Counterpoints Book 3 Page 6

  The curtains were drawn and the only light came from a lamp at the far back.

  All Isabella could see were shelves, a wall full of shelves. And trophies, trophies covered the entire wall, together with awards, pictures and worn racing gear. Pictures were neatly dispersed on one side, some black and white.

  They were in no particular order, but they seemed to have a voice of their own, an important story to tell.

  A boy on a kart, same boy on a podium, a boy crying and hugging his helmet after a race, his cheeks red and covered in dirt. In some pictures, his hair seemed lighter, but those deep, green eyes were impossible to mistaken.

  Christopher, Isabella smiled and her eyes moved ahead, to the pictures that followed.

  There were several men and women in them, too. A very young Carmen – Isabella later realized- and a very handsome, the legend of auto racing, James Taylor.

  It was a collection of everything Christopher was, everything he kept inside and kept away from the spotlight. It was all that he kept to himself, that he jealously held on to. Nothing there had ever been sold to newspapers. Nothing on that wall had ever gone public.

  In the darkest corner of the room stood Christopher, his back to the door, his eyes focused on the target ahead. He was shirtless, Isabella could see his back a little shiny from the sweat.

  He was holding his hands up to his face, curled into fists, covered in white and black leather gloves.

  Isabella stood there near the shelves, not making a sound, deafened by the silence in the room.

  She watched Christopher hit the sack in front of him with his right hand, then his left, each time faster. He slowed down, only to walk around the sack hanging from the ceiling, and then he was back on the target again.

  Fast. Punch after punch. He went down hard, as hard as he could and stopped only to steady the sack, so he could hit it again.

  The place was silent like the night, Christopher’s heavy breathing the only sound in the room.

  Isabella noticed his jaw, how it seemed tense, his face contrived. She stared at his dark unemotional eyes, how focused they were, spaced out.

  Tell me what’s wrong, what’s bothering you so much?

  It wasn’t until he had walked around the sack a second time that he saw Isabella, in her white shorts and top, standing near the door, her arms over her chest, holding on tight to her shoulders.

  Her hair was up, tied behind her head and even from that distance, Christopher could see the sinuous lines of her neck, how they meshed into her small, shoulders. A stray strand of hair dangled down just over her shoulder blade, but it was her worried stare that caught his attention.

  “Hey” she smiled, but it didn’t reach her honey brown eyes. “What are you doing here?” she crossed the room slowly, never looking away from him.

  She walked all the way down to the corner and hesitated, stopping just beside a dark gray armchair, next to one of the bay windows.

  “I couldn’t sleep” he told her, his voice as low as a whisper, like the voice of someone who hadn’t spoken to anyone in a while.

  Isabella’s stare wandered around the big, decorated room and noticed Christopher’s black leather jacket on one of the chairs.

  He followed her stare.

  “Did you go out?”

  “I took a walk around the block, I needed some fresh air” he said and rubbed his chin.

  “Chris” she hesitated “The doctor said to take it slow” Isabella reminded him, her voice gentle.

  “I don’t need to take it slow. I am okay” he said but looked down at his hands, at his gloves again, knowing he was in the wrong.

  The doctor had been pretty straight-forward.

  No strong, physical activity until the checkup in London. It was mandatory. It was for his own good.

  Only two days had gone by since the accident and it was Christopher’s first day without pain killers, but his mind was what kept torturing him. It was all in his head -the ache, the frustration.

  He couldn’t stop thinking.

  No matter how hard he had tried, he just couldn’t stop thinking.

  The crash, his father’s death, the book coming out about their lives.

  How did I let all of this happen? Christopher wondered.

  It seemed as though things had slipped out of his hands and he had lost control of his own fate.

  It was only a matter of months, his story- their story- was about to go public.

  Christopher eyed Isabella and then looked back at the sack. He needed the sack.

  He needed to hit it, he needed the distraction, craved to have a thought free mind for just a night. No nightmares, no resentment, no worries for a night. He needed to shove the negative thoughts back in where they had come from, back in his head.

  “You are not okay” Isabella spoke up, her heart beating faster and faster, while all the tension build up over the past weeks resurfaced.

  The blackmailing, the friction in the team, the accident. It was all too overwhelming, so many words left unsaid. And confusing, so damn confusing.

  “I just needed to clear my mind a little” he avoided her stare and looked down at his gloves. “I’m sorry I woke you up, baby”

  “You didn’t” she shook her head and bit her lip, daring to ask. “What’s going on, Chris?”

  “Nothing. I told you, I am a little tense. I need a distraction” Something that will stop the nightmares, the questions and the doubts in my head, Christopher thought but kept these last words to himself.

  He turned away from her, his eyes were back on the sack.

  The frustrated tone of his voice made Isabella jump a little, but she pressed on knowing it was now or never. She had to know, she had to find out what was wrong.

  “I overheard you speaking to Mr. Jenkins…” she blurted out, knowing it was the moment to come clean, to set the cards on the table.

  I hate lying, I hate secrets.

  Christopher kept his back to her, but eyed her to the side.

  “What did you hear?” his voice calmer now.

  “I didn’t mean to overhear you, I was in the stairwell…it doesn’t matter what I heard. You can’t always block your thoughts, Christopher. You can’t just stop thinking about it and think that problems go away. It doesn’t work that way”

  “It works for me” he snapped, his head turned her way again. “This is how I deal with things, I stop giving them a meaning, a reason to affect me. I delete them from my head”

  “No, you are just pushing them away, but they are still there. They come back for you. Just like your father’s death” Isabella almost mumbled the last part.

  She watched his face change- by just mentioning James- and pressed on.

  “Just let it out, let it all out. Those thoughts can’t haunt you anymore, if you let them out” Isabella took a few steps forward but stopped when she heard him speak again.

  “I said I am okay” his voice was tense but his eyes seemed to soften, seeing Isabella’s stunned face. “Just go back to bed. I’ll join you soon”

  Isabella’s stomach clenched and her mouth dropped open.

  Talking was no use. That conversation was over, it had never even started because Christopher wasn’t listening. He wasn’t going to open up, he wasn’t going to face his troubles.

  Not trusting herself to speak, Isabella turned on her heels and walked out of the room.

  Her chest felt heavy, her stomach hurt.

  Shit, Christopher’s eyes went to the door, just as Isabella disappeared in the hall and cursed under his breath.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  Quickly, he bit the straps off the gloves and tossed them on the floor, while making his way out of the room.

  A glass of water, Isabella moved swiftly to the front of the house, her footsteps a soft hum that broke the silence.

  She walked into the kitchen and let the water run a little before grabbing a clean glass. She watched the water fill it up and got lost in her own thoughts again.<
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  He won’t talk to me, Isabella thought and welcomed the freshness in her mouth, as she took sips from the glass.

  One minute we are so close, the next so far away. Why would he share so much with me- his house, his time, his bed- and then keep me in the dark like this?

  She placed both hands around the sink and leaned a little over the kitchen counter, trying to regain control of herself and to calm her nerves.

  A sound behind her, made Isabella turn in a haste.

  With her back now to the kitchen counter, she took in a breath seeing Christopher walk in the room, his arms lose along his body, his wrists a little red and sore where the gloves had been fastened.

  He walked around the kitchen isle, to where Isabella was standing, slowly, his pace steady, his lips sealed in a thin line.

  “I am sorry” he said and stopped inches from her.

  “I’m going to bed” Isabella started to move but he took her arm and Isabella froze into place.

  “I am sorry”

  “You said that already” she tilted her head to the side and tried to keep her face straight, but her eyes gleamed, as his hand reached up to cup her cheek.

  He wasn’t just telling her he was sorry. Christopher looked sorry.

  Good, she thought for a moment, the tone of his voice from before replaying in her head.

  But then his hand slipped down her neck and he moved in to kiss her lips, slowly but with a certain rush, a certain need.

  His dark eyes stayed open, like he had to see for himself that Isabella was still there with him and he hadn’t messed it all up, by shutting her out moments before.

  Sharing was something he wasn’t used to- he didn’t know how to- but his hands, his body knew exactly he had to keep Isabella by his side.

  She let him kiss her but her hands stayed behind her back, holding on to the kitchen counter.

  “I was a wanker” he mumbled in between kisses.

  “Uno stronzo” “An asshole”

  “Uno stronzo” “An asshole” he nodded and smiled a little to the side, getting lost in her warm, honey brown eyes.

  “It’s not easy for me, to talk about certain things” he began to say.

  “It’s not easy for me either, to be with you and not being able to help” Isabella told him and watched him nod.

  “I know it isn’t. There is so much you don’t know about me. It’s just very hard for me to let certain things, certain issues resurface. There are things I cannot deal with”

  “Yes, you can”

  “No, I can’t Isabella. I don’t want to. I don’t want those memories to come back, I don’t want to feel the pain again” Christopher said cautiously, like he was weighting every word, being careful not to say too much, not to let his ghosts loose.

  “You are strong enough to deal with anything. You can’t keep pushing your worries away. They’ll come back for you”

  “They won’t leave me. Not even If I face them, Isabella. I know there are certain issues I’ll have to live with forever, but I don’t want them to be part of my present. I choose to leave them where they are, somewhere remote in my mind” he held her stare and ran a hand through her hair, his fingers playing with her soft curls.

  Isabella shook her head slightly and closed her eyes, savoring his big, warm hands as they now both travelled to her cheeks. Christopher cupped her face and she couldn’t hold the grudge a second longer. She stood on her toes and reached for his face.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, please Chris. What’s wrong? Let me in, let me help you” Isabella pleaded- her eyes a little watery, her pulse picking up as she spoke.

  It hurt deep inside, all the way down her chest, to see Christopher so troubled and distant.

  She held his stare, in search of an answer, pleading her way into his mind.

  She needs to know about the book. I have to tell her, Christopher repeated in his head, like he had been doing for some time now.

  He searched, in Isabella’s big, honey brown eyes, that courage he seemed to lack, the strength to trust and open up to her. She looked worried and confused, her red lips half parted in anticipation.

  She already knew something was up. She had overheard him and Alfred. And Isabella could see it then, in his worried eyes, the angst. Way beyond his bullshit, his public shield. It was there and she could see it. Because she wanted to know everything about him. Him. Christopher. Not the race driver. Not the son of James Taylor.

  She cares, he realized as he stroked her hair.

  He contemplated telling her, telling her everything.

  How his father’s memory haunted him every day, how images of James’ accident kept coming back to him over the years. Christopher contemplated telling Isabella the mistakes he had made growing up in his father’s shadows.

  Looking into her eyes a moment longer, Christopher thought about telling her how the constant battle to try and beat his father, was slowly consuming all the energy within him.

  Never stopping to think things through, had been his only salvation until now.

  Not only the book was going to put his private life in the hands of the public and the media, it was also going to force him to face his mistakes, all of them, his weakness and his biggest fear- being compared to his father James.

  ‘Like father, like son’, that was the title of the book.

  Memoirs of legend race driver James Taylor and the ultimate ‘son of’ read the subtitle.

  Christopher had seen the cover, ‘the leech’ had been brave enough to email it to him.

  It was a masterpiece of real life and fiction, perfectly crafted into a bestseller.

  The story reeked with private moments of his life, gossip and betrayal.

  Each and every stupid thing he had done in the past, every little crazy idea he had had- his past affairs, his weaknesses, his constant strive to be worthy of his surname- was going to be written in black ink- on paper- pungently tailored with a load of gossip, by one of the best reporters in the field. A person that was not only a professional in the sport, but a person he had met and trusted. And became intimate with.

  What they will see is an arrogant, demanding champion and his trophy wife- a real wizard on track, a perfectionist. And then his son, a sloppy copy of his father, a mare number two, a lady’s man, a tormented soul, a perfectionist, doomed to never succeed because of his nature.

  Just a number two.

  He had to tell Isabella about the book, about who was behind all of it and how it was going to hurt everyone around him. But mostly how it was going to hurt him and his father’s memory.

  How will she see me after I tell her? After I tell her we’ll have the press on our backs?

  Christopher looked down at Isabella in silence, at her perfect half naked body in the dim light and the words just wouldn’t come out.

  What if I lose her? What if she can’t stand all this? The thought crossed his mind a second later.

  “I want to tell you” he murmured. “But not now. I don’t want to talk now”

  He stroked her hair, enjoying her sudden heavy breathing, as his other hand moved down to her shorts.

  Slowly, he traced the length of her thigh, all the way up to her waist, while his eyes contemplated her perfectly round, smooth hips.

  “You are so beautiful” he mumbled under his breath, looking up at her. “I don’t want to think, I don’t want to sleep…I just want to touch you all night”

  He kept his eyes on her a moment longer, as his strong arms wrapped around her back and he lifted her up on the kitchen counter.

  Isabella gasped, her legs tightening around his waist, while Christopher’s hands moved to her shoulders in an instant, pulling down the straps over her arms.

  “Kiss me” she moaned, her cheeks on fire, while her hands travelled to his waist.

  She unbuttoned his dark pants in a haste, the fire in her stomach spreading quickly across her entire body.

  Kiss me all night, her eyes begged him then.

 
His lips pressed hard against her mouth, harder as he cupped her behind and guided her closer to him.

  Closer, he thought, I want you closer.

  He let his pants drop to the floor, his hands lingering around her breasts.

  No bra, he realized and felt his stomach clench, easing her out of her tank top.

  In the dark, Christopher moved down to kiss Isabella’s full round breasts, while his hands explored every single inch of her skin.

  “I want you” he groaned and grabbed Isabella’s leg, holding it up, over his shoulder.

  “Chris” she gasped, as her body shivered with pleasure, her fingers clawing behind his back.

  Her heart was racing, it hummed inside her chest begging for more.

  “More” she whispered and saw a light cross his eyes.

  She saw it in his stare, she felt it how he was touching her, how his hands craved her skin.

  He too wanted more.

  We are not talking. Talking is what we should be doing, her head reminded her, but in a way it was as If they were.

  Their bodies were speaking the only language they knew- a touch, a whispered word in between kisses, the pressure on each other’s skin, the sparks every time their lips brushed.

  He watched her in awe, as she tilted her head back in delight, his thumb over her soft, red lips just as Isabella opened her mouth to let out a moan.

  Their bodies swayed in the dark silence, their breathing the only sound in the room.

  I can’t get enough of her, he thought and his hand went behind her head, through her hair, as he breathed in deep and took in her incredible, sweet scent.

  He held on tighter, tight to her body and to that feeling – the feeling of getting lost in someone else and wanting to never be found again.

  “I want to lose myself in you” he breathed out and lifted her up a little roughly.

  Isabella’s body quivered in his arms like never before, as a soft moan escaped her parted lips.

  He turned around – her legs safely wrapped around his body- and lowered her onto the floor in a haste. He took hold of one her wrists and pinned it down on the hard wood floor.

  Isabella’s breathing quickened, while her free hand snaked up his abs, her eyes lost into his. Their noses almost touched, for how close they were then.