked up a paintbrush, and painted.

  I had no idea what I’d paint – I simply let the art take over and allowed my soul to spill onto the page.<
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  Hours passed.

  I didn’t stop to eat.

  I kept on painting.

  Vibrant colour filled my pages and at some point, I moved to canvas.

  More hours passed.

  I moved to the floor of my art room.

  When I finally looked up after a noise splintered my attention, the sky outside was dark, and paint covered not only my journal and three canvases, but also my skin.

  Scott stood in the doorway to my art room with his arms folded across his chest and his feet planted wide. “Have you been in here all day?”

  I blinked, disoriented. Frowning, I asked, “What time is it?”

  “It’s just after seven.” His gaze shifted to take in the room; to take in the mess I’d created. My art supplies were strewn across the floor and over my desk.

  I hardly remember making this mess.

  Standing, I stepped over my supplies and walked to where he stood. Placing my hand on his chest, I apologised, “Sorry, I haven’t even thought about dinner yet.”

  His hand caught mine as I shifted it off his chest. Not moving his gaze from mine, he said, “Sweetheart, I could give a fuck about dinner.”

  Guilt filtered through me. Even though he didn’t care, I did. I wanted to be the woman he needed, and I wanted to look after him as well as he looked after me.

  Before I could say anything, he placed a finger under my chin and tilted my face to his. “What are you thinking?” His voice was firm but gentle as he guided me to give him what he wanted.

  I blinked again. “I know you don’t care about dinner, but I do. I should have cooked us something.”

  A look crossed his face. If I had to take a guess, I would have said it was frustration. His jaw ticked and I waited for him to let his frustration loose, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I’ll cook dinner while you get cleaned up.”

  His tone held no room for argument so I nodded. “Okay.”

  He let me go and stepped aside to let me through. As I exited the room, he added, “And Harlow?” I turned back to see what he had to say. “When you’re finished cleaning up, I want you in the kitchen with me while I cook. I don’t know what the fuck is going on in your head tonight, but what I do know is that it needs to stop. I’ve gone easy on you over the past few months and I’m done with easy.” And there was the Scott Cole I knew well.

  My bossy man.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, I joined Scott in the kitchen. I’d had so much paint on my skin and in my hair that I’d decided to shower. He looked up from the vegetables he was slicing to give me his attention.

  I slid onto the stool across from him and leant my elbows on the kitchen counter. “What are you cooking?”

  “Steak and veggies.” His gaze roamed over me and butterflies fluttered in my belly. When he finally gave me back his eyes, he said, “Start talking, baby.”

  I sighed. “Can we talk about this later? I want to know about your day.”

  He shook his head and squared his shoulders in the way he did when he was settling in for the kind of discussion where he intended to be forceful. “No.”

  We watched each other intently and my heart beat a little faster. Admitting you felt lost and like a failure to the man you loved was not an easy thing to do. I never wanted Scott to look at me in any way other than the way he always had, and I worried that if he knew I wasn’t all he thought I was, he’d look at me differently.

  “Harlow, start talking.” His words came out almost as a growl and I knew my time had run out. I had to give him something.

  Shit.

  My head buzzed with dizzying lightness, but I pushed on and started talking. “I’m not where I thought I would be by now…” I faltered on my words and swallowed back my nervousness. At his frown, I continued. “I mean, my life hasn’t gone the way I thought it would.”

  He raised his brows and placed the knife he was holding down. Resting his hands on the kitchen counter, he said, “Go on.”

  God, I was making a mess of this. “That came out wrong, Scott. I don’t mean you – you’re the best thing in my life. I never want to lose you and I never want our relationship to change. It’s important to me that I don’t mess us up.” My words were coming out fast and I stopped to take a breath.

  His chest rose as he also took a breath – a long, deep breath that signalled the frustration he was holding back. “Where did you think you’d be by now?”

  I moved off the stool and walked around the island bench to where he stood. His eyes tracked my every movement and I knew from the intense way he watched me that I needed to find the right words to express what I was feeling.

  I placed my hand on his chest and then ran it down his t-shirt before grasping his shirt in my hand; needing to maintain closeness to him. “I was raised a good country girl, Scott, and in the country we get married young, and have kids. Family is everything and it’s something I’ve always wanted. But I made so many bad choices where men were concerned -” I ignored the way his nostrils flared and the way his vein pulsed in his neck, “ – that I had begun to wonder if I’d ever find a good man. Instead, I started to concentrate on my art and thought about trying to make a living from it. But then I found you and fell pregnant, and changed course again. I was so excited to be pregnant even though it wasn’t something you and I had planned. And then I lost our baby, and well, we all know where that ended up.” I took a breath. “I feel like I’ve failed all the way around,” I admitted softly.

  His brows pulled together as he processed everything I’d said. “You haven’t failed. I mean, fuck, losing a baby by no fault of your own is not what I’d call failing - ”

  I tugged on his shirt and cut him off. “I’m not saying the way I am feeling is right. I’m just trying to explain to you where I’m at. I know I have a lot of work to do on my thinking, and myself, but you asked what I was thinking today, and that’s it.” Spending the day going through my journals and then painting had unlocked a range of emotions and shed some light on where the churning in my gut was coming from. Unlike I’d assumed, my unhappiness didn’t just stem from losing a baby.

  “Damn straight it’s not right,” he said with force and I loved my man even more in that moment. His faith in me was astounding some days. Having a man in your corner like I did was everything, especially on the days where you felt like you’d been beaten into that corner by the blows life dealt.

  I smiled. “I also need to tell you that I came to see you this morning because I was feeling down. I thought I’d turned a corner yesterday and then last night with you was amazing so I went to bed thinking today was going to be another great day. But I woke up feeling low, which sucked.”

  “Fuck, it’s like a damn rollercoaster, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not going to let it get the best of me.” And I wouldn’t; now that I’d remembered the parts of me I’d forgotten, I’d fight to find them again. Regardless of how hard the journey would be.

  He took hold of my hand that held his shirt. “Your art helped today?”

  I nodded. “Yes, it always does.”

  Cocking his head to the side, he asked, “Why didn’t you do it sooner?”

  “I don’t think I was ready for it,” I admitted. “It wasn’t a conscious decision, but I think I knew deep down that my art would bring all the hard stuff I have to deal with to the surface. And I think I had to move through my feelings about our baby first.”

  “This bullshit about you feeling like you should have cooked dinner? That’s gotta stop, babe. I’d rather you spend time figuring your head out through your art than cooking me dinner.” Scott always seemed to have the ability to say the exact right thing to me when I needed to hear it. Even if it sometimes came out in his trademark bossy way.

  I moved into him so our bodies touched – my favourite place to be. Reaching up, I curled my hand around his neck and pulled his face down to mine so I could kiss him. His mouth opened with hesitation and we found each other in t
he one place we never failed to find each other. Being in his arms reminded me of what I held important.

  When he ended the kiss, he held my face and ran his thumb over my cheek. “I know I’m a hard-ass, and I probably don’t say shit very well, but I need you to know that the only thing I want is for you to get back to being you. I don’t want you to worry about me or looking after me by cooking and shit; that’s not important at the moment. Let me do all the worrying for the moment; let me help get you through this.”

  I nodded. “I will. I’m not the kind of person who is good with letting someone else carry my load, but I’m trying to share it.”

  His eyes narrowed on me. “When you talked about having a family before, does that mean you want to try again for a baby?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about it, but I’m still not sure how I feel about trying again just yet.” My mind was still a mess of confusion on this so I figured the best thing to do was keep working through my feelings before rushing into it.

  “Okay. We don’t need to speed shit up; when you’re ready we’ll talk more about it.”

  “How do you feel about it?” In all of my depression and pulling away from him, we’d hardly discussed how he felt and I was mad at myself for not considering his feelings more.

  “Harlow, if you asked me for fuckin’ triplets tomorrow, I’d do everything in my power to make that shit happen. I want a family with you, baby, and whether that happens this year or in five years, I don’t mind, so long as I have you. And so long as you’re happy.” The way he looked at me with his serious eyes that didn’t blink, and the way his body had pressed against me again revealed the truth in his words.