Switching it On Page 7

  “Still love you?”

  Lena blinked at the sudden venom, the anger in Mike’s voice. The rage simmering in his face. The coiled tension in his body.

  “You want me to smile and tell you I forgive you for fucking us up? For not trusting me?” he went on, his voice a low growl. “For not believing me? Sure, I can do that, babe.”

  He flashed her a smirk, his smirk, the one he was famous for, the one that made women the country over swoon, and then rolled away from her.

  Threw himself off the bed.

  “There’s your smile, Button.” The contempt had returned to the nickname. His back muscles bunched and flexed as he yanked up his fly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a three-legged race to prepare for.”

  And before Lena could scramble off the bed, he stormed from the room.

  He snatched his shirt from the floor without slowing down. The sounds of Lena giving chase behind him scraped at his ears.

  He didn’t slow.

  Smile. Smile for me, baby. I know I’ve hurt you but show me you still love me with your smile and I promise I’ll be better.

  His mother’s words screamed in his head. Fuck, he hated those words, hated that request. Smile for me; a request designed to make him feel guilt and shame. If he didn’t smile for her when she asked, he must not have loved her. That’s what she used to say, over and over. Every time she’d fucked up, she’d beg his forgiveness and ask him to smile for her. Guilt him into doing so. Emotional manipulation. A lifetime of it.

  He’d never expected it from Lena.

  But then, he’d never expected his wife to believe he was cheating on her, and look how that turned out.

  “Mike?”

  He didn’t pause at her shout. Instead, he yanked open the door and stormed out of his old apartment.

  Whoa. Talk about déjà vu. Who would have thought he’d be doing this sad routine twice in his lifetime?

  Smile for me, baby. I know I’ve been bad, I know I’ve hurt you, but show me your smile so I know you still love me, okay?

  He didn’t bother with the lift. Instead, he pulled open the stairwell door. Ran down them.

  It wasn’t that far. A walk in the park for a guy who’d just been hit by a reality check with all the force of a speeding semi-trailer.

  Lena had ripped him apart once before, had destroyed him. Did he really think, after one incredible session of fucking, they’d be fixed?

  Had he?

  You’re being ridiculous. What kind of grown man lets his dead mother fuck with his head? Stop. Go back.

  His pace faltered. The musty concrete smell of the stairwell flowed into his being. His footfalls bounced around him like gunfire.

  What was he—

  …can…can you smile at me? Now? Just to let me know you—

  Lena’s voice flayed at him, her words, his mother’s words…

  Cold pressure wrapped Mike’s head. Dark swirls filled his vision.

  He stopped, gripping the icy stair rail in one hand, clawing at the back of his neck with the other.

  Jesus, what the fuck was he doing?

  What the fucking fuck?

  Sucking in a breath of stale air, he twisted, looking up at the stairs he’d just run down.

  …can you smile at me? Now? Just to let me know you—

  “Fuck it,” he muttered, turning on his heel to run back up the stairs, two at a time. If he was going to be a glutton for punishment, he may as well go all out.

  Go hard or go home.

  The trouble was, even after seven and a half months of not living there, the apartment he’d just bolted from still felt like home.

  Go hard or go somewhere else?

  He didn’t want to be somewhere else. He wanted to be with Lena.

  By the time he reached her floor, his heart had turned into a thumping tattoo in his ears. It had nothing, he knew, to do with exertion.

  He was going to fix this. He was going to fucking fix this.

  First he was going to apologise for taking off like a jerk wanker, he was going to explain how his mother had screwed him up, how he’d spent a lifetime hiding behind the charismatic smirk he was famous for, how his mother had used emotional manipulation as a way to make him smile for her on request. Then he was going to make Lena believe him when he said he hadn’t cheated on her.

  He wasn’t going to leave her side until he’d convinced her.

  He loved her.

  She still loved him. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice, feel it in her body.

  He was going to fix them, heal them.

  Yanking open the stairwell door, he threw himself into a sprint. Ran to the door he’d spent five years of his life opening damn near every day.

  He banged the side of his fist against it, heart racing. “Lena. Open up.”

  Nothing.

  “Lena?” he called, banging again. “I shouldn’t have buggered off just now. I’m sorry.”

  Still nothing.

  Mike’s chest tightened.

  Drawing a steadying breath, he leant his forearm and forehead on the door. “I was being a dick. Can you let me in please? So I can explain?”

  The door stayed closed.

  Mike let out a choppy sigh, pressing his palm flat to the door as he studied the floor between his feet. “You remember when we first met? I was just an ex-hockey player assigned to on-location filler reports and you were this young EP with an incredible reputation for getting the best out of your team. I was out on locale, interviewing that teenage tennis prodigy who was the biggest wanker on the circuit. Remember him? Only it wasn’t so much an interview as such, but more like me following the script the bloke’s PR people had handed me. You started talking to me via my earpiece all the way from the studio, mid-fawning question, and told me to stop kissing his arse and ask the questions I wanted to ask.

  “First time I’d ever had any interaction with you,” he went on, staring at the tops of his shoes, “and I fell in love with you that very second. I knew then, before I even saw you, you were the one who would help me understand what it was all about; this weird thing we call living. And then I actually met you back in the studio a few hours later, for the post-broadcast roundup, and it was like I finally had a reason. That’s as corny as all shit, I know, but that’s the way it is. I’ve told you how messed up my childhood was. That day, when I first saw you, all of the crap I’d been through faded away.”

  He stopped. Closed his eyes. Rolled his forehead side to side against the door and then opened his eyes and stared at the floor again.

  “It killed me when I discovered you were involved with someone. Killed me even more when he hurt you. You don’t know this, but I went around to his apartment that night and came close to breaking his fucking nose. I wanted to. But as I was telling him what a fuck-knuckle he was, you sent me a text about work, about the interview I was doing with the Aussie soccer player, Rhys McDowell the next day—do you remember that?—and I walked away. You saved me then. Like you did so many times.

  “I know what its like to be hurt, Lena. To be seriously hurt by someone you love. I know how much it messes you up. The reason I ran just now? My mother…she used to guilt me into smiling and forgiving her for treating RG and me so bad. She’d make me feel like shit, like I was the worst son in the world, if I didn’t smile at her and tell her I accepted her apologies. Apologies and promises I’d heard so many times before. And the real kicker is, I’d do it, I’d believe her every damn time, even when I knew it was never going to change.

  “When you asked me to smile…”

  He scrubbed at his eyes with a shaking hand.

  “I heard her. I heard my mum in my head. I hated that. But I hated hurting you more, and I did that by being a prick and taking off. I’m sorry, babe.”

  A ragged sigh shook deep inside his chest.

  The door didn’t open.

  “I don’t know if you remember,” he said, his voice hoarse, “but I promised you, the very first
time we made love, I would never lie to you or treat you wrong, and I haven’t. Yeah, we’ve had our arguments. What normal married couple hasn’t? And yeah, I know I flirted occasionally when I was interviewing women sports stars, but that was all part of the Michael Bailey television persona. You know that. And maybe, the first time you brought up having a baby, I should have actually had a conversation with you about it instead of buying you a dog. But I’ve never lied to you, babe. And I never had sex with anyone else. Why would I do that when you are everything I’ve ever wanted? The only woman, the only life, I’ve ever wanted?”

  He sighed again. Straightened from the door enough to study the bristle stroke marks in its painted surface.

  “From the moment I met you, Lena, you were my world. I’m hollow without you. I’m just an empty smirk without you.”

  Something warm touched the back of his shoulder and he jerked around.

  Lena.

  “How long have you been there for?” he asked.

  A smile he couldn’t decipher curled her lips. “From the wanker tennis prodigy part.”

  He swallowed. “And…do you believe me?”

  The smile wobbled. Faded. She closed her eyes, dropping her face into her hands before muttering something he didn’t hear.

  His gut knotted. A prickling heat crawled over his skin, his scalp. “Lena?”

  A shaky sigh filled the corridor a heartbeat before she lifted her head and looked at him again, her expression as enigmatic as her earlier smile. “I chased after you in the lift just now. Not to get an explanation but to slap you in the face for being a jerk. I called you every swear word, every bad name I could think of. When the lift door opened and there was no sign of you, not out on the street, not in the foyer or in the stairwell, I figured I’d missed you.”

  She let out a dry grunt, shaking her head. “I felt sick. And I realized no matter how much I’ve tried to stop loving you since…since Naomi posted those images on Instagram, I haven’t. But loving you isn’t enough, Mike. Not after…”

  She looked away. Shook her head again.

  “I know you told me Naomi climbed into bed with you without you knowing. I know you swore you were asleep, that you had no clue she was in there, but…but I know differently.”

  Mike frowned. “What do you mean? Differently about what? I never—”

  Without a word, she reached behind him and opened the door. Entered her apartment.

  Mike stood on the threshold, watching her cross her living room. A disconnected part of him registered it hadn’t changed since he’d moved out. Not even the artwork on the walls. The rest of him, however, tried to process what was going on.

  Did he follow her?

  What was she talking about?

  “Lena?” he called, chest tight, as she scooped up her handbag—a bag he’d bought for her while they were on their honeymoon in Fiji—and withdrew her iPhone from its depths.

  Wordlessly, she swiped her thumb over its screen, jabbed at it a few times and then, her expression an emotionless mask, walked back to where he stood and offered it to him. “That’s why loving you isn’t enough, Mike. That’s why I don’t believe you.”

  Eyes dry, throat the same, Mike took the phone from her and lowered his stare to its screen.

  An image of him in the shower waited for him there.

  He frowned, taking in his wet hair plastered to his head, his torso half covered in soapsuds, the steam swirling up around his hips, barely concealing what was obviously a very healthy erection. He was smiling in the image, looking a fraction to the side, as if engaging with the photographer rather than the camera.

  “When did you take this?” he asked, looking back up at Lena. “And how does it have anything to do with not believing me?”

  Lena studied him, motionless. “I didn’t take that, Mike. Naomi sent it to me two days after I asked you to move out.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mike blinked. “What the fuck? How did she…”

  He dropped his head, staring at her phone again.

  Lena watched him, numb.

  “This is our shower,” he muttered, confusion eating up the words. “How the fuck did…I don’t…”

  He looked back up at her. Frowned. “I don’t understand how she got this. That’s our shower. As far as I know, she’s never been in our bathroom. How did she—”

  Before the incredulous disbelief in Mike’s voice could flay at her sanity anymore, Lena leant forward and dragged her finger over the surface of her phone.

  A new image filled its screen, this one of Mike in the process of getting dressed in what had once been their bedroom, looking over his shoulder in the direction of the camera, frozen in pixel perpetuity midway through pulling his jeans up over his naked arse.

  Mike stared at this new image. “What the fuck?” he repeated.

  “She sent me that an hour after the other one,” Lena said, her voice as strained as the pain in her heart. “Of course, I’d already seen both of them the day before. When she showed them to me outside the Chanel Eight studio. Those and so many more. So many photos of you, Mike. Almost all of them naked. Almost all of them with you smiling at her through the camera. Photos of you both at a Hilton somewhere, maybe Melbourne.”

  He jerked his stare up to her face.

  She recoiled at the grey pallor to his skin. The rage in his eyes.

  “I had no fucking clue she was taking these,” he growled.

  The statement cut Lena. Scraped at her.

  “So you finally admit it?” she whispered. Oh God, why did her heart feel as if it was about to be torn from her chest? After all this time, why did it hurt so much?

  “Admit it?” Ice cracked his voice. “Admit what? I have no fucking clue how she got these photos! Or when she even took them.”

  Lena swallowed. Frowned. Her lips tingled. Her blood roared in her ears.

  “I mean…” he went on, looking at her phone once more, swiping back and forth between the two images Naomi had sent her months ago. “That’s our shower. Our bedroom. When the fuck was she ever—”

  Without a word, his face expressionless, he barged past her and hurried through the living room, heading for her bedroom.

  “Mike?” she called, hurrying after him.

  Her stomach rolled. The tingling in her lips grew stronger. What the hell was she feeling? Guilt? About what?

  Look at him, woman. Have you ever seen him so out of control, so furious? So…so blindsided?

  She swallowed. A cold fist twisted in her belly. A hot lump filled her throat.

  Running to catch up, she found him standing in their bathroom, in the shower cubicle, looking at the phone.

  Her stomach churned again. “What are you doing? Do you really think I’m—”

  “Look at the photo, Lena,” he ordered, fixing her with a hard stare. “Look at it.”

  “I don’t want to look at it!” she snapped. “I’ve looked at it enough for a lifetime. It’s torn me apart so many times I wonder how I function!”

  “Look at it,” he repeated. “And then come stand where I’m standing.”

  Lena frowned. “Why?”

  Something dark crossed Mike’s face. His Adam’s apple jerked up and down his throat. “Babe,” he finally said, voice hoarse. “Please, if you never trust me again, please just trust me on this. Come here and stand where I’m standing and tell me how anyone could take that photo from that angle.”

  Mouth dry, chest wrapped in hot steel wool, Lena moved to where he was. Took her phone back from him and lowered her stare to the photo.

  Looked at Mike, naked, wet, obviously aroused, smiling at the photographer…

  Looked at the image.

  “I see you, Mike,” she said, the words cracking.

  Wet. Smiling. Aroused. Looking at the photographer, at Naomi, with playful lust in his eyes…

  In her mind, the image shifted. In her mind, Naomi joined him in the shower. Pressed her naked body to his, touched him, raked her hands
all over him as they kissed under the water, as she dragged her lips down his throat, his chest, his stomach, his—

  “What’s behind me, Lena?”

  She frowned at his question. Slid her stare to the space in the image behind him. “The corner of the shower,” she answered, studying the photo. “The showerhead. The caddy.”

  “The only way to get that angle,” he said, “is if the person taking the photo was standing…”

  He stopped talking, his focus instead moving to the far wall of the shower cubicle.

  Lena tracked his line of sight. Frowned at the wall.

  The shower had been their one major indulgence when they’d bought the apartment. Its original bathroom had been a tiny, orange-and-green, broken-tiled mess seemingly time-warped from the 1960s. They’d spent a ridiculous amount of money renovating it, knocking out a wall into the apartment’s third bedroom to make the bathroom massive. The shower had become the feature, an expansive step-in space covered in dark mirrored tiles with a waterfall showerhead in the center. Big enough for them both to shower together. Big enough for them to do other things in it together.

  Around the walls were built-in shallow shelves, high enough not to get wet from any splashing that occurred, perfect for loofas, conditioning combs, and spare face washers. A week after the renovations were complete, Lena had come home from work one night to discover Mike singing in the shower to music pumping from twin speakers on the far wall shelf of the shower.

  He’d grinned at her. “Waterproof,” he’d said, waggling a little black remote control at her before pointing it at the speakers.

  The music had grown louder. AC/DC had filled the room. Mike had thrown back his head and proceeded to illustrate the fact she hadn’t fallen in love with him for his singing voice.

  They’d finished the shower together—naturally—making love under the water to the sounds of Nick Blackthorne singing “Whispers in the Night”.

  When Mike had left—when she’d told him to leave—she’d been surprised he hadn’t taken the speakers. And she couldn’t get rid of them. Every time she tried, she’d remember that evening, she’d remember Mike’s woeful rendition of “You Shook Me All Night Long”, she’d remember his incredible lip-syncing skills. She’d remember the perfection of him entering her body as Blackthorne’s love ballad played and the water flowed over them…