Harden My Hart Read online

  I am alone.

  No parents. No family. No pink niece with fluffy hair. Just me.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And?’

  I press my palm into the desk to stop myself from swearing. ‘And what? It’s a baby. What do you expect me to say?’ I try to cover my anger with a laugh but it comes out as derisive.

  Theo’s silent. I hate this. I hate hurting him. I know if we were having this conversation face to face he’d be looking at me with pity—the kind of pity I came to resent as a child. He and Jagger were sorry for me then, sorry for how hard Ryan was on me, for how he pushed me not to show my emotions, not to cry when I was hurt, pushed me to ‘man up’. And they’re pitying me again now. But I’m not some kid any more, thrown away by his mother. I’m a grown ass man and I have every right to feel the way I feel.

  I shake my head roughly, brushing a hand over my short hair.

  ‘Are you seeing her again?’ For a moment I think of Cora but he’s talking about Felicity, not my sex life.

  ‘I hadn’t planned on it.’ I close my eyes and see the little girl, who possessed Jagger’s eyes and nose, and feel the strangeness of my blood and features. I never looked like a Hart, not like Felicity will, and now I know why.

  ‘For God’s sake, man.’ His breathing is rushed down the phone line. ‘I know what you’ve been through and I’m trying to be sympathetic, but how long is this Holden Hart pity show going to go on for?’

  I slam my palm into the desk again, harder this time. There’s no satisfaction in that. No satisfaction in anything except alcohol and sex. Cora.

  I grip the phone tighter, staring out at Sydney.

  ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Like you give a shit,’ Theo snaps. ‘You’ve been drinking yourself into oblivion for the better part of a year—’

  ‘I’ve still been working,’ I bite out because it’s bad enough to have inherited a fortune from Ryan Hart, it’s another to know I have no rightful claim to it. The only solace is that I’m great at what I do, that thanks to me the value of our casino holdings has trebled in the past decade.

  ‘Fine. I’ll concede that—’

  ‘That’s big of you.’

  ‘Just stop being such a pain in the arse.’ He makes a groaning noise. ‘I’m sorry Dad lied to you. I’m sorry your mom lied to you. I’m sorry every fucking person who should have known better didn’t do you the courtesy of telling you who your biological father is. I’m sorry you had to learn the truth from Barrett Byron-Moore—for both him and you.’ I wince as I remember that distinctly uncomfortable conversation with one of our oldest family friends, a guy who’s almost like a fourth Hart brother. ‘But don’t you get it? Ryan chose to raise you. He chose to bring you up as a Hart, and Holden, he loved you, as much as he was capable of loving anyone. More than he loved me, more than he loved Jagger. He chose to love you. How long are you going to torture yourself with this?’

  Anger shreds me and I doubt even Cora can obliterate these emotions completely. That doesn’t mean I don’t want her to try though.

  ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’ve had a front row seat to this for a year now. Don’t speak to me as though I don’t know...’

  ‘You don’t know anything.’ The words are torn from me. I stride across to the windows, my breath heavy in my lungs. ‘You don’t know a damned thing.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Listen—’ I interrupt, searching for words to make sense of this ‘—you guys are trying to help me. I get it. You think you can say something that will make this better, but you can’t. You don’t have to keep calling me, checking on me, trying to fix this. He was your dad, but you’re not responsible for his fucked-up choices. You don’t need to worry about me any more; I’m not your problem.’

  ‘You think you’re my problem? That that’s why I’m checking up on you? You’re our brother.’

  I hate this. Fighting with my brother—with Theo—is like poison. ‘Just because you say that doesn’t make it true. I’m not biologically and I’m not legally. The truth is, Theo, I have no idea who I am.’

  He’s quiet, absorbing that. Finally, he sighs. ‘I’m not an idiot. I get how hard that would be. I’m not expecting you to just let it go. But just let me say this: I’m here for you. So’s Jagger.’

  I close my eyes for a second, nodding stiffly. ‘I know that.’ I disconnect the call, jam the phone into my pocket, staring at the trees and the way they shift in the afternoon breeze, but all I can think of is the man I thought was my father.

  Ryan Hart.

  Why did he take me in? Why did he raise me? My presence ruined his marriage to Jagger’s mom—we’re only three months apart in age, so it was obvious I was the product of an affair.

  Jagger’s mom, as it turns out, is now a raging alcoholic and from time to time I’ve had to go to LA to help her out, to get her into rehab or out of prison if her disorderly behaviour gets too extreme—for Jagger’s sake. And only then, when blind drunk and off her face, does she tell me what she really felt about me.

  ‘Who was your mother anyway? A whore. A stupid young whore.’

  I don’t know if that’s true. My mother had a lot of boyfriends. I was young when I went to live with Ryan Hart but not so young that I don’t remember all the men who came to visit before that. Still, I don’t think she was a prostitute—she slept with rich men and benefited from that. There’s a fine line between, but Jagger’s mother will never see it that way.

  And I get it.

  Who wouldn’t hate the kid that’s very existence ruined your marriage?

  I wasn’t conceived as a result of their affair, but he did sleep with my mother. I don’t know how long it went on for, I don’t know if it meant anything to him, or her. But now I know I’m not his son.

  My gut clenches and I turn my back on the view.

  There are two reliable ways to forget. One is sex, and right now the idea of sex with anyone other than Cora is less than appealing, and I have the self-awareness to appreciate that I’m not in the right headspace to call her.

  The second is alcohol. I grab my jacket, pulling it on and barging out of the office. There’s a bar around the corner, and I intend to go there and not leave again until I’m falling-down drunk.

  * * *

  I stare at the back of the camera, zooming in on the picture I’ve taken. It’s okay, but not much better than that. Sure, it captures the geometric shapes of the Opera House, but none of the drama. It’s just like any other photo of this well-known landmark.

  I flick through the camera, scrolling past the dozen or so images I’ve taken today, to the last time I used it. New York. I was practising portraits. There’s a shot of a little boy, about six or seven, his eyes heavy with things he’s seen, his mother beside him, her hands outstretched. He’s grubby and yet there’s a spirit in his eyes that I’ve captured in the photo.

  I move my finger over the buttons again, scrolling forward until I reach a young woman who’d just stepped out of the subway. The lights of Times Square shimmer in the background, but in the foreground it’s just her. She’s looking up, as if for directions, and a rucksack is hooked over one shoulder. There’s such optimism in her expression, such naïve hope, as though in New York she’ll find everything she’s ever wanted.

  On a small breath of exasperation I switch the camera off and sit down on a park bench. Tourists mill around me, unmistakable with their loud voices and selfie sticks. Seagulls flap at their feet, looking for morsels to eat.

  And a sense of dissatisfaction grips me because I’m thinking of Holden way more often than I’d like. How often wouldn’t bother me?

  Not at all?

  That’s not possible. Not after what we shared, what we did. But I have a sense of dissatisfaction at the way things finished between us the other night—two nigh
ts ago.

  I try to blank my mind, to simply sit, but my hand hovers on my camera, as if ready at any moment to flick it on and capture a moment in time, to translate an emotion onto digital film.

  That’s what I do.

  I trap moments like someone might a butterfly, pinning it as though that can bring it back to life.

  A busker begins to play his guitar, singing an acoustic version of a song that was on the top of the charts a few years ago. I listen, and I watch, and I forcibly remove every hint of Holden from my thoughts because having him there doesn’t serve any purpose.

  * * *

  I shouldn’t be here.

  It’s about the tenth time I’ve admitted that to myself since my driver pulled up outside Cora’s place. I shouldn’t be here and yet I have been for the past hour, looking up at her place, waiting for lights to switch on to indicate that she’s home, or waiting until I see her walking home. Something.

  I tried to forget with alcohol, but this time it didn’t work. Drinking made me angrier, so I contemplated throwing my phone into the harbour so Theo and Jagger would stop calling me, feeling sorry for me, wanting to heal me somehow.

  I also contemplated getting on my plane and leaving Australia, leaving Jagger and Grace and baby Felicity, and Cora, just disappearing for a while. But I’ve tried that too. After I first learned the truth I lost myself in Europe for months at a time. Jagger and Theo kept loose tabs on me but otherwise they let me go, as if they understood I needed that time.

  So why can’t they understand that I still do?

  Another ten minutes pass. I lift my phone out and think about texting her. I hold it in my lap. Another five minutes go by and then I hear the sound of the Vespa before I see it. A moment later, it zips around the corner and my gut kicks me into action. I wait until she’s parked and lifted the helmet off and then I step out of the car, crossing to her before she can see me, so I’m almost touching her before she realises and looks up.

  Her lips part in recognition and then something else—concern?

  I register it and realise I must look like shit. I showered a day or so ago, but since then I’ve consumed my body weight in liquor and barely eaten. Maybe coming here right now, like this, wasn’t my best idea.

  ‘Holden?’ My name is swallowed inside of her. She shakes her head, like I’m some kind of ghost or something. ‘You’re still here?’

  It’s what she said last time, like she keeps thinking I might have flown right out of the country. ‘I’m still here.’ My words are unintentionally gruff. I don’t have a problem with Cora—she doesn’t deserve my wrath, even the overflow of it. I have to get a grip on this, and I can see only one way to do that. Assuming a more nonchalant tone, I shrug. ‘I’m here for another week. Seven days.’

  Her eyes flare and she swallows, her throat moving beneath my focused inspection. ‘And then you go back to the States?’

  Relief bursts through me. A week is good. A week to do some work with the manager of the casino floor, a week to see Felicity and get Theo off my back and a week to have a bit more fun with Cora—if she’s amenable. Going by the last time we were together, I’d say she will be.

  ‘So, why are you here?’ She gestures to her house and there’s no misunderstanding now.

  ‘I came to ask you to come over.’

  A frown shifts across her expression. ‘Why?’

  My look is sceptical and her cheeks bloom with colour.

  ‘Why not just call me or send a text?’

  ‘Because I wanted to make sure you said yes.’ None of this is her fault and yet the power she holds over me fills me with resentment. ‘Because I didn’t want to wait for your answer.’

  She closes her lips, looking beyond me, towards the limousine at my back.

  ‘Damn it, Cora,’ I say when she doesn’t respond. ‘Either invite me up or get in my car.’

  She bites into her lower lip, and her eyes are so awash with confusion that I could drown in their depths. What am I doing? What right do I have to come here and draw Cora into my messed-up life?

  She expels a soft sigh and I feel it. The battle she’s waging. The fight she’s locked in—like me. Knowing what we should do, knowing what’s inevitable. She looks towards the house, a little furrow on her brow, and then back at me.

  ‘Wait here. I just need to grab something.’

  She thrusts the bag she’s holding towards me then hesitates, and I hold my breath, wondering if maybe she’s going to change her mind after all.

  But she doesn’t.

  She walks inside and a moment later, carrying a larger handbag, she’s back, her eyes meeting mine. She doesn’t smile. There’s a look of determination on her face and I wonder if she has the same ambition I do—to have sex until we can begin to forget this, each other.

  It’s then that I realise my method of forgetting has bred within me a new addiction. A new need, a new dependence.

  But I don’t need to worry about that. In a week I’ll go back to America, back to the way I was before Cora, and that will be the end of this.

  * * *

  With Holden at my side there’s no need to go through the same security protocols. We take a different elevator, this time straight to his penthouse. Neither of us speaks as it lifts us into the heavens, and that’s a problem because it gives me ample time to think. To wonder what I’m doing.

  And the thing is, I don’t know but I can say with absolute certainty that being here is one hundred per cent where I want to be right now. Being with him is what I need.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ His question seems louder than it is by virtue of the fact neither of us has made a sound since getting to the casino.

  ‘I had a burger a little while ago.’

  ‘Good.’

  Our eyes hold for a second and then he gestures inwards.

  ‘After you.’

  I step into his penthouse, seeing it with different eyes now, eyes that are less wowed by the grandeur because they’ve seen it already and therefore more able to take in details. Two of the pictures I recognise. One is a Van Gogh, the other a Seurat. Originals? Undoubtedly.

  ‘This place is amazing.’

  He shuts the door behind himself and strides across the living space towards a kitchen I barely clocked last time. It’s large with shining white pantries, a marble bench top and windows at the back of it that frame another picture-perfect view of the city.

  ‘Do you spend much time here?’

  My fingers itch to lift my camera from the bag and snap a photograph of that view. Night lighting is hard to do justice to; I need practice.

  He opens the fridge door and pulls out a couple of beers but, before he can crack the top off mine, I shake my head. ‘I’ll just have water, thanks.’

  He pushes the beer back into the fridge and grabs a glass for me, filling it with filtered water from the fridge. I notice he still cracks the beer and memories sear me out of nowhere. My dad, the smell of beer, the ever-present bottle. I push those thoughts aside.

  I’ve mentally dealt with Dad’s alcoholism, and the waste his life became. I don’t need to think about it now. Besides, I don’t know Holden well enough to know how much he drinks, nor how often.

  ‘I’m in Australia several times a year. This is where I stay.’

  There’s nothing to say in response to that. I presume he travels a heck of a lot, given he has a private jet. It makes sense he’d stay in his own casino. These are conclusions I could have reached for myself.

  ‘I’m glad you came with me tonight.’ His voice is serious, and I wonder if he truly doubted that I would. Did he actually think I might say no?

  Something heavy shifts in the air around us.

  I nod, try to smile, but it doesn’t quite work.

  ‘I should apologise, for last time.’

  Surprise makes my heartb
eat quicken. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was more abrupt than I intended.’ His words are a growl.

  I shake my head a little. ‘No, you were fine.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to stay.’ The words are like little arrows, darting into my body and zipping through my blood. ‘In fact, I wanted you to go after we had sex because that’s what I do.’

  I ignore the barbs of jealousy.

  ‘But that’s always the end of it.’

  I nod, even when I don’t quite understand.

  ‘Always. I prefer not to think of the women I’ve slept with again.’ Our eyes are locked, and just holding his gaze is making my blood surge.

  ‘So why can’t I stop thinking about you, Cora?’ He says my name deliberately, to show not only does he remember it, it’s haunting him in some way, not touching me, drinking his beer as though in doing so he’ll be able to contain a need to reach for me.

  But I can’t analyse it because pleasure is zipping through me now too. Intense pleasure at his admission, at realising that for every ounce of determination I’ve had to bring to my mind to stop from thinking about him, he’s dealing with that too.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, but the words are lighter, happier, because this feels like good news. It doesn’t change what I want from him but it makes me feel as though I’m not alone in that. We’re both out on a limb, navigating this strange dependency simultaneously.

  He moves towards me, his purpose clear, and I stay where I am, waiting, needing, wanting.

  ‘Why can’t I stop goddamned thinking about you?’ His words reverberate with frustration, so I gather he’s really been trying—and failing—to put me from his mind.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I repeat, lifting a hand to his chest, letting my fingers splay across his pectoral muscle so I can feel the strong beating of his heart beneath my palm. My eyes latch to his and there’s promise in their depths, as well as my need.

  ‘But I’ve been having the same problem.’

  He lifts one brow, curving his hand around my wrist and lifting my hand to his lips. He kisses my palm then moves it to my side, so his body can touch mine, so we’re toe to toe.