Bad Behavior [Confuct Series #2]

by Jennifer Lane

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” Sophie pleaded. “What did I do wrong?”

  “It’s not you,” Grant replied softly, looking down. He snuck a glance at Hunter and quickly averted his eyes when the psychologist met his gaze. “I can’t talk about it. Please.”

  “I’m lost,” Hunter said, his brows furrowed. “How about you start from the top, Sophie?”

  Glancing nervously at Grant, who still wouldn’t meet her eyes, she took a deep breath.

  “Grant was out on a run. I was getting dressed after my shower when I heard Ben making some noise in the kitchen. I went in to help him with breakfast, and we got to talking…”

  When she didn’t continue, Hunter prompted, “What were you discussing?”

  “His mom called.”

  She glanced at Grant, who seemed to be paying better attention now, then back at Hunter.

  “I guess Ashley wants Ben to come home. Anyway, Ben started asking me about my parents, and somehow Logan’s name came up.”

  Grant was definitely paying attention now, and he appeared increasingly distressed.

  “Ben kept asking me how I knew Logan, and I didn’t want to tell him, but he…he found out Logan was involved in my arrest.”

  “You told him?” Grant glared at her. “That was incredibly stupid. What were you thinking?”

  “I—I didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t lie to him!”

  “Now wait a minute, Grant,” Hunter said. “Did you ask Sophie not to tell Ben about Logan?”

  He looked incredulous. “I thought it would be obvious! Here’s my nephew, grieving the death of his father, and you go and tarnish Logan’s name even more? Why the hell did you do that?”

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie said, beginning to cry. It was too much for Ben and Grant to be angry with her in the same day. “I didn’t know what to tell him,” she sobbed.

  “Ben was going to find out the truth some day,” Hunter pointed out.

  Grant turned his glare toward the psychologist. “Why are you taking her side?”

  Hunter was taken aback by Grant’s fury. “Because I think you’re being unfair to Sophie. She’s not responsible for what Logan did to her. Ben’s not responsible for his father’s actions either. He’s sixteen—he can handle the truth. He’ll get through this.”

  Grant continued to breathe heavily, his mouth set in a tight line.

  Hunter studied him carefully, wondering what had brought about this sudden, intense anger. “Grant, Sophie said you froze when you came into the kitchen. Why did you freeze?”

  Abruptly Grant’s body language shifted from fury to fear.

  “Why wouldn’t you talk to Sophie this morning?” Hunter asked.

  Through her tears Sophie watched Grant’s face crumple as he scooted his body away from her, into the corner of the sofa. She could hear his breathing speed up, reminding her of his choking gulps for air as he emerged from his nightmares.

  “I can’t,” Grant mumbled, feeling overwhelmed by flashes in his brain—Ben’s devastated blue eyes, sliced tomatoes on a plate, a shiny brass buckle, the smell of bacon grease…

  “What do you see, Grant?” Hunter leaned forward and peered into Grant’s engulfed aquamarine eyes. “You’re having flashbacks? Was a memory triggered this morning?”

  Sophie and Hunter watched with bated breath as Grant curled into himself.

  “No,” he moaned, “I can’t.” His body shuddered, and he felt adrenaline course through his veins, freezing him in a state of utter agitation. The stinging sensation had returned to his backside.

  “You’re safe here,” Hunter encouraged. “He can’t hurt you anymore. You can talk to us when you’re ready.”

  For several moments the only sound in the office was Grant’s labored breathing, and thick tension reverberated through the room. Sophie’s throat burned with tears, watching him suffer.

  Finally he broke.

  “I was seven…”

  Grant ran into the house, breathing hard. Logan had sent him to fetch the football, and Grant bit his lip as he fearfully studied the foyer’s closet door. He was still scared as hell of that closet, but Logan and their neighbor were waiting for him, and he couldn’t return empty-handed. Nervously he opened the door, kneeling and groping for the ball among the boots and other objects on the closet floor. He froze in place when he heard a commanding voice booming from the kitchen.

  “Grant, is that you? Vieni qui!”

  Oh God. A sick feeling of dread coated his stomach. When his father spoke in Italian, he was typically drunk—drunk and full of rage. What was he doing home in the middle of the afternoon? Obediently following the order, Grant gulped and stood, walking on shaky legs into the kitchen.

  Enzo lounged against the stove, cradling a tumbler in one hand. His glassy black eyes bored into his seven-year-old son as the boy gingerly came to stand near the kitchen table. Gesturing toward the counter, Enzo slurred, “Who the fuck left this messss?”

  Glancing at the counter covered by an open bag of bread, sliced tomatoes on a plate, half a head of lettuce, and greasy bacon strips congealing on a paper towel, Grant’s eyes widened. Had Logan forgotten to put away their lunch? Their mother had asked him to do it before she went out to run errands.

  “I—I don’t know,” Grant answered in a trembling voice.

  With an exasperated sigh, Enzo set his drink down and began unbuckling his belt. “Can’t this goddamn family function when I’m not here?”

  The whooshing sound of the belt sliding out of the loops sliced through the air, sending Grant’s heart rate soaring.

  The father’s words were menacing: “Clean it up.”

  Without hesitating, Grant scrambled to the counter and had begun scooping up the lettuce when the belt striped his bottom. He almost dropped the lettuce from the force of the blow—and the searing pain burning his backside—but he managed to hold on, frantically taking the plate of tomatoes in his other hand.

  “Wait!” his father commanded, causing Grant to halt once again. “I changed my mind. I want you to make me a sssandwich.”

  Grant looked over his shoulder, momentarily confused by the change in orders, which earned him another lick of the belt.

  “O-O-Okay!” the boy cried, unsteadily reaching to the cabinet above to extract a plate. His trembling hands reached into the bag of bread, drawing out two pieces and setting them on the plate.

  His stomach dropped as he realized he was missing one ingredient. “Do you want m-m-mayonnaise?”

  “Certamente,” Enzo replied.

  Grant bit his lower lip as he reluctantly turned and walked toward the refrigerator, a path that unfortunately drew him closer to the belt-wielding drunk by the stove. Enzo managed to whip the leather at least five times before Grant returned to the counter, tightly gripping the jar of mayonnaise and attempting to prevent gathering tears from sliding down his cheeks. The belt stung so badly! His father’s drunken aim was off, and Grant already felt bruises forming on his stomach and thighs from the wayward tip of the belt.

  As Grant unscrewed the lid, panting with fear, Enzo un-looped the belt from around his hand. Enzo was quiet for a few moments, and Grant could hear the clank of the gleaming brass buckle against the metal oven as it hung in his father’s hand.

  “I made sandwiches for my father once too,” Enzo wistfully recalled. “I was about your age then.”

  Grant tried not to make a sound as he began assembling the sandwich, and he waited for the next crack of the belt. Enzo’s voice seemed different now: not as deep, less confident, and the slur all but gone.

  “I brought the sandwiches down to my father,” he said. “He and his men were in the basement. But they didn’t want the sandwiches right away. They wanted me to do something else first.”

  Arranging the bacon strips on the bread, Grant had trouble breathing. His father had never spoken so many words to him at once.

  “There was a man down there…tied up, tied to a chair, and, uh, gagged. His eye
s—brown eyes—they locked on me. His eyes were terrified, and I couldn’t look away after I set down the sandwiches. But my dad and his buddies didn’t even notice the guy as he writhed in the chair, scraping it on the basement floor.”

  The belt continued to dance in Enzo’s hands, turning and twisting. The buckle clanged a couple more times.

  “Then my dad told me he had a job for me. And that’s when he brought out the gun.”

  Grant held his breath and disobediently halted his sandwich production, but Enzo didn’t seem to notice. His story continued to spill out of him.

  “He said, ‘Time for you to become a man. Shoot him three times.’ Then he put the gun in my hands.” Enzo laughed derisively. “I was such a fucking pussy back then. I begged my dad, ‘Don’t make me do it. Please, don’t make me do it. Please, don’t make me pull the trigger.’”

  Utterly horrified, Grant shook so badly he could barely tear a lettuce leaf, but thankfully he’d stopped crying.

  “My dad wasn’t having any of it—there was no way he’d let me defy him in front of his friends. He started unbuckling his belt, and I knew what waited for me if I didn’t do what he said. I shouted, ‘I’ll do it! I’ll shoot him!’ The guy in the chair looked even more terrified, and he started moaning, straining against the ropes. I held that cold metal in my hand, and I cocked the trigger…”

  Grant turned to face his father.

  Suddenly Enzo seemed to break out of his trance, and his cold black eyes narrowed at his younger son. “Did I say you could stop?” he growled.

  His eyes as round as the plate he’d retrieved from the cupboard, Grant attempted to back up but the counter held him fast. Fear choked him, and he couldn’t get out one word.

  Enzo swiftly interrupted the horrible silence by lunging forward, grasping Grant’s skinny elbow and spinning him around, wielding the long belt high above his head before whipping it down with vicious lashes.

  Grant screamed; he’d never felt such intense pain before. Through his terror he realized the thumping clang he heard was the wasp-like sting of the belt buckle, which was normally held in his father’s hand during thrashings but this time was free at the working end of the belt. The pain took his breath away, and Grant squeezed his eyes shut, beyond the point of begging or sobbing.

  Finally Enzo stumbled out of the kitchen, following a path blurred by his own tears.

  Grant stood alone in the kitchen, rooted in place, feeling warm, sticky blood flow down the inside of his trousers. This day would scar him for the rest of his life.

  “Lo came to find me there in the kitchen later,” Grant said in the same robotic voice he’d used to tell the entire story, still looking down at his feet. “I hadn’t moved an inch. He kept asking me what had happened, until he saw blood on my shoe. I fought him when he tried to take my pants down, but he was stronger than me, and when he saw what my dad had done, he started crying. He never cried. I hated to hear him cry, all because of me.”

  Finally daring to look up, Grant was seized by guilt when he saw tears streaming down Sophie’s face. Though his cheeks were dry, Hunter appeared equally distressed.

  Clearing his throat, Hunter quietly asked, “How are you feeling, Grant?”

  He gave a weary sigh. “Tired.”

  Hunter gestured to Grant’s curled-up body position, his knees near his chin with his arms wrapped around his legs. “How about you put your feet on the floor?” he suggested.

  Giving the psychologist a strange look, Grant complied. “Yes, sir.”

  Sophie finally found her voice, which was throaty from crying.

  “Is that what you’ve been having nightmares about, Grant? You wake up saying ‘Don’t make me do it.’ Is that what you’re remembering?”

  He nodded.

  “That was an awful story your father told you,” Hunter said. “Did he, um, did your father ever make you pull the trigger, Grant?”

  “I don’t think so,” he immediately replied.

  Sophie let out a breath.

  “Still,” Hunter resumed, “that story was very instructive, wasn’t it? His threat of making you kill somebody, just like his father had done to him, was quite effective for keeping you in line. That threat…” he frowned angrily “…along with his belt. You had no choice but to obey him.”

  Grant felt a warm hand on his arm, and he looked down to find Sophie’s tender hold on his elbow. He gazed into her glassy eyes, which poured their love into him.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I’d be having nightmares too if that happened to me as a child.”

  Her eyes held his gaze as she slowly drifted her hand down his arm, toward the back pocket of his jeans.

  His heart pounded and his breath faltered. “Don’t,” he said in a strangled cry, but she didn’t stop until her hand rested on the scar, hidden beneath his jeans. As he felt her comforting touch on his throbbing skin, he knew he was about to weep.

  “Don’t,” he whimpered again, while she softly crawled into his space, snaking her arm up his back and wrapping her body around his. He couldn’t fight anymore, so he responded by clasping his arms around her, shifting his weight so she was almost in his lap.

  They clung onto each other in a suffocating embrace, both sobbing quietly, until he finally relaxed into her body with a deep, shuddering release.

  Hunter said nothing.

  Eventually they let go of each other and shyly resumed a sitting position, with Sophie closer to Grant’s side than before. She snatched a few tissues from the box and handed him one.

  “I guess we need to go,” Sophie announced after looking at her watch.

  “Yes, our time is up,” Hunter said. “But I don’t like ending so abruptly. I’m concerned about you both. I’d like to schedule another session this week, to check in on how things are going after today’s intensity. Are you available tomorrow?”

  “Great,” Grant replied flatly. “Two sessions in one week—aren’t we lucky?”

  Hunter shared a smirk with Sophie, pleased to hear Grant denigrating therapy. He was returning to his old self.

  The journey would be a long and painful one, but he could make it. Hunter hoped both Grant and Sophie would make it back.

  14. Confluence

  “Madsen, you got that anti-corrosion spray I told you to buy?”

  “Yes, sir.” Grant peeked inside his shopping bag to double-check his purchase as he adeptly crossed over the gunwale onto the deck of the ship. Since he’d come directly to work from that grueling therapy session, he was rather surprised he’d remembered to make the shopping trip at all. However, for some reason, he felt lighter and more focused than he had in years.

  “And how ’bout the fuel stabilizer?” Roger added, glaring suspiciously.

  “Got that too.”

  Disappointed by the missed opportunity to chew out an incompetent employee, Roger grunted, “Good, then.” He could hardly describe Grant Madsen as incompetent.

  They worked together seamlessly, preparing the ship for winter storage.

  “It’s weird that we only have a few cruises left,” Grant mused.

  “Yeah.” Roger sighed. “The end of summer always makes me kind of bummed.” He thought about the architectural bus tours that would employ him again soon. “Come every winter, I gotta start working for the man again. But in the summer, I get to be the man.”

  Grant chuckled. “God help the poor sap who has to be your boss.”

  “At least I don’t have some pussy singing job,” Roger jabbed.

  Grant blushed. “Hey, I’ll be working for the man too.”

  “Yeah, a rich man. Alex Remington’s loaded, I hear.”

  “I wonder what a big spender like him was doing taking your crappy cruise?”

  Roger’s eyes narrowed. “We may have only one more day, but it’s never too late to fire your ass!”

  Grant nodded, suppressing a smile.

  Resuming their cleaning, Grant’s tone became
more serious. “I wanted to, uh, thank you, Rog. Thanks for hiring Sophie and me right out of prison. Most people wouldn’t have given us a chance.”

  Roger shrugged, uncomfortable. “Well, your uncle vouched for you.” He paused. “And Joe was right—you have been my best employee.” Doling out such a compliment seemed to nearly kill him, and Roger was quick to recover. “Jesus, Madsen! Watch the anti-mildew stuff—you’re spilling it!”

  Grant righted the bottle. “Sorry, sir.” He felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket and nervously eyed his boss. “Is it okay if I take this call?”

  “Go ahead, Frank Sinatra. It’s probably your agent wanting to book you for Vegas.”

  Grinning, Grant answered the phone, but his smile abruptly vanished.

  “Please tell me Ben is with you!” Ashley said frantically.

  “No, he’s at school.”

  “No, he’s not!” she shrieked. “His school called me—he’s not there! He’s missing! How could you let this happen?”

  Grant’s heart pounded as he recalled Ben’s hasty departure that morning. Why hadn’t he realized something was wrong? Grant grimaced. He’d been too wrapped up in his own problems to worry about his nephew. Some uncle he’d turned out to be.