3: The Pain Exposed

So here it is, the final part of Boyd's master plan. A luxury hotel room in a luxury hotel in the very centre of London. Which, Grace feels, might have been entirely too predictable had it not turned out to be two rooms instead of just one. For while she finds herself in the largest, most expensive and sumptuous room she thinks she's ever seen, Boyd is at the far end of the long, plush corridor in a room that's hardly basic, but doesn't remotely compare to hers. Eve's part in the subterfuge becomes clear when Grace finds a neatly-packed suitcase full of her own things duly waiting for her. Someone, maybe Spencer, maybe not, has sprung the lock on Grace's front door in the short time between her leaving home and the others arriving at the hotel, giving Eve unrestricted access to her home and her possessions. And she knows full well the guilty party wasn't Boyd, because he was in the back of the taxi that collected her.

Grace sits on the edge of the huge bed and looks at the room, at the huge bouquet of flowers, at the suitcase of her things. She thinks about the evening and of how very special it has been to her; how much it means to her. She thinks about the unprecedented amount of trouble Boyd's gone to for her, and that's what finally brings tears to her eyes. They are not tears of happiness, but tears of sudden, bitter anger and regret. Because at heart he's such a good man, but so very, very blind. It hurts unbearably to finally realise that she's been deliberately fooling herself for far longer than she ever wants to admit; to realise that despite all the walls she's laboriously built against her unrequited feelings, she's actually even more in love with Peter Boyd now than she ever was. The exposed truth is raw and indescribably painful, and when the inevitable quiet tap on the door finally comes she is already crying without reserve.

Typically, Boyd doesn't wait long for the invitation that's never issued. After a second knock, he simply bowls straight into the room still looking insouciant and faintly smug. But he immediately stops dead in his tracks and simply stares at her, his expression changing rapidly to complete bewilderment and then to deep concern. He inquires, "Grace…?"

All she can do is bravely attempt to defend herself against everything that hurts so very much. There's no other choice. It's difficult, almost impossible, but somehow she swallows hard, forces a wan smile and manages, "Sorry… just a little overcome by everything, that's all…"

Boyd can be remarkably obtuse. But unfortunately not on this occasion. He says, "Bullshit. What's the matter? Grace…?"

He's already starting to bristle on her behalf, and that hurts her too, because he's so fiercely protective, and yet so extraordinarily oblivious to the real cause of her tears. Even after such a long association he doesn't seem to be fully aware of just how well she understands him and his motives. He's a thoroughly alpha male, and no-one ever gets away with trespassing on his territory. He'd valiantly tear anyone apart for her without a single thought and they both know it – but entirely for his own reasons, none of which have anything to do with all the pain and misery Grace has been desperately pretending belong firmly in the past. There's nothing she can say to him. Nothing at all. The old cliché is right – love really does hurt. She is not by any means a weak woman – not at all – but she's suffered far too stress and trauma just recently and all the contradictory emotions of the night are simply too much for her battered defences. Defeated, she puts her head back in her hands and continues to cry, fully well aware that he won't be able to cope with it at all.

She waits for the predictable loud bang of the door as he exits. Few men can slam a door shut with as much frustrated vehemence as Boyd can.

It doesn't happen.

He moves so quietly she doesn't know he's there until he crouches down in front of her and takes her hands, gently pulling them away from her face. The elegant silk bowtie is missing, she realises distantly, and the top couple of buttons of his pristine dress shirt are undone. Better to stare fixedly through the tears at that small area of exposed skin than look up and see the utter confusion she knows will be reflected in his dark eyes.

His voice is soft and low, carefully and calmly pitched somewhere in the deeper registers. "Grace…?"

She shakes her head, incapable of any words. But she tightens her fingers around his in a desperate grip of pure, unadulterated misery. How can he possibly not know…? How on earth can he have absolutely no idea…?

"Oh, Jesus Christ… Grace…" he says quietly, and there's a note she doesn't know cutting hard through his tone. Something that has nothing to do with anger or impatience. Something that's bewildered and wounded, and maybe even a little insecure. He sounds utterly crushed as he eventually asks, "What the fuck did I do wrong this time?"

It's the haunted, resigned note in his voice that finally makes Grace steel herself. She raises her head, looks him in the eye. She does not see a happy man. Not at all. It's the ironic tragedy of the situation that makes her bold enough to free one hand and reach out to stroke his hair. A tiny, compassionate gesture of… what? Grace isn't sure. But perhaps stupidly and misguidedly loving the wretched, challenging man can be utilised as a strength as well as inwardly despised as a foolish weakness? From somewhere she finds some words. They are not the best words, but she means them wholeheartedly. Not removing her hand, she all-but whispers, "Nothing. You've done nothing wrong."

"I don't understand," Boyd says, simply and honestly.

It's a senselessly dangerous thing to do, but Grace lets her fingertips slowly trace down his face from cheekbone to jaw. She thinks she could walk away, turn her back on him for a decade or more and still be able to accurately describe every contour of his face; every line, every tiny imperfection. The smoothness of his skin tells her he's shaved twice that day, morning and evening. It nearly breaks her heart, the way he's been so incredibly meticulous in everything he's done, not missing out a single detail in his determination to give her exactly what he promised – the perfect evening with her closest, dearest friends. She lets a single finger continue to the point of his chin, feeling warm skin give way to the soft bristle of his goatee beard. Boyd doesn't say a word, just watches her with a thousand questions in his eyes.

Letting her hand fall limply away, Grace shakes her head again. "I'm so, so sorry."

"For what?" he asks her. He's so intense, so solemn, and so uncharacteristically patient. Like her, he's taken some brutally hard knocks in the last couple of years, and despite the pain maybe they've helped mellow him, just a little. Or maybe, beneath it all, beneath the irascibility, the brusqueness and the bravado, he always has been a surprisingly gentle and compassionate man. Well, of course he has. Isn't that exactly why she slowly and inevitably fell in love with him in the first place, despite her better judgement?

She's trapped by her own weakness, still firmly caught in the same dilemma she naïvely thought she'd escaped a long time ago. Even now Boyd still can't seem to see the truth of how she feels about him – and she's simultaneously far too proud and far too insecure to baldly confront him with it. Deadlock. It all hurts so damned much and the only thing she can do is continue to endure it as stoically as possible. It's not fair, not at her age. She shouldn't hate him for it, but somewhere deep inside her a tiny part of her does. Not as much as she hates herself. Despises herself. Love and hate, it's all the same in the end – all just worthless passion.

The perfect evening is lying in ruins, and Boyd is still watching her in strained bewilderment. Grace reaches deep into herself, finds some of the fortitude that has always put steel into her soul and she says quietly, "It doesn't matter."

"Grace – "

"It's nothing," she insists, calm and stalwart as she can manage. If he really can't work it out for himself…

Boyd sighs, a heavy, despondent sound, and evidently decides he's fighting a losing battle. He stands up slowly and gazes steadily down at her for a long moment before gruffly asking, "Are you going to be all right?"

"I am," Grace assures him. It's almost certainly a lie, but she even manages to feign a slight smile. "I'm just incredibly tired, Boyd."

"Hm," he says, not sounding remotely convinced, but something about his expression tells Grace she's winning.

She's lucky. She finally manages to persuade him to leave the room just seconds before all the bitter tears start again in earnest.

-oOo-

cont...