The doctors said it might take a couple days or longer. The sooner this stops, the better.
They suggested counseling, too. So did Jag. Jag’s woman is a big proponent of therapy and I know that’s where the spiel he gave me came from. He knows me, has known me over a decade. Knew me dating back to around the time my mother got killed and apparently some of the shit I said when I was delusional makes him think I’ve got shit to work out.
How do I do that when I can’t talk about the shit I’ve done, how it’s manifested itself into other areas of my life? I can’t talk about the dark shit I had to do for Tom Ferrano at seventeen, eighteen when I stole a woman from the supermarket and delivered her to him, listening to her plead with me that she had to get home to her little girl. I don’t know what happened to her after that but it’s another thing I think of sometimes.
I can’t discuss with someone how I not only shot my mother’s killer in cold blood. Can’t talk about dropping drugs in a customer’s drink at Genesis, knowing they were gonna pass out and get taken to be whacked by Tom’s men. He sometimes had me invite certain people to my poker tables so that he could be there and there were a few times I knew things wouldn’t end well for the guy I’d lured in.
Can’t tell anybody about how I unleashed violence on Raymond Iadanza over a period of several weeks and got off on it. That I still get off on the fact that I know Iadanza will hurt every day for the rest of his sorry, miserable existence. My only regret right now is not having access to Iadanza whenever Violet experiences some remnant of the damage he did to her.
I get myself a water and pour Violet the last of the jug of juice and head back to bed.
She’ll be my therapy. She’ll calm me, soothe me. She’ll be there for me for the rest of my life. My reward for my patience in waiting for something real. She’s worth every red light, every lineup I’ve endured, all the hardships I’ve faced. Cold nights. A growling stomach. All the power and money I’ve earned through my years without her will make sure she never wants for anything.
When I get back, I get to look at her bare ass as she’s flopped on her belly, her nightgown riding up around her hips. I rub her bottom and it hikes the nightgown higher. I see a dark purple bruise to the right of her spine.
“What’s this?” I ask, rubbing it.
She winces.
“It hurt?”
“It’s not bad. Don’t worry about it.” She turns around and sits up, reaching for her juice. And I can tell by her face I need to ask more questions.
“What’s the bruise from?”
She shakes her head.
“Violet,” I demand.
“It happened in your office the day after Christmas. You sort of… sent me stumbling when you were in the middle of that uh, episode and I bumped your desk corner.”
A growl rumbles up from my gut.
She waves her hand. “It’s over, I’m fine.”
“You’re fine?” I demand. “How can you be fine? If that’d been your front instead of your back that hit that could’ve hurt the baby. Bad enough I hurt you, I could’ve hurt the both of you? Fuck.”
“I’m okay,” she repeats.
I take a long drink of my water and try to calm my shit.
She leans forward, looking angry. “Stop it. Stop beating yourself up. Wes kept trying to keep me back, but I pushed my way to you. I got there to try to calm you down. Okay? So stop. It’s over. It’s not your fault. It’s the fault of whoever drugged you. Not your fault. Okay?”
“Yeah, it’s their fault. And when I get my fuckin’ hands on them, Violet…” I snarl, “do not ask me to leave violence out of it because fuck that.”
She stomps off to the bathroom, slamming the door.
I suck in breath and then let it out slowly through clenched teeth. And then I repeat the motion, trying to settle down.
She comes back, looking sullen. She climbs in on her side of the bed and I grab her, pull her to me, and bury my face in her beautiful curls.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“I know. You didn’t mean it. You were fighting your demons. Anything that you’ve done wrong to me, Killian, has been about fighting your demons. This time it wasn’t your fault that they came out the way they did, but really, I really think it’s a good idea for you to look for some way to fight them proactively. You know?”
I swallow. I know.
“I love you,” she says, “And I hate what happened to you. I really do. I hate what happened when you were a kid and had to fend for yourself. I hate how you had to survive your mother’s poor choices and protect Will as well as yourself. That you had to avenge her. That you’ve had to live with guilt for choices you had to make out of tough times and anger. I hate that you have demons, but they’ve all come out lately and I want you to fight them instead of letting them back in. Can you please try, for me, for our baby, to stop them from getting back inside you?”