Vice: Sins of Seven

by René, Dani

  “I’m guessing there will be a lot to do there.”

  “Yeah,” he responds, raking his fingers through his hair, not meeting my stare in the darkness. He’s closed off. Shut himself out from the world, and I’m part of that world. My heart cracks with every word.

  I want to hold him, tell him it will be okay, but I know that’s not what he needs. Oliver is a man who wants tough love. So, I don’t say I’m sorry, or I’m here for you. Instead, I sit and watch him in the darkness.

  When your parents are dying, it’s never easy to push it aside and steel yourself from the pain of knowing they’re no longer going to be around. Even if they didn’t get along, there must be some heartache that’s bothering him.

  I look away, watching how the moon hangs high in the inky sky. “So, you’re going home?” I try to sound light-hearted, hoping he’ll invite me to go along with him, for support, but he doesn’t.

  “I am home.”

  “You know what I mean.” I finally turn to face him. Even with the stars and the moon, his face is shrouded in shadows. I want to see his eyes, to look deep into them and see his soul. He's clearly hurting, but his admission has nothing to do with it. “Your father is dying.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” He shoots up, his hands on either side of him, gripping the edge of the mattress. I didn’t mean to start a fight, but I need him to see how his handling of this situation is going to live with him forever. Guilt is an emotion that slowly poisons.

  “I’m just—”

  “Chance, I know what you’re doing. And I respect you for pushing me into the direction of wanting me to feel the sadness of saying goodbye to the man who made my life hell, but I can’t.” His words shock me silent. “This is my life, and you’re not a part of it,” he bites out, and I know I shouldn’t let his anger affect me, but I can’t stop it shattering my heart.

  “I see.” Rising from the bed, I pull on my slacks and shrug on my shirt, knowing I need to get out of here, and I need to do it quickly.

  “Wait, I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did,” I interrupt him. Once my shoes are on, I make my way to the nightstand where my phone and wallet are lying along with my car keys.

  “I need you in bed with me. Is that so much to ask?” His question jars me, the back and forth emotions are giving me whiplash. I want to be there for him, but how can I when each time I get close enough, he pushes me away?

  “Yes. It is. You just told me I’m not a part of your life. I accept your sadness and your heartbreak, but Oliver, I don’t accept your anger and rage.” I stalk around the bed. Leaning in, I plant a kiss on his scruffy cheek and offer him a smile, even though I know he can’t see it. “I would’ve always been there for you until you chased me away. I didn’t expect it to come so soon.” My words are merely a whisper, but they’re a confession. And I know for a fact he’s heard me.

  Oliver doesn’t look at me. His mouth moves on his own admission. “This is ridiculous. I’m not chasing you out of my house.”

  “Take care of yourself,” I tell him easily, knowing there’s not much else to say. We’re done. I can’t fight a losing battle, and he doesn’t have to take every moment to tell me to leave. I’ll do him a favor and walk out with my pride intact.

  “Chance, get in bed.”

  “I have to leave,” I respond, trying to ease the emotion in my tone.

  “Jesus, I don’t have the energy for this bullshit, Chance. Just fucking obey me.” His roar reverberates throughout the room, and I feel it shaking the walls of his home.

  Shaking my head, I speak into the shadows. “You don’t own me, Oliver.”

  He shoves the sheet aside, his feet landing on the floor, and then he’s behind me. “I said. Get. In. The. Bed.” With every word, he annunciates it with frustration and anger, and that’s not the man I love. He’s turned into someone I no longer recognize. At this moment, he’s not Oliver, not the man who bestowed pleasure on me.

  “My father is dying. Do you think—?”

  “I’m sorry, Oliver. But like you said, it’s your life,” I tell him. “There’s nothing more I can do for you now.” This is the moment I need to decide if I’m willing to play these games or if it is too much. I cast a glance his way, meeting his eyes that are a full-on raging storm. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Do what?” he questions, but he knows what I mean. It’s there, an unsaid confession of how I feel. He turns his head to look at me. “Don’t love me, Chance.” His command makes my chest tighten with emotion. Feelings I should’ve kept to myself, and I realize at this moment, Oliver will never change. He’ll never love me, and I make my decision.

  Nodding, I turn and walk toward the door. My hand is on the doorknob, but I stop for a moment, inhaling his spicy cologne that hangs heavily in the air. My heart believed what Cayleigh said was right. That Oliver does love me in his own way. Perhaps saying the words would change that. Maybe it will force him to admit how he feels, but it may also push him away. And that’s the last thing I want to do. So, instead of voicing my emotions, what’s in my heart, I stay silent.

  Pondering what he said, I close my eyes and blink away the tears. I’ve never cried over anyone, never let my pain show, but right now, in the dark, I know I’m safe from him seeing just how he’s breaking me.

  “You’ll be alone forever if you don’t let someone in.” And with that, I shut the door and make my way to the exit. As soon as I’m out in the fresh night air, I allow the pain to grip me fully, and that’s when the tears finally fall. And for the first time in my life, my heart is breaking. Wiping my tears away, I slip into my car and leave the house behind, but I know I’ll never leave the man behind because he is ingrained in my heart. He’s embedded himself so deep that I know there’s no way I’ll ever get him out.

  He runs within my veins, and he’s burrowed right into the very soul of me.

  The man is like a goddamn furnace at times, even though his gaze is like an ice-cold snowstorm. Contradictions are part of who he is; a sadist who cares for justice.

  A man who can’t love, but receives it anyway.

  The drive isn’t long, and by the time I’m home, I step into the empty apartment, savoring the darkness. I grab a beer from the fridge and settle on the sofa. Flicking on the television, I stare mindlessly at the screen. There’s nothing of importance on, but it allows my mind to numb from the thoughts that want to drag me into the depths of my pain.

  The silence is gone, and that’s what I need. I sip my drink, slowly, as the people on screen talk about sales of products and some other trash as I flick through the channels. I always knew Oliver was angry at life, but this is a newfound rage I saw in him tonight.

  And as loudly as I have the sound on the TV, it can’t drown out his words.

  This is my life, and you’re not a part of it.

  This is my life, and you’re not a part of it.

  This is my life, and you’re not a part of it.

  Chapter 23

  Oliver

  The coffee drips slowly into the mug as I watch it. Last night, I wanted to admit I loved him, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. As much as I want to say those words, fear holds me back. And in my fear, I pushed him away, more so than I have ever done before.

  At first, it didn’t bother me, but now as I get ready to drive eight hours north to a small town in Minnesota, I know I made a mistake. This time, I’m not sure it’s something I can fix. Shaking my head, I fill the travel mug and screw the lid on tight.

  Once everything is packed, I take it out to my SUV, which I hardly ever use. I decided to drive to clear my head, but also, I think deep down, I’m hoping he’ll be dead by the time I arrive. Most people would think that’s cold-hearted, but I know the truth about who my father is, what he is.

  Going home has never been part of my plan. When I walked out, it was forever. When I said goodbye to the man who hurt me more than anyone ever has, I didn’t expect to ever look into his steel
y gray eyes again. I look so much like him, but I’m nothing like the judgmental prick.

  Yes, my father is one of those men who has the money, the titles, and you’d think he’d be happy. But he hates everyone who doesn’t fit into his perfect mold. Whether it’s your race, sexual preference, or even your job, he would sneer, throw insults, and berate you for being who you are.

  I lost respect for him a long time ago. And seeing him on his deathbed won’t change that, of that I am sure. I lock up the house, slip into the driver’s seat, and gun the engine. It’s time to go. With one last glance at my phone, I take note that I’ve only really had four hours of sleep. I laid awake thinking of Chance, wanting to call him to apologize, but like I said, I’m an asshole.

  Focusing on the road, I take the highway that leads toward the I-90, which will take me out of the city. With the buildings whizzing by me, I think back to my father. As much as I hated him, he also made me see what I was doing with my life. He was the one who forced me to wake up from the stupor of pain I’d been living in after the horror I’d faced and move on to better things—more than I’d been doing when I was an immature seventeen-year-old who didn’t have any ambition.

  “Oliver,” his voice rings through the door, and I know he’s angry. He’s never hit me, never laid a hand on me, but he’s emotionally attacked me, and I can always remember the words that have spewed from his mouth. I’m lying on my bed, not wanting to go to school.

  Yes, I admit freely how lazy I am. My mother always taught me sloth was the way of the devil—idle hands and all that shit. But I didn’t care. I am who I am, and if he can’t accept it, too bad. I’ll live on my own. My father can pay my way for the rest of my life. It’s what he should do after making my childhood shit.

  “Oliver, get the fuck out of your bedroom,” he growls, banging on my bedroom door like a crazy person. I know why he’s angry. I should’ve gone to work yesterday. He got me a job down at the local store, but it’s not something I want to do.

  “I’m busy!”

  “Fuck busy, and get your ass out of that godforsaken bedroom, or I’m breaking the door down,” he threatens, and I know he’ll do it as well. Swiftly, I’m off the bed and pulling open the door before he can bang the fucking thing down. “You’re a disgrace. People think there’s something wrong with you. Perhaps there is.”

  “Yes, maybe I’m just not your son. Maybe I have more to give in life than be a fucking emotional punching bag for you.” My words are vicious, but that’s all he’s ever given me. My life has been filled with insults and curse words. I’m seventeen, and I don’t need this bullshit.

  “Listen to me closely, son,” he spits the word with venomous intent. “Lazing around all day will never get you out of this one-horse town. Actually, it will ensure you sit here in this dank shithole for the rest of your life.” His sneer is cold. His eyes — the same color as mine — shine with rage. And that’s when my father utters the words that snap me out of whatever I’d been wallowing in for years. “You’ll never make anything of yourself.”

  Swinging my bedroom door shut in his face, I turn to my closet. There are clothes strewn everywhere. My floor is littered with takeout containers, dirty underwear, and smoked out joints.

  I race to the folding door of my closet, shove it open, and pull out a large backpack, which my dad bought me when I turned sixteen. He was convinced it would allow the traveling bug to hit me. You’d think we were poor the way my bedroom looks, but my father, a lawyer who travels into the city for work almost every day, provides a beautiful house, expensive clothes, and enough food in the kitchen to feed an army.

  I’ve lived with him all my life. My mother died when I was eleven, ensuring I’d never get to see her face age, never be held by her when I was sad, or even hear her voice telling me she loves me. Women are nothing more to me than objects. I’d never loved a woman before, never allowed any of the girls at school near me because I learned early on, they just leave. What’s the point in allowing people into your life who aren’t going to stick around?

  Shoving clothes into my backpack, I ignore my father’s muttering from the other side. Even though he’s angry and wants me to come out of the room, he’ll never walk in. He may threaten me, bang on the door with his fist, but he has never once over the years forced his way in.

  Shoving clothes into the bag, I pick up the jeans, T-shirt, and the socks I hid away. I put them at the back of the closet so they’d never see the light of day again. It’s been years since I laid eyes on them, and now that I look down at the torn and ripped material, I realize I’m not over what happened.

  How can I ever be over it?

  A shudder ripples through me when I think about it. The cold fear that seeps into my bones when I recall the night I changed forever is ever-present, and as much as I try to force it down, there’s something that still holds me. Memories, images clear as day appear in my mind’s eye. Closing my eyes, I think about what happened that night.

  “No,” I whisper to myself, hoping he doesn’t hear me. I can’t deal with his cold words right now. I don’t want to. Shoving away the image that’s fresh in my mind, I force it down as much as I did that night. I push it to the back of my mind, locking it in a box that will never be opened again.

  It’s time to take charge of my life. Even though I couldn’t do it years ago, I’ll make something of my life and prove my father wrong. In all my stubbornness, I know I’ll be able to look back on this time and be proud of the man I will become.

  Once I’m packed, I pull open my bedroom door to meet my father’s gaze.

  “Where are you going?” He sounds more shocked than I feel. I’m nervous, scared of what I’m about to do, but I know it’s the only way.

  “I need money. I’m going to Chicago.”

  He guffaws with malice in the sound. That’s one thing I learned about my father. Even when he doesn’t want to do it, he’s angry and does things out of spite. When I obey him, he sneers; when I don’t obey him, he tries to hurt me with words. Either way, he enjoys being an asshole.

  “And what are you going to do there?”

  “Make something of myself.” I shrug, not caring anymore about his snide remarks. “You said I couldn’t. I’m going to prove you wrong.”

  “Oh really?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “And you think people are going to want to hire some pansy who can’t even clean his room?”

  His dig at my sexual orientation isn’t new. When he saw me making out with the one boy I thought was cool, he chased him away and insulted me nonstop for months. A hotshot lawyer couldn’t be seen with a son who’s gay. But what my father doesn’t know is I’m bisexual. I found out a long time ago when I kissed Karen Higgins down the road and then came home to jerk off at the memory. And when I kissed Tiago Valera, I did the same thing.

  “Fine. I’ll pay for you to go into the city, to get into college, but that’s it. You’re on your own. When you turn twenty-one, I’m done. You’ll be your own man,” he tells me. That’s all I needed him to say. Mainly because I didn’t have a cent to my name otherwise, and if there’s something my father would love to see, it's his only son fail.

  He never once asked why I was so closed off as a teenager. He never once wanted to know who I was as a person. My father was more concerned about his career, about the people who could make him more prominent and ensure he earned more money.

  I promised myself when I moved to Chicago I’d never be like him. Slowly, over the years, whenever I felt myself slip into that part of myself, I’d work my way out of the darkness that always engulfed me. And that’s where I found my solace in BDSM.

  The control allowed me to focus on something outside myself. The memories from my past didn’t have a hold over me anymore, and I could be Oliver, the man who built his empire from nothing.

  Even though my father paid for my college, once I was done and graduated, I told him to keep his money. I used him as much as he uses people on a daily basis. When I
’d first gotten the call that he was sick, I spoke to him. I felt sad that he couldn’t tell me himself, but I knew why. When I walked out, I became nothing to him.

  My fingers tighten on the steering wheel when I recall that day with such clarity it’s as if I’m living in the moment right this minute.

  “Dad.” My voice is husky with emotion. “They told me. The nurse just hung up. Why didn’t you tell me?” As much as I want to hate him, I still feel something for him. That niggling of emotion I long shoved away.

  “I’m fine.” His anger I’m used to, so his response bitten out is normal to me. “I don’t know why you’re so bothered. You walked out of the house to live in the big fancy city.”

  “You paid for me to live here. You told me to leave and make something of my life. I did that.” I’m angry at his accusation that I wanted to be here. He never showed me an inclination of affection. He never asked me to stay. When I walked out of the house without so much as an “I’ll miss you,” I knew I’d never be able to walk back into his house without fear of being admonished.

  “You’re no son of mine. You’re just like your mother, leaving us alone, leaving me alone to live with your shit.” That’s when it all clicks. He was angry all my life because he saw too much of her in me. The moment I was born, I was hers, not his. And if I didn’t look as much like him as I do, I’d wonder if I’m even his son.

  “Dad, you know I needed—”

  “What? To live in the city so you can fuck any man that comes along? It’s disgusting, Oliver. When I wanted a son, I wanted a man, not some fucking pansy.”

  My blood burns as it thrums through my veins. My hold on the phone is so tight I’m expecting it to shatter in my hand, but it doesn’t because I allow myself to feel his anger. My eyes shut tight as I see white sparks behind my lids like a fireworks show.