Beyond Repair (Deeper Than Desire) Read online

  This was undoubtedly his worst.

  She knew it was, before he said. Those eyes were shot through with something other than pretty nothingness. And as she watched, his whole face seemed to sag in a manner that caught her somewhere unexpected. Just below the heart, she thought, about a second before he spoke and made it so much worse.

  “It didn’t work,” he said.

  This time, it hit her full force in the chest. She wanted to take his hand suddenly, but she knew she couldn’t. She’d only been in his presence for about half an hour, and even if that wasn’t the case...he was famous. He probably hated people grabbing his hand. He probably hated it so much that he’d tried to kill himself over it.

  Because it was obvious now that this was what he’d attempted. He put his head back against the tiles, in a sort of hopelessness she recognized only too well. His hands kept making fists, then relaxing, then making fists again—so tight his knuckles turned white. And even after he’d started to shiver, he didn’t try to move. She shut the shower off and he just sat there, slumped inside his soaked clothes, defeated.

  It gave her this incredible urge to say something to him...but what? Everything will be okay sounded so trite in her head and Do you want me to call an ambulance? seemed like too much pressure. Maybe he just wanted to sit there for a little bit and gather himself back together—God knows she had. She was still sitting and gathering herself, in truth.

  She’d just mostly managed to disguise it as scrubbing floors and painting window frames and pretending to know how to fix the rest of this ramshackle old thing she somehow owned at the ripe old age of twenty. And some days it worked too. Some days it was good, to know that she actually owned something and could make it as beautiful or as horrible as she wanted.

  And then other days you almost killed yourself on someone else’s rug.

  “I wasn’t sure...I didn’t know if this was the right thing to do,” she said—mainly because the silence had gone on too long, now. If she gave him another second he might think about doing it again. He might go for her medicine cabinet and slash himself to pieces with her razor, and she just didn’t know how to deal with that.

  Hauling someone to safety, yes. Wrestling them for control of a blade, no.

  “But I couldn’t just leave you there,” she added, and this time he gave her some response. He groaned and put his fist to his forehead and followed it with something so absurd she almost laughed.

  “Oh man, I trashed your rug.”

  Was that really his chief concern here? And if it was, she liked him a lot better than she’d ever thought she’d like a movie star. Weren’t they mostly arrogant jackasses who never apologized about anything? But here he was apologizing for something so slight, in the middle of an actual suicide attempt.

  Surely that qualified him for saintly status?

  “I’m so sorry. I think I busted your door too.”

  “I’m sure my door will be fine.”

  “But the rug bought it, right?”

  “The rug received a near-fatal vomit wound, but I think I can revive it.”

  It startled her to see him smile. And sure, it was just this faint and trembling sort of thing, close to collapse. But it was there, and maybe if she carried on like this it would find some foundations. It would get stronger.

  The question was—how to carry on like this with a famous person? What possible point of commonality could they have?

  “Man,” he said. “You look as crazy as I feel.”

  Chapter Two

  She didn’t think badly of him. The truth was, she did look crazy. She was in her big old granddad’s nightshirt, and her hair still hadn’t completely grown in on one side. It had taken on an almost lopsided air, and when she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror she saw that sleeping had exacerbated the situation.

  Some of it was trying to escape off the left side of her head. She tried to smooth it back down when he wasn’t looking, but of course that only made things worse. Now her fringe was pointing skyward, and even more horrifying...

  He’d definitely noticed her doing it.

  He’d noticed her being weird and vain in the middle of helping him to his feet. And she couldn’t even explain, either, because how did you go about doing that? She couldn’t possibly say, You’re just so massive and impressive, and I’m so small and ridiculous. It was how she felt, but it didn’t really matter here.

  Or at least, she thought it didn’t.

  He seemed to think otherwise.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “Oh no, I wasn’t—”

  “Your hair is crazy. But in a good way.”

  “Is there a good way, for crazy hair?” she asked—mainly because this conversation was serving one purpose, at least. It was taking her mind off the hand she’d offered him, and the easy manner in which he’d taken it. Now she could feel his rough palm and his big fingers, and how little he seemed to care that he was holding on to her.

  It wasn’t a big deal. It totally wasn’t a big deal.

  He wasn’t that enormous, really.

  “Sure—you ever seen a seventies rock chick?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think they’d thank you for comparing us. Pretty sure they never wear an old man’s nightshirt.”

  He made the strangest sound, then. Like a chainsaw rubbing against a rusty knife. It took her a good ten seconds to realize it was meant to be a laugh, but even after she had she couldn’t fathom it. How had she managed to make that happen? She was barely functioning. She wasn’t even sure what she was saying—though maybe that was the idea. The less she thought about things, the more chance she had of improving his mood.

  “Maybe not—but believe me, the hair’s dead-on.”

  “I think this is all just code for your hair is a weird rectangle.”

  He made that sound again, but it was better this time. Less like she needed to get him to a throat doctor fast. More like a normal human noise.

  His efforts at moving, on the other hand...

  “I think I’ve forgotten how to walk.”

  “You haven’t forgotten. Your ability to walk is just sleeping. It’ll come back once I’ve sat you down on the couch and filled you full of warm drinks.”

  He fell silent, then, for far too long a time. Didn’t he realize she needed this conversation, to help with the next step? He was practically leaning on her as she eased them both out the door, and he’d been right about the walking thing too. His legs were dragging in this weird way—one that made her think of CAT scans and other complicated hospital things that he might need.

  Maybe he’d burst his brain. Maybe he was going to die in her arms.

  Maybe he should just speak, before she went insane.

  And then he did, and everything made even less sense than it had before.

  “You’re such a sweetheart. How are you such a sweetheart?”

  She glanced up, whip-quick. Was he joking? He had to be joking. The words were just so weird and unexpected, and his expression didn’t help any with figuring them out. He looked surprised, she thought.

  And sort of...warm.

  “Anyone would do this.”

  “I don’t think they would.”

  “Of course they would.”

  “I think they would have called the cops, the second they saw the busted door.”

  “Well I didn’t see the busted door, so—”

  “And they’d have probably gotten out their shotgun, for the ruined rug.”

  “Nobody cares about a rug. Why are you so obsessed with the rug?”

  “Everybody cares about a rug. And they care even more about a big, strange dude in their house.”

  She was right on the verge of correcting him. You’re not strange, she wanted to say. You’re Holden Stark—everybody knows who you are. And then he spoke, and suddenly she couldn’t say anything at all. She kind of froze instead, with him still attached like a massive limb she’d never noticed before.


  “Especially when big dudes obviously make them nervous.”

  He meant her, she knew. She’d somehow given her nervousness away, though she hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t said a word when he’d suddenly smacked his big hand around her waist, and she was sure any flinching had been kept to a minimum. It was important to keep it to a minimum, when he clearly didn’t intend to grab her.

  He’d just needed to steady himself, and now she’d somehow made him feel bad.

  “No, really, I’m not nervous at all.”

  She was aware that this just made her seem very nervous indeed. But what could she do? She couldn’t tell him the truth—I spent most of the last three years in a hospital, and now I’m socially weird. I still feel like I’m seventeen inside and no amount of house buying is making me grow up right. He wouldn’t understand that. She didn’t even understand that.

  She’d always been old for her age...until it happened.

  “It’s okay, honey—you should be nervous. Sudden huge, hairy stranger in your home...messing up your stuff, using you as a crutch.”

  He wasn’t quite holding on to her that hard anymore. In fact, he’d worked his way up to a slow but steady pace and had just negotiated her coffee table almost solo.

  She knew what he was driving at, however.

  “Is this where you reveal you’re a secret serial killer?”

  “Hey, I could be. You never know.”

  “Think it would have been in the papers by now.”

  “So you do know who I am. Damn. Almost thought I’d gotten away with it, then.”

  He said it like a joke, but she could hear something underneath. Something unsettling, that kind of made her feel bad. Maybe he’d wanted her to pretend, or never bring it up. He was just an ordinary guy having a bad time, and she was some girl who’d decided to help him out of the goodness of her heart.

  Only now...now it was possible he thought otherwise.

  She could have done it all because he was famous.

  “I don’t think you could ever get away with it...but I don’t care, if that’s what you mean. I was just saying that it made me feel a little safer, that’s all.”

  “Oh honey, I can tell you don’t care.”

  “You can?”

  “Sure I can. You’re not asking me for my autograph, right now, are you?”

  God, did people actually do that in situations like this? The way he said it suggested they did, but she found it hard to imagine. He was practically dead on his feet, and when he sat on the couch it was really more of a slump. He didn’t even seem able to take off his jacket. He just batted at it ineffectually then gave up.

  You’d have to be insane to have autographs on your mind. All she could think about was the state he seemed to be in, closely followed by slightly weird but largely practical thoughts like, I wonder if he’s going to need me to cut that coat off.

  “Well no...but I’m hoping that’s not a good indicator.”

  “The way you seem is a good indicator.”

  “And how do I seem?”

  She was almost afraid to ask, and the long pause he took before answering didn’t help. It gave her a chance to imagine a million things, and all of them were horrible and hideous. Some of them were memories of paintings in fairytales, of evil hermit trolls who didn’t like people and got their comeuppance in the end.

  Though none were as frightening as the one he actually went with.

  “Like something out of a dream,” he said, so soft and strange she could nearly feel it herself. Everything seemed to waver and drift, and that was before he added more faintly unsettling things. “Man, those eyes of yours.”

  “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

  “They remind me of an eclipse.”

  She knew what he meant immediately. She saw it in the mirror every day—those two empty holes in her head. Once she’d been her Mom’s black-eyed girl, but over time they’d turned into something else. They’d turned into the dark side of the moon.

  And he’d noticed.

  “You’re probably just not seeing things right.”

  “Probably.”

  “My eyes are plain old dark brown.”

  “Right,” he said, but he wasn’t really agreeing.

  He was just nodding off.

  He was nodding off, after an overdose.

  “Don’t go to sleep, Holden, okay?”

  It was the first time she’d said his name aloud. The first time she’d thought of it, without seeing it in lights. Now he really was just some guy who might still be in trouble, slumped on her couch.

  And she was just a girl who had no idea what to do.

  “I won’t.”

  “Maybe I should call a doctor.”

  “No, no. Seriously, I’m fine.”

  “If you’re fine then stay awake. Okay? Stay awake.”

  He opened his eyes, but in a lazy way. A way that showed more of those incredibly long and incredibly black eyelashes than it did anything else. She could just about see the blue between, but only because that blue was so damn incredible.

  “I’m awake.”

  “I should have kept you walking. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

  “Probably, but it’s not going to happen on these legs. I think they’ve turned to water. I should probably put down a towel.”

  “Then focus on something. You take off your jacket, while I make some tea.”

  It sounded like a good plan, in her head. Then absolutely ridiculous, once it was out—like something a seventy-year-old grandmother would say.

  And apparently he thought so too.

  “I’m not sure that’s going to cut it,” he said, in this swinging sarcastic voice she recognized from a dozen movies. It was the one he used when he quipped just before blowing the bad guy away—only now it seemed kind of sad. Sad, and a little weary.

  “So what would cut it?”

  “Talking,” he said. “Talking would cut it.”

  “You should probably know—it’s not my strongest suit.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then how come I’m enjoying this so much?”

  “Because you’re still probably stoned,” she said, but when he patted the coffee table in front of him she found herself sitting down. It was almost impossible not to. Whether he was telling the truth about her conversational skills or not, she understood the sentiment. This was the best talk she’d had for months.

  This was the only talk she’d had for months.

  “Maybe. But I think you’re helping, dream girl.”

  “Dream girl isn’t going to make you seem any less off your gourd.”

  “You better tell me your name, then. Make things more real.”

  She paused for just a moment. But it was a moment too long. It stank of a lie when she finally forced the fake name out, though really what choice did she have? The fake one was on everything now. She couldn’t say her real one and then have him see something else on the back of a random bill. And even if there was absolutely no chance that would happen...did she really want him to know?

  She didn’t want the mailman to know.

  Explaining to Holden Stark was just unthinkable.

  “It’s Alice,” she said, then waited with bated breath.

  He didn’t seem to find anything amiss, however.

  “Down the rabbit hole, huh? Guess I really am in a dream world.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Like I’ve never heard any of this before.”

  She hoped he did not know that she’d never heard any of that before.

  In her old life someone had once asked her where the The Famous Five was, but that was the extent of her experience with name jokes. Thankfully, however, it was not the extent of his. He had loads of stuff to talk about, with a name like Holden.

  “Hey—don’t feel bad. At least you’re not an angsty teenager,” he said, and after he had everything was fine. They didn’t have to discuss her fakery now.

  They cou
ld just talk about his.

  “But Holden’s not your real name though,” she said, confident in the answer.

  No one was called Holden. Nobody named their son that.

  Except for his weird mom, apparently.

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “And Stark too?”

  “Uh-huh. I know, disgustingly macho, right?”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to say it, but...”

  “But my name sweats testosterone.”

  “I was kind of hoping it was secretly Norman.”

  “Oh yeah, I like that. Norman...Norman Dweezel.”

  She laughed the second he’d said it, but immediately wished she hadn’t. It came out as bad as his. It sounded all weird—as if she hadn’t used it in a thousand years. Even he looked surprised to hear it, and he’d never heard the laugh she’d had before.

  The lighter one. The one that didn’t stink of rust.

  “Maybe you need the cup of tea.”

  “I know that was awful—sorry.”

  “Was that a laugh? Or were you clearing your throat?”

  “I’m going to say throat clearing. Dweezel was funny, but not enough to get me.”

  “No? Then what would get you?”

  Something happened when he said it—a kind of shiver over her skin. But then she shook herself and it flitted away. He didn’t mean get you, get you. He wasn’t going to chase her through the house in the dark with big monster arms.

  And she wasn’t about to hide in the closet.

  “Bernard Horganblaster,” she said, and watched as his eyes slowly drifted closed. It was in the good way though, this time. The way that reminded her of blissful things, like biting into a bar of chocolate after a long period of near starvation.

  “Oh yeah. I could be a Bernard.”

  “And your friends call you Bernie.”

  He gave her two gleeful, triumphant fists.

  “Yes! Yes, exactly that. I have friends just like you, and you call me Bernie.”

  “So you’re after some weirdoes, then.”

  “I was thinking more of the kindness, and the decency.”

  Something twanged inside her when he said it—something big enough that it kind of stopped her breath a bit. Was he actually suggesting that he didn’t have any kind and decent friends? And more importantly, did he honestly think this was the standard for kind and decent? She’d barely done anything.