Harden My Hart Read online

  I’m a child again, breaking up a marriage, breaking up a family. I’m a child, and then a Hart, raised alongside Jagger, then Theo.

  I’m twenty-nine, sitting opposite Barrett—not just a close family friend but also a lawyer who handles our family business. He’s frowning, and suddenly saying words that make little sense.

  ‘There seems to be some dispute as to your parentage.’

  There was no dispute in the end. Only a lie. A lie that my father perpetuated until the day he died. Why? Why in the world would the most selfish bastard on the planet take in a kid that wasn’t his? Raise that child. Lie to me.

  I am left with a thousand questions and no answers, no answers within reach. Even the investigator I engaged when this first happened can’t help. Month after month he sends me a small statement. ‘Still digging. Nil so far.’

  Who’s my biological father? Why did Ryan take me in? Why didn’t he tell me the truth?

  Did my real father know about me? Or did my mother lie to him? Did she lie to Ryan? God, the not knowing is the hardest thing of all.

  I think of Cora out of nowhere, of the way she dismissed her own mother so easily. ‘Being a parent is about more than biology.’ Is she right? Should I only care about the fact Ryan raised me? Should I ignore the fact he also lied to me? That the only chance to know any damned thing about my parentage died with him.

  I can’t.

  I’m glad, for Cora’s sake, that she can make her peace so easily with a mother who didn’t want her. I’m glad she’s not being eaten alive by it. I wish I could be more like her, in more ways than one.

  Hours later, when I collapse into bed, I see my phone on charge. There’s a message from her.

  I’m halfway to drunk. I can barely read it. But I lift it up anyway, staring at the screen until the letters make sense.

  Goodnight. x

  On the one hand, the smart thing to do would be to ignore her. Goodnight text messages with smiley faces and little kiss marks are sweet and kind and I don’t want that.

  But I do want Cora. I need her.

  I lift the phone closer and open a reply.

  What are you up to?

  Her response is immediate.

  Going to sleep.

  Send me a photo?

  A pause, and then...

  Of me in bed?

  She adds a little flame emoji.

  Yes.

  I wonder if she’ll do it and I practically hold my breath waiting, wondering in the very back of my mind why it matters to me so much.

  My pyjamas are incredibly sexy. I don’t know if you’re prepared for this.

  A grin slips across my face. A second later it grows broader. Cora’s wearing pyjamas that bear the logo of the airline she used to fly with—the type handed out to first-class passengers.

  Beautiful.

  She sends back an eye-rolling emoji.

  I load the photo up again, zooming in to her eyes. They’re beautiful eyes and even like this, trapped in a photograph, I feel so much warmth coming from her it makes my gut tense.

  Do I get a photo?

  I think about snapping one, but don’t. If I can see only warmth in her eyes then she would easily see coldness in mine and I don’t want to show her that right now.

  I take a picture of the view instead, and add a caption.

  Wish you were here.

  She doesn’t reply, and in the morning, when I reread our exchange, I’m glad for that. My comment was too much, given what we are. I load up the photo of her and find myself staring at it while I make my morning coffee, safe in my ability to do so because in four days I plan to be on my jet and winging my way away from this place.

  * * *

  ‘We have to talk.’

  It’s Jagger this time, drawing me out of the living room onto his penthouse balcony. From here, I can see the casino. I can see all the way to my balcony. If I squint, I can see where Cora was standing, wrapped in a blanket, taking photos of the sunrise, just two days ago.

  ‘What’s up?’ My voice is deep, my tone cold. I see Jagger’s frown. My gut twists.

  ‘Nothing’s up, man. We just haven’t seen you in a while.’ He comes to stand beside me, staring out at the harbour. We stood like this at the funeral—Dad’s. Ryan’s. Not talking, silent, side by side, shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘Listen—’ he sighs, drags one hand through his blond hair, curves the other around the balcony and leans forward a little ‘—Theo’s worried about you.’

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘We both are.’

  Guilt, I’m experienced with. It slices me like a blade.

  ‘There’s no need. I’m fine.’

  He makes a sound that is so familiar. A sarcastic laugh; I’ve heard it often. From him, from me, from Theo. It’s one of those traits we share, traits I now realise have more to do with environment than biology, because we are biologically distinct.

  ‘You’re all torn up, and I don’t know how to fix it. Theo says time, but I don’t know. I feel like enough time’s passed but you don’t seem to be dealing with it at all. If anything, you’re getting worse.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I reiterate, glaring out at the harbour. ‘Look, man, just drop it.’ I look over my shoulder. Theo’s inside with Grace, doing a FaceTime call with Asha so she can see Felicity. Perfect, happy families.

  I grind my teeth, looking back at Jagger. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters to me. You’re my brother—’

  I feel an insane urge to punch him. I don’t. ‘I’m just some guy you grew up with.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop it. We both know that’s not true.’

  ‘Bullshit. I know it’s true. I’ve always known it was true.’

  ‘What?’ He stares at me and I realise what I said, shaking my head.

  ‘I don’t mean that. I just mean...’ I search for the words, my mind not quite catching up. ‘I’ve always been different to you. I felt different and, deep down, I think I knew I was different. Ryan was way harder on me than he was on you guys—’

  ‘He knew you were smarter than Theo and me put together. He wanted you to make the most of your potential.’

  But I see it so much more clearly now. ‘No, he didn’t want me to end up like my mother.’ My eyes narrow. ‘Or maybe he didn’t want me to end up like my father. Maybe he knew who my father is—was—maybe he knew something about him that made him ride me extra hard. I’ll never know, but at least the way he treated me makes sense now. He always set me apart from you guys, made me feel different, and I was.’

  Jagger’s face contorts with emotion. He stares at me for several beats and then shakes his head. ‘You’re making yourself feel like this. I’m standing here right now telling you you’re our brother. I don’t care what some DNA test says. It doesn’t change anything for me.’

  ‘That’s great for you, but for me everything’s different. I wish you and Theo would just accept that I have a right to feel this way.’ I straighten, fully aware I’m being an ass, torching every bridge I can see. And even though I might say I don’t care, I do, because I don’t want to stand here and fight with Jagger.

  ‘Look... I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Anywhere but here.’

  Cora.

  ‘Nice,’ Jagger snaps, but he reaches out and grabs my arm, jerking me around so I instinctively react, lifting a hand to push at his shoulder. His eyes spark with mine and years of frustration—frustrations with me—come to the fore.

  He lifts his hands—both of them—and shoves them at my chest. I react on instinct again, this time lifting a fist and bringing it down on his face. He lunges backwards and then lurches forward, his own fist lifting. I dodge his first hook but he lands another, this one crunching against my cheekbone so I taste blood in m
y mouth and I’m so glad—glad for the pain, the blinding shock.

  He lunges for me and I grip his arms but then Theo is there, pulling at me, shouting at Jagger, separating us, and I hear a baby’s crying and Grace’s voice, panic and pain, and I stop immediately, stepping back as if waking from a nightmare. My brother’s face is bruised—I did that. I lift a finger to my own cheek and it comes away bloodied. Jagger’s nursing his fist in the palm of his hand and Theo’s looking from one of us to the other as though we’ve lost our minds.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologise because, deep down, I know this is wrong. But I don’t. I can’t. I don’t want to look at Jagger or Theo right now. I stalk towards the sliding glass doors but as I reach them I pause, my eyes reaching Grace’s. ‘I’m sorry.’ She doesn’t deserve this.

  Her features show sympathy. ‘It’s fine. Don’t go. Let me get you some ice.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Please, Holden. Just stay a minute. Let me make sure you’re okay.’

  I make a hollow, sarcastic laughing sound, so like Jagger’s that I wince. ‘Okay? I will be.’ And then, because I see hurt in her eyes, I reach out and touch her wrist. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘I know.’ Her eyes shift, moving to Jagger, and their connection hits me. Their uniqueness, their understanding.

  Feeling like an outsider—and deserving that—I move away quickly. I don’t look at Felicity as I pass the crib. I don’t think I can bear that today.

  * * *

  I need to see you.

  My heart speeds up a notch. I sit down on the windowsill, basking in the afternoon sunshine and the dust motes that are visible along its path, rereading his text.

  I smile without really meaning to and load up the keypad.

  Really?

  Yeah. I’m downstairs.

  My heart races now. I shift a little, looking over my shoulder and, sure enough, there’s a black Range Rover parked just a few car spaces down. The windows are tinted jet black but as I watch he lowers the window by a crack.

  I look around the apartment, my pulse throbbing. It’s been two days since I was last at his place. He’s not the only one with needs—mine are here too, threatening to engulf me.

  I hesitate for the briefest moment and then:

  Want to come in?

  He doesn’t type a response, but I see the door open and a second later he steps out. My heart stops racing and just thuds to a halt in my chest. Holy mother of everything I hold dear, he looks...so good I could faint. I mean, seriously. This guy is...black jeans, black leather jacket, dark sunglasses, hair longer than when we first met and a bit messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. He doesn’t look up as he crosses the street, his stride long, and a second later he’s at the front door.

  I move quickly, wrenching the door in and staring at him for all of two seconds before he sweeps in and pulls me into his arms, dragging my body against his. He takes like rum and cigarettes, so I pull back, look at him again. His eyes don’t meet mine but his mouth does, searching, seeking, kissing, possessing—a harsh kiss, a kiss born of need and some kind of desperation I can’t fathom.

  But I don’t question it because I have needs too, remember, and I hear the ticking of a stopwatch all the time—he’s leaving soon. And he’s stirring everything up inside me so I can’t think straight, I don’t want to think straight. He lifts me, holding me against him—always making me feel like I weigh nothing when this is so not true—carrying me deeper into the apartment.

  I push a hand behind us. ‘Bedroom.’

  But he ignores me, stepping into the lounge and moving to the sofa. His hands are fumbling with his jeans, pushing them down before he’s lifting my skirt, finding my underpants and lowering them as he kisses me back into the sofa.

  ‘I need you.’ It’s a statement. A sexy, dark, gruff statement but I hear a question in it too and I nod because I need him as well. I need him but not, I think, in the way he needs me.

  I push that thought away because it’s confusing and deep and not what I want to focus on. There’s only this. Him and me.

  He pulls on a condom and a second later takes me with a guttural groan, pushing into me so I cry out, arching my back, welcoming him, the speed of this, the urgency. He thrusts hard and I dig my heels in at his back, and neither of us says anything else. There’s the sound of my breath rasping, the shift of the sofa against the floor and, finally, a moan from deep in my throat as pleasure bursts over me and I explode. He’s right behind me, his own release intense but silent. He drops his head, burying it in the curve of my neck, his breathing hot against my throat, spiced rum filling my senses. I run my hands along his back and now the thoughts that refused to be calmed before slice through me, so I wonder at this, at him, at why he’s here, why he’s been drinking in the middle of the day.

  I wonder about everything.

  He pulls away from me, straightening and turning his back on me, zipping his jeans up and moving into the kitchen. A second later he returns, presumably having disposed of the contraceptive.

  And he stares at me, his eyes dark, his expression impossible to interpret and it’s then that I notice his cheek is marked. There’s a red line down it and a hint of bruising.

  I frown, standing, easing my skirt down around my hips, ignoring the fact my underpants are somewhere under the sofa. ‘Holden? What’s happened? You’re hurt?’

  He doesn’t say anything, just looks past me to the clock on the wall. My heart turns over in my chest. I have the strangest feeling that he’s going to cry. Except he’s not, of course, but there’s something within him that calls to me and I ache for him.

  ‘Holden?’ I lift a hand to his cheek. He pulls away. Concern perforates my gut. ‘Has something happened?’

  He shakes his head, then reaches for my hand, squeezing it. ‘No. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.’

  Sorry? My concern grows. ‘Tell me what’s going on. What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He drops my hand and steps backwards, looks around, then focuses back on me. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’

  * * *

  I don’t follow him. A part of me wants to, but somehow I know he wouldn’t welcome it. He needs space. From what? Has he been in a fight? At the casino? Or with someone he knows? And now a niggling concern stretches through me, growing so I can’t ignore it, and I don’t want to ignore it.

  There is an intensity about him, and a darkness, that I’ve felt many times. I think back over the course of our relationship and try to picture him laughing, a carefree laugh, happiness, relaxation, and I can’t see it.

  Worry trips through me. What’s going on?

  It doesn’t matter that this is temporary, I’d be an automaton to not feel worry, to not feel concern for him.

  The afternoon bleeds into night and my tummy continues to knot with tension.

  Finally, I reach for my phone, load his number up and hesitate for only a moment before pressing ‘call’.

  It rings and it rings. No answer. My worry grows. I bite on my lip, telling myself not to think about him, telling myself this was meant to be light and fun, just great sex while he’s in Australia and before I get on with the rest of my life—he definitely wasn’t meant to take up so much of my mental space. And yet I can’t stop thinking about him.

  So I try to call him again at midnight, and this time he answers. There’s a lot of noise behind the call, like he’s in a bar or something. When he speaks, his voice is slurred.

  ‘Hey, baby.’

  My heart turns over in my chest, but the worry cuts through me. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Whatcha doing?’

  I rub my toe over the grout of the kitchen tiles. ‘Just...about to go to bed.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  I bite down on my lip, choosing my words carefully. He speaks first.

&n
bsp; ‘Want company?’

  Do I? I want to know he’s okay. I want to know what happened earlier today. And yeah, I want to see him. Knowing he’s going back to America makes me want to milk every moment I can with him.

  ‘Sure.’ I look around the apartment and, for some reason, decide against inviting him over. ‘I’ll come to you. The casino?’

  ‘I’m in the VIP bar. Ask for me when you arrive.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Four nights left in Sydney

  IT’S LOUD. MUSIC IS PLAYING—jazz music, but it’s still noisy—and the bar, despite being a VIP space, is busier than I imagined. I probably pictured Holden on his own, sitting in the middle of a huge space, but no. I recognise the crowd as I enter. Not individuals, but the type. I’ve worked in first class cabins long enough to recognise people who live and breathe money and that’s what I’m surrounded by.

  I’m under-dressed. A pair of jeans with holes at the knees and a singlet top underneath a red woollen jacket I bought in Hong Kong a couple of years ago; at least I slipped on a pair of stilettos and a coat of lippie before leaving the house. My eyes scan the crowd and ping to him almost instantly.

  My heart thumps.

  My breath stops.

  Everything around me goes silent and all I do—all I want to do—is stare at him. In the midst of the noise he’s alone, and still. There is palpable happiness in the atmosphere that makes it easy to spot the contrast in his mood. Something shifts in my gut. A pain, and an awareness. He sits at the bar, unbearably handsome, a tumbler of Scotch cradled in his hands, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

  I begin to move towards Holden but before I can reach him I pause again, wanting simply to observe him, to see him like this. I don’t know why but I feel like if I look for long enough a piece of the puzzle will fall into place and I’ll understand what’s bothering him.