He started to turn away, but he smiled up at his mother one more time. He remembered the magic word. “Please?” His mother appeared to be thinking about it again. “I love you, mommy.”
That did it. She smiled again and shook her head. She whispered. “Okay. Just one.” She walked over to the kitchen counter and picked a cookie up off the cooling rack.
Ethan stopped talking for a minute, and it was evident to Jenna that he was struggling with something. She figured he was coming to the realization that he had learned to manipulate people early in life. Maybe this was an epiphany for him. He wouldn’t look up, so she knew that what he was about to say was painful for him.
“She gave me that cookie, and I was so happy. I went back to my fire truck in the living room and started playing again. I could see my mom in the kitchen from where I was sitting on the floor.”
Ethan kept playing with the truck and, after eating half the cookie, put the rest on the top of the truck under where the ladder laid flat until the next time Ethan would raise it to save a fictitious little person from a high rise building. A little while later, his mother came in the room and washed his mouth and fingers with a warm washcloth. “Daddy’s home now, baby.” Ethan smiled and stood up. It was their habit to greet his father by standing in the living room and welcoming him in.
When his father walked in the door, even young Ethan could tell the man had had a bad day. His mouth curled down in a scowl and his brow was furrowed. His mother’s steps were tentative, but she moved forward just the same. “How was your day?”
His father’s face didn’t change as he said, “Shitty. Bring me something to drink.” She nodded and bent her head, turning to walk toward the kitchen. His voice was a little less gruff when he looked at Ethan and said, “What did you do today?” His father started walking toward the couch near the boy.
“Played fire truck.”
His father smiled and sat on the couch. “You sure do love that fire truck, don’t you?”
Ethan nodded and began to smile back. His father’s anger had subsided, so the boy walked back to his fire truck and sat down to play again. He heard his mother behind him. She said, “Is a beer all right?”
“That’ll do for now. What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“For Christ’s sake, June, please tell me you didn’t use those shitty powdered flakes again.”
Her voice was low. “No. I made them from scratch. You can check the garbage. There are potato peels in there.”
“I believe you.” Ethan heard the tab on the beer can make the cracking noise it did when his father opened it.
“Well…um…I’m going to go finish up.”
The smell of the cookies no longer lingered in the air. Instead, Ethan caught a whiff of down home aromas—salt-and-pepper seasoning, breaded beef fried in vegetable oil, potatoes boiling on the stove. The cookies weren’t on his mind anymore anyway…that is, until he lifted up the ladder on the fire truck and discovered the three bites left. He picked up the cookie and took a small bite and then set the remainder on his leg. He lifted the ladder and finger-walked up it as though his hand were performing a dangerous rescue in an apartment building. Once his fingers had made it safely back to the truck, he used them to pick up the cookie again and take another bite. By the time his mother called him to dinner, he’d finished it.
He walked in the kitchen and, in a matter of seconds, saw his father’s face turn red. His voice sounded like the growl of a dog when he said, “What’s that all over his face?”
His mother’s face, in sharp contrast, turned as white as the snow that was starting to drift to the ground outside. “Uh, Ethan, baby, let’s go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up.”
“I asked what the hell is all over his face?”
Ethan couldn’t understand what the big deal was, but then he realized maybe his dad thought he’d pooped his pants. He got in trouble for that once a long time ago before he’d learned to hold it and go to the toilet like a big boy. So he said, “Cookie, daddy.”
His father’s voice turned even more guttural. “Cookie?”
“Just a bite. I was baking today.” The tremor in his mother’s voice made Ethan nervous. He didn’t know why, but he was suddenly scared.
His mother was leading him by the hand toward the bathroom, but before they’d taken two steps, Ethan heard his father’s chair scrape against the kitchen floor. In seconds, his father was behind them, his fist wrapped around June’s bun, pulling her back. She let out a squeal and let go of Ethan’s hand. Quickly, she said, “Ethan, baby. Go to your room for now. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” As his father jerked her head back, she let out another scream. “Now, baby.” A small sob escaped her mouth and Ethan obeyed, running down the hall to his room.
But he didn’t go inside his room. Instead, he froze when he heard a drawn-out scream from his mother as his father began cursing. “I’ve told you no sweets. Goddammit, woman, will you never fucking learn?” Ethan heard a loud crash as plates fell to the floor and broke and then he heard another scream followed by sobs.
The little boy felt a tight knot in his stomach and felt the need to get his fire truck. He would get his truck and hide in his room until his dad was done yelling. His dad was still talking in a low growl to his mother and his mother was still weeping, but she was trying to keep it to herself. Maybe, Ethan thought, he could sneak in and get his truck and no one would know.
So he walked softly into the living room from the hallway straight to his truck. But when he picked it up and turned, he looked into the kitchen and then couldn’t look away. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but the staccato rhythm of the table legs scraping on the floor kept him mesmerized. One of his father’s hands was still coiled in his mother’s hair but the other was on her back and she was bent over the table. Ethan wasn’t sure what was happening as his father towered over his mother’s back, but his father was cursing through gritted teeth and the side of his mother’s face was pressed into the table. She said nothing but Ethan knew she was crying. He might not know what was happening, but he knew it wasn’t right.
“Stupid fucking woman. You will never do anything right.”
Ethan would never forget the way his father’s pelvis continued to slam into his mother’s rear, and he wondered why his father thought it a fitting punishment. Ethan decided he would never eat another cookie again.
He took a deep breath. He still couldn’t look up. His eyes were focused on the floor, his voice quiet. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
Sam nodded and said, “I’m sure it took a lot to share that with us, buddy.”
Ethan inhaled again. At first, while he’d been talking, it was as though he’d been transported back in time. He was scared of his father, confused about what was going on and why it was such a big fucking deal, and he was humiliated for his mother.
But the one thing he felt after was what he’d felt as a kid…the power and the anger of that stupid woman failing to get it right. He was ashamed of that now, but he also realized that his father had influenced him, even when Ethan had hated the man’s guts.
He’d been close to numb, then horror, then almost tears just moments ago, but now he felt relief. It was huge. He looked up to see the eyes of the people who understood him, the people who were becoming his friends. He nodded and felt a small smile creep up on his face. He felt Jay’s hand clap his shoulder. “Yeah, man. That’s some heavy shit.”
Ethan smiled a little more. “Feels good to let go.” But then he made eye contact with Jenna. He couldn’t read her, not at all, but something was bothering her. He might not have known her for very long, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew something he’d said had gotten to her. He just wondered what the hell it was.
Chapter Twelve
JENNA CLAMPED HER jaw together as she felt the tears sting her eyes. She had to keep her shit together.
But for some unexplained reason, Ethan’s story grabbed her in the throat. It wrenched her by the heart, and she felt like a sheet blowing in a gale. She couldn’t stop the effect his story was having on her, but if she could just hold it together until they were done…
She took a deep breath as he wrapped up his story and felt deep gratitude as a couple of the men congratulated Ethan on sharing his story. There was a huge lump in her throat that she couldn’t swallow.
She found herself—her real self—buried deep in her chest while her tough persona took charge. After giving the group a rapid cursory pep talk, she shooed them out and started cleaning up. She needed fresh air and wanted to get out of there fast.
Ethan was hanging around, putting chairs up. He was whistling quietly while she cleaned up the coffee pot area. When everyone else had finally drifted out of the room, he said, “Everything okay?”
It took her a few seconds to realize he was talking to her…and his question made the tears sting her eyes again. She inhaled sharply as she wiped off the counter. “Fine.”
But after all the chairs were put up and she was done with the coffee, Ethan stood beside her. “Bullshit.”
She clenched her jaw again and managed to maintain eye contact. “What?”
He held her by the shoulders. “Seriously, Jenna. What the hell’s wrong?”
She felt her mouth screw up, and she felt irritated that he wouldn’t take a hint. She didn’t want to talk about it, but his story had affected her more deeply than she wanted to admit. “I said nothing.” She sighed and tried to pull away. “I’m tired. I want to go home and go to bed.”
But Ethan left his hands on her shoulders. He wasn’t rough but his touch was firm. He raised his eyebrows. “Last chance.”
The emotional dam collapsed under the weight of her distress. She started to laugh. “Or what?”
He smiled. “I don’t know. Try me.”
And then she started crying…loud heavy sobs. He pulled her into his chest and then the flood began. Suddenly her veins were flooded with body chemicals, inducing relaxation. She just gave in to her emotions. She knew Ethan understood. She didn’t want him to, didn’t want him to help her like she was supposed to help him, but she was unable to stop it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” As she began taking deep breaths and the tears began to subside, she felt Ethan’s hand rubbing her back, soothing her into quieting.
She shook her head, a gesture so minute, she wondered if Ethan could even sense it. “No, not really.” Then she felt his hand glide down her hair, and she wanted to melt into him. She pulled away from him enough to look in his face. She sniffed. She probably looked like complete shit. She was sure her mascara was messed up, and she knew her face had to be blotchy and red. She forced a small smile anyway. “But thanks.”
He didn’t seem to notice, though. His finger traced a line down the side of her face and ended under her chin. “It’s okay to feel something, Jenna. I understand.”
Holy shit. He really did.
And then he leaned over and his lips touched hers. Her eyes closed. His lips were warm and soft and she barely felt them. Involuntarily, her hands clenched, grabbing the back of his t-shirt into her fists. His hand moved to her neck, cupping her at the nape, as his kiss grew a little firmer. Her breath wouldn’t come back to her as she felt his tongue inside her mouth.
She was finally able to exhale as he kissed her forehead and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay. We can do this together.”
* * *
Jenna pulled away from Ethan, not much, and he wasn’t going to let her get far. Her voice was barely audible when she said, “We can’t do this, Ethan.”
“Do what?”
“This. You and me.”
His eyes searched hers. “Why not?”
She tilted her head to the side a little. “You know why. Because I’m your counselor.”
“Is that all?”
“What do you mean is that all? That is everything.”
He shrugged, still holding his arms around her torso. “Then I’m not going to counseling with you anymore.”
Her face looked worried. “No…you can’t do that, Ethan. Not when you’re finally starting to make some progress.”
He ran his tongue along his upper teeth and made sure she was looking in his eyes. “I can do that. I’m seeing a psychologist. I’m taking meds from my psychiatrist. I’m coming to Soaring Free once a week.” His voice dropped. “No offense, but I don’t need your counseling.”
God, was that cute…the way she tried to look offended but couldn’t quite pull it off. He raised his eyebrows and her expression softened. “I can’t...I won’t be a stumbling block in your progress.”
“Who ever said we couldn’t do this together?”
She drew in a breath and then stopped. Whatever words she was going to use had escaped her. And he used that moment of vulnerability as an excuse to kiss her again, this time more firmly, with more conviction.
He could taste her tears but there was more. She was so sweet and soft, and he loved that she was responding in spite of her words. He loved how her hands were gripping the back of his t-shirt as though she were hanging on for dear life. It told him more than her words ever would. But he didn’t want her to later on feel like he’d encouraged her to do something she wasn’t comfortable with, so he ended the kiss but he didn’t let go.
She was at a loss for words; he could tell that much. “We…shouldn’t, Ethan. You’re fragile right now.”
He couldn’t help the slight grin that was creeping up on his face. “I don’t seem to be holding up too bad. You, on the other hand…”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “What you said affected me more deeply than I would have expected.”
“Then maybe I should seek help elsewhere. I mean that.” He could tell from the look on her face that she was getting ready to protest. “If you’re on the verge of a breakdown every time I share something…”
“No. That won’t happen again.”
He shook his head. “No…it’s final.” He searched her eyes again. “Unless you need the money.”
“Oh, no, that’s…” Her voice drifted off.
“What?”
She closed her mouth, her eyes focused on his chin. Then she met his eyes again and said, “Maybe that would be for the best.” Ethan smiled. “But don’t think that means this is going anywhere.” She wriggled out of his arms and he let her. She could say what she wanted, but he’d seen it in her eyes. It was just a matter of time.
Chapter Thirteen
AS THE WEEKS drifted by, Ethan felt stronger and stronger. He didn’t think the meds were doing a goddamn thing, though, and he told Dr. Thomas that. In fact, he felt as though they were making him even more depressed. In the meantime, he went to group faithfully and saw his psychologist once a week. Jenna kept her distance and made sure the two of them were never alone together. Ethan knew why…she was scared of her feelings for him. And he was okay with that. She would warm to him—he was confident of that.
He shared some at group but didn’t go into the heavy stuff anymore. He was saving the hard stuff for the psychologist nowadays, the guy he paid to listen. The group meetings were voluntary, and he started wondering why Jenna did them for free. What was she getting out of it?
It didn’t matter, though. He was committed to getting better, and he could see the results every day.
He’d been thinking a lot about his son Chris. He missed that kid. He hadn’t seen him in months. At first, Ethan knew, it had been for the best. He’d been in bad shape—hooked on the junk and he’d looked like shit. Pale, pasty-looking skin, overweight, with a scruffy beard and dark circles under his eyes. But he’d grown healthier after spending time in rehab. His body was back where it should be. He’d started lifting weights to get back in shape and physically, he looked and felt much better. Mentally, though…that’s where he needed all the work.
Still, he missed Chris and wonde
red if Val would even agree to let him see his kid. Ethan had done some hurtful things lately, had lashed out, because he himself had felt hurt, abandoned, betrayed, but just a month spent talking about it, really reflecting on it helped him start to understand why Val didn’t want to be with him anymore.
He picked up the phone. If he wanted to see his son, he’d have to stop being a bastard. He needed to tell his lawyer to stop trying for full custody. He needed to be agreeable, needed to accept that Valerie had moved on and was probably happier without him. So he called his lawyer and got the secretary. She asked if she could take a message and he said, “Yeah. Just tell Becker I need to talk to him.”
“He’s quite busy today, Mr. Richards.”
“Just give him the message.” He hung up and laughed in spite of himself. It really was a trip how lots of people bent over backwards to keep him happy. He knew it was immature to enjoy it so much, but when it came to his lawyer, he didn’t mind it.
Even more than wanting to see Chris, though, Ethan was starting to feel a familiar itch—the need to create, to make music. He was almost afraid of picking up a guitar, though. He wanted to be sure he was free of any addictive associations. His psychologist kept telling him to just get started…but Ethan wasn’t ready. He often wondered if he would ever be able to return to music. He had to, though. Music had been a part of his life longer than the drugs had been.
He thought about his bandmates then, men who’d been a part of his life for longer than his son and wife—Brad, in particular. Brad was like his brother and the two of them hadn’t spoken for a while. The day Ethan had completely lost it and choked Valerie, Brad had come by later that night to ask him what the fuck was wrong with him. And then his best friend had beaten the shit out of him. Ethan let him, silently prayed that he’d beat him to death. He didn’t put up a fight. He felt guilty for hurting Valerie, almost injuring his son’s mother beyond recovery; more than that, though, he didn’t want to live anymore. There was the guilt, yes, but there was the pain of addiction, of never being able to say no, of not being able to walk away. He loathed himself, hated himself to the core for never being able to walk away. Heroin was a needy lover, and she pulled him back hard every time. He couldn’t think about her, couldn’t look at her, couldn’t go a day without touching her. And he didn’t want to anymore, hadn’t wanted to for so long. He’d never tell anyone, but that time in Spokane…they’d been on tour, and he’d just had enough. He’d had tears in his eyes as he’d pulled the liquid into the syringe. The plan was death by overdose. That would be a spectacular death for a musician. Sure, it was cliché, but all the musicians who’d ever died that way were loved and respected for their contribution to music. He knew life would never get any better. He’d never be more popular, never be more respected than he was then, so why not just end it?
Bullet Series Box Set Books 1-8 Page 54
