by Cara Dee
“You’re drunk! Don’t make me call the police.”
“I fucking dare you,” I barked out. “You’re the one who wanted to talk, so let’s talk. Fucking whore.”
I was met by silence.
I glared at the door and gave it a hard kick.
There was no way she was calling the police on me.
“Angie!” I shouted.
Christ. My chest heaved, and the pain was back. It shot bolts down my arm and made it harder to breathe.
I blinked and scrubbed at my face.
Then the door opened, and I dragged my bleary gaze off the ground.
There she was. She did look frightened.
I removed my shades and pocketed them.
How had I ever found her remotely attractive? We usually had the same shade of brown hair, but she’d dyed hers reddish. She wore too much makeup too. Lipstick that bordered on orange. Dull, brown eyes.
“Just how much did you drink?” she asked coldly.
I cocked my head at her. “I sure as fuck wouldn’t show up at your doorstep sober, so…a lot.” Then I pushed her aside and entered her apartment. Figures, she was done decorating. She’d kept our couch. It was too big for her living room, but whatever. “I’m here to give you closure so you can finally leave me the fuck alone. What do you want?” I turned to face her, almost tripping over the coffee table in the process. “You’re too ugly to get me hard, so I can’t fuck you.”
She flinched as if I’d slapped her. “Why do you always have to be so goddamn mean? You like hurting me, don’t you?”
“You just figured that out? You really are as dumb as you look.” I shook my head. “Hurting you has been the only thing that’s kept me going these past two years. It’s the one thing I’m-I’m gonna miss.” I rubbed my jaw, wondering if I was slurring my speech. I sounded okay to me, but my tongue felt numb.
Angie’s eyes welled up with tears that quickly spilled over.
I didn’t understand her. I genuinely didn’t get why she was trying. She clearly didn’t see why going behind my back to contact my mother had been so horrible, so in her eyes, I was doing the betraying. I was the one who’d wrecked our marriage. I was the guilty piece of shit who’d cheated on her, called her names, and taken my anger out on her. Why did she accept it?
“I will never forgive you for what you did,” I heard myself saying, and my throat started closing up. “I had to see her the other day. My mother—I drove down to see her. She called me a weak dog.”
Angie drew a shaky breath and refocused, her brows pinching together. “You saw your mom?”
That set me off. Without warning. “That’s what I just said, you stupid bitch!” I yelled. Ignoring how I’d startled her, I approached her instead, and I couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of my fucking mouth. “I guess she was in a nostalgic mood because she wanted to reminisce about the times she’d forced Finn and me to play hide-and-seek. And she couldn’t grasp why I hid in the closet, shaking like a leaf, knowing that she was going to turn either my back or Finn’s into a bloody slip ‘n slide with whatever tool she found.”
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” she cried. Not for the first time. It was the same song and dance. “She was so remorseful when I talked to her!”
“That’s what she does!” I growled. “I fucking warned you. I told you she’d fool you. She’s sick—don’t you get that?” I jabbed a finger at her temple and backed her up against a wall. “You don’t get to say that you didn’t know it was that bad, because I told you everything. You knew about the games—you’ve seen my back. You’ve seen this.” I held up my fists. My knuckles. “How can you ever think that deranged woman is worth forgiveness? The first time she put out a cigarette on my skin, I was four years old!”
Angie sobbed her heart out, covering her face with her hands.
I didn’t have an ounce of pity in me.
Her good intentions didn’t matter.
“I told you,” I repeated in a voice I barely recognized. It was all rasp and despair, and I didn’t wanna hear it. “You gave me your word, and you fucked me over. My own wife. The first person I opened up to.” My vision blurred with burning hatred and tears. “You were supposed to be on my side!” Overcome with white-hot rage, I slammed a fist into the wall right next to her.
“Stop!” she cried. “Please stop, Avery!”
“Oh, you want me to listen to you?” I asked. “Because when I asked you to stop, over and over, you didn’t. You didn’t listen to me.”
“I’m sorry,” she choked out.
“No—fuck you.” I grabbed ahold of her shoulders and started shaking her. And at that point, I left my own body. I didn’t know what I was doing. I had no control whatsoever, and I saw two faces in front of me. You were supposed to protect me. I saw my mother. I saw my wife. You were supposed to stand by me. I heard myself yell at them both as I got rougher and rougher—and as I slipped further away from reality.
The indistinct images exploded into shrapnel that pierced through me, and I couldn’t breathe. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was fairly sure I heard sirens.
Fuck my life.
I staggered back and bent over, grasping at my knees. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t force air into my lungs, I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t feel anything other than this gut-wrenching, panic-tinged pain.
“Becker!”
I cast a look at the barred door as an officer pulled out his keys and told me I was free to go.
My cellmate hadn’t sobered up yet and was pretty dead to the world.
“You’re lucky the prosecutor chose to listen to your wife,” the officer told me.
Lucky. Great word to describe me.
I caught sight of my reflection in a mirrored door we walked through on the way out, and I quickly averted my gaze. Thirty-six hours in detention had sobered me up, effectively removing the blinders to my own appearance. I smelled like I hadn’t showered in five days, which was fairly accurate. The shadows under my eyes had never been so pronounced, my clothes were wrinkled and stained, and every muscle in my body protested.
I received an envelope with my car key, phone, shades, wallet, along with a scripted speech on where I could pick up my car, which had been impounded after my arrest.
Fucking wonderful.
Seeing that my phone battery had died, I asked if there was a payphone somewhere.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.” Ethan gave me a once-over before lifting a brow.
“Long story,” I muttered. I climbed into his truck and scrubbed tiredly at my face. “You don’t happen to know a good attorney, do you? I’m divorcing the only one I know.”
I’d fucked myself over properly this time. Given the nature of the arrest, I knew I could face issues at work. But before I informed Phil, the school’s principal, and thankfully, a friend of mine, I wanted an attorney to get started on the process of having my record expunged.
Ethan frowned and side-eyed me as he pulled away from the curb. “I’m not my brothers, Ave. Unlike them, I ask questions. Are you okay?”
“I…” I blew out a breath and rubbed at my temples. “Not really, but I will be. I crossed a line with Angie.” Instead of subjecting me to a firing squad of judgment, he seemed to be waiting patiently for me to continue. It mattered. “I’ve been asking her to leave me alone, but she kept texting and calling. She wanted closure, or whatever the fuck. So, I went over to her place when I shouldn’t have.” I swallowed and let my hands fall to my lap. “We argued, and…I guess I got rough with her. I shook her—grabbed her too hard—and the police were already on their way by then.”
Ethan grunted and stopped at a red light. “She’s all right, I take it?”
I peered out the window on my side and nodded absently. Summer was in full swing, and tourists had invaded our town. “She has some minor bruising on her arms. She came down to speak to the officers and the prosecutor…”
I’d seen her briefly yesterday
. She’d told me she didn’t want to press charges; she tried to explain that she’d just been scared, and I couldn’t exactly blame her. I’d gone too far. Not that it changed anything. I hated her with every fiber of my being, and I told her I didn’t want to see her again. At long last, she appeared to understand.
I explained things as well as I could to Ethan, without going into too much detail about the hell that had brought us here.
Darius and Jake knew my brother and I had grown up in foster care—and that we’d had a less-than-loving mother before then—and Darius had pieced together a few more fractions of the aforementioned hell over the years. I remembered one time, we’d been in the sauna after a heavy workout, and he’d nodded at one of the scars on my back and asked, “Single-tail whip?”
Just a short sentence.
I’d nodded with a dip of my chin.
For months, that barely there conversation had been on my mind, until one night we were at the bar, and I couldn’t prevent myself from saying, “It was just one time. My mother preferred to burn me or use a leather belt.”
Despite it being out of the blue, he hadn’t needed more than a couple seconds to understand what I’d been talking about. He’d inclined his head, said, “I figured it was something like that,” then bought me a drink.
He’d made it clear that he wouldn’t pry, but he was there if I wanted to talk.
I never wanted to talk.
That said, I couldn’t live like this anymore.
“I have to get my shit together.”
“I’m kinda good at helping others with that.” Ethan threw that out there.
I nodded once, appreciating his offer. It was his gym Darius and I sparred at, and he joined us sometimes when we switched things up and lifted weights.
“Any word from Ryan and Jake lately?” I knew we wouldn’t hear from Darius until he was stateside again. He went off the grid completely when he worked.
“Yeah, sure. They try to email once a week, as I’m guessing you know.”
I did. It was a thing in their family. With two autistic sisters who depended on structure, it was vital that no one made any promises they couldn’t keep, because the girls waited by the phone or the computer. Therefore, the “try” in try to email once a week was very important. So Willow and Elise didn’t bank on a response.
“They’re doing all right,” Ethan went on. “Ryan’s gone dark for a while, but he gave us a heads-up.”
Damn it, I was failing Jake. I’d told him I’d be there for his sisters.
“Do you have plans next weekend?” I wondered. “Maybe we could do a barbecue at your folks’ place. I’d like to see if there’s anything I can do for them.”
“Yeah, no, that sounds good.” He nodded. “Ma worries about you sometimes.”
That made me feel uncomfortable and humbled at the same time.
Five
Three days later, I felt marginally better.
I’d changed my cell phone number, I’d finished polishing and treating the hardwood floors in the downstairs of my house, and I had spoken to the principal at school. Phil had assured me that everything would work out fine, but that I’d be on administrative leave until my record had been expunged. And since it was the middle of summer, I wasn’t looking at more than maybe an extra month away from work.
I could live with that. My attorney didn’t foresee any problems.
At the moment, the only niggling worry I had at the back of my mind was that Pipsqueak hadn’t visited in a long time. She’d stopped by the new house twice right around the time I moved in, but then I’d gone off the deep end and hadn’t been outside much.
I talked to Mary yesterday to confirm our barbecue on Saturday, and she’d given me the girls’ numbers—while assuring me they were doing okay.
Still, I kind of missed Pipsqueak’s random musings and brutal honesty.
After covering my shiny floor in cardboard, I decided to take a break. My next task involved tearing down the old molding and fixing the uneven surfaces in the walls. I had the plaster already, but I’d have to go out tomorrow to buy paint.
I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and then stepped outside on my patio in the backyard. I’d been more of a front porch guy in the past, but my new one was too small and had only one step. A couple lawn chairs in the backyard would have to do for now, though I had plans to make something grander here soon. Some of the boards on the deck needed to be replaced.
A handful of kids were playing soccer on the big lawn between my house and the playground. They looked to be around Pipsqueak’s age.
I sent her a quick text as I sat down with my soda.
This is Avery. Your mother gave me your number. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.
I sent a similar message to Willow, who responded very quickly.
I am okay. How are you? I will add your number too.
I hoped she meant it. I’d been around those girls enough to know that they had a few rehearsed replies, one of them being when asked how they were doing. Then again, my response was just as rehearsed.
All good here. Let me know if there’s anything I can do or if your mother needs help.
“Mister!”
My head snapped up. I spied Pipsqueak darting across the playground and the lawn where the kids were playing soccer. I felt the corners of my mouth twist up a little, and I had to admit it was a relief to see her. She was clearly enjoying the summer to the fullest. She showed up in shorts, bare feet, a top that was maybe a little too skimpy, and a ponytail that swished from side to side as she ran.
She was carrying another bottle of lemonade with her.
By the time she reached the gate to my fence, her cheeks were a little flushed, and she smiled widely. “You’re alive again!”
I chuckled quietly. “Was I dead before?”
“It sure looked like it.” She opened the gate and widened her eyes. “I rang the doorbell a few days ago, but you didn’t answer. So, it’s possible I looked in through the kitchen window, and you were asleep on a mattress in the living room.”
I made a face. That couldn’t have been a flattering sight.
Pipsqueak skipped across the lawn and jumped up on the deck to have a seat in the chair next to mine. “I got your text.”
I figured.
“You have to try this one.” She extended the bottle to me. “It’s lemon, papaya, and kiwi.”
That explained the little black seeds swimming at the bottom of the otherwise-clear yellow liquid.
Having declined the previous two lemonades she’d brought with her, I reckoned the least I could do was try this one. I set down my Coke on the floorboards and accepted the bottle, then took a tentative sip.
Oh. I’d expected it to be either too tart or too sweet, but it was good. Really good. I liked kiwi. It was perfectly chilled too.
“You like it, don’t you?” Pipsqueak’s green eyes lit up in anticipation of my answer, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s good,” I admitted.
She beamed. “Keep it. We have twelve more bottles.”
“That’s sweet of you.” I took another swig—okay, two. “How’s your summer treating you? Did you do anything fun for the 4th?”
“We got to Skype with Jake,” she said happily. “We didn’t do a big barbecue, though. Aunt Britt is still upset, and Mom misses the guys.”
I frowned. “Did I miss something about your aunt?”
“She’s getting divorced,” she sighed. “I overheard her telling Mom that my uncle met a bunch of other women.”
I winced and peered down at the lemonade bottle. Part of me felt it hit too close to home, while the other part of me wondered what Britt had done to make her husband cheat. And…I knew that was a fucked-up thought that proved how low I’d sunk.
I didn’t believe in a black-and-white world where, if one was right, the other was automatically wrong. Life was a series of events, and some caused backlashes and reactions, such as my dis
trust of women. I could rationalize and analyze; I wasn’t stupid. My misogyny had its roots in my childhood, and the last two years of my marriage with Angie had made things much worse. But I knew, in theory, that not all women were deceitful little whores. I was just struggling to accept the reality. My genuine feelings for women had been blackened but were nevertheless real, and I honestly didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to go from wondering what Britt had done wrong to merely saying their situation sucked and being betrayed hurt.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d told Pipsqueak to avoid passing judgment, but I did it every time an opinion was voiced by someone with a pair of tits.
Last year had messed me up further, too. Because the majority of the women I’d screwed had been married. I’d purposely pursued women in relationships to see if they’d stay true to their men, or if they’d go home with me.
I wasn’t that fucking charming, and yet they’d let me use them. I wasn’t a kisser, nor was I in it for any tenderness. I wasn’t affectionate for shit. Even so, last year, I’d had a dozen or so bathroom hookups, motel encounters, and bedroom fucks. Why? Why would these women wreck what they had to let the biggest asshole on the planet screw them like dogs?
I cocked my head as something hit me. I lost respect for women when they went near me.
A psychologist would have a field day digging into my brain.
I side-eyed Pipsqueak. She was watching the boys playing soccer.
“Can I ask something, Pipsqueak?”
“Yes,” she stated. “I know that’s a common way to phrase yourself, but it’s still funny to me. Of course you can ask something—you just did. You have a mouth, and you have the ability to speak. It goes without saying that you can ask.”
I smirked faintly to myself and took a sip of the lemonade. “The more formal word ‘may’ was at some point replaced by ‘can’ without altering the meaning,” I explained to her. “So, even if someone asks if they can ask a question, emphasis is on permission, not on the physical ability.”
