Hunter continued his line of questioning. “What about politics? Do you and your father see eye to eye?”
Grant paused. “I’m not sure where he stands politically. I wonder if he’d support Grogan or Jovanovich for governor—probably Jovanovich because he gets the union vote. Not that it matters. My dad can’t vote either.”
“You have different sports teams, careers, religion, and maybe politics,” Hunter listed, tapping each of the fingers on his right hand.
“And they like different food, too,” Sophie added. “Grant’s favorite is Middle Eastern. I bet his dad likes Italian.”
“Do you see how different you are from your father?” Hunter asked, looking pointedly at Grant. “You may share some DNA, but that’s where the similarity ends. You are definitely not your father.”
Grant sat quietly, contemplating his words.
“Do you have anything in common with your father?” Hunter asked.
Yeah, we both have PTSD, Grant silently answered. Out loud, he said, “He claimed to love Logan and my mom, and I loved them too. But I don’t really believe him.”
“Did you get to read your letter?” Hunter asked.
“Most of it, yes, sir.”
“How did he react?”
“When he wasn’t making fun of me for reading a letter to him while I was sitting right there—” Grant noticed Hunter angrily shaking his head “—I guess he listened pretty well. But he wanted me to stop asking why he hit Mom.”
“Did he take any responsibility for his actions?”
Grant exhaled derisively. “He told me he never meant to hurt her. He told me it was alcohol that made him do it.”
Nodding resignedly, Hunter said, “I thought that might be his reaction. What about how he hurt you? Did you talk to him about that?”
His psychologist’s tone couldn’t have been gentler, but Grant still felt his heart begin to gallop and his chest tighten. “Yes, sir,” he responded, his cheeks coloring. “I think I might’ve zoned out at that point.”
He snuck a glance at Sophie, finding her watching him worriedly, and remembered how her soothing words just when he’d needed them most had brought him out of his trance while sitting across from his father. He cradled her hand in his.
“You lost some time?”
“Yes, sir. The next thing I knew my dad was staring at me like I was some sort of freak, asking me what was wrong with me.”
“Of course you dissociated,” Hunter said. “There’s no shame in that. You’re sitting right across from your abuser, opening yourself up to him, making yourself vulnerable to his cruelty. It took incredible strength to do that, Grant.”
“My dad didn’t seem to think so.”
“He’s too damaged to have the strength to allow himself to be vulnerable too. But I bet deep down inside he knows how much he hurt you. He knows he was abusive.”
Grant exhaled loudly. “He said I needed it. He said it was discipline.”
Shaking his head, Hunter scoffed, “He’s concocted quite a story for himself, hasn’t he? He’s probably had to deny reality many times in his life just to survive. One memory he’s likely tucked away is being forced to shoot a man dead as a child. I’m sure that one messed him up good.”
“I actually brought that up.”
“Wow, how did he take it?” Hunter asked.
“I’m not sure,” Grant said tentatively. “But I think he zoned out too. He, uh, he looked like he was in pain, then like he wasn’t really there for a second. He said something like ‘That didn’t happen.’”
Hunter nodded knowingly.
“I told Dad he was having flashbacks, and he should remember to breathe.”
The psychologist stifled a laugh. Apparently Grant had really listened to his lecture on trauma. “It sounds like you were following your own advice. Did you remember to breathe?”
“Yes, sir—it helped a lot.”
“So, you think your father might have PTSD too?”
Grant looked uncertain and Sophie volunteered, “It sounds like it.”
Hunter nodded. “That would explain the drinking.”
Grant shot an angry look at the psychologist.
“Sometimes trauma survivors get hooked on alcohol and other drugs as a way to stop the flood of intrusive images from the trauma,” Hunter said. “They drink to numb out the intense distress.”
“That doesn’t give him an excuse!”
“I’m not saying it does,” Hunter said. “You’ve suffered trauma yourself but you’ve made the choice not to touch alcohol.” He grinned. “Well, except for that time Sophie got you plastered on tequila.”
“Hey!” she protested, earning a rare smile from Grant in the therapy room.
“What I’m saying is we can understand your father’s alcoholism but not condone it. He made choices as an adult that hurt you and your family immensely. You have every right to feel angry about that. I hope you told him that hiding behind alcohol instead of taking responsibility for his actions was complete bullshit.”
“In so many words, yes I did.”
“Good. What happened after your father dissociated?”
Grant felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as he recalled the end of their meeting. “He went ballistic,” he said numbly.
“He did?” Sophie asked, fear showing in her eyes.
“He stood up and started screaming at me, telling me I was lucky he was in a cage or he would b-b-beat the crap out of me.”
Grant clenched his fists, angry with himself for stuttering.
“That must have been frightening,” Hunter said.
“He was chained up an in a cage! Why the hell would I be scared of him?” Baby…fucking baby. His father’s insults rattled around in his head.
“Grant, he’s the head of a crime family! He’s a ruthless killer who feels zero remorse for hurting others, and his threats are very real. Your father has, in fact, beaten you mercilessly—not only as a defenseless boy but also as an outmatched man when his goons came after you in prison. It is a perfectly sane, human response to be scared of him. Hell, we’re all lucky that psychopath’s behind bars where he belongs.”
“That’s just it,” Grant resumed, looking guiltily at Sophie. “I didn’t want to tell you this part because I didn’t want to frighten you.”
“What?” She looked alarmed.
“When they were dragging my dad away, he was yelling something—I don’t know how he could pull this off, but he sounded very convincing.”
“What did he say, Grant?” Hunter looked intrigued.
“He said he was getting out.”
Sophie’s jaw dropped. “Getting out? Of prison?”
Grant nodded and Hunter asked, “How? Isn’t he serving a life sentence without parole?”
“He is. I—I—I don’t know how he’d get out. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure it out, but I’ve got nothing.”
“You said he was threatening you, right?” Sophie said. “Maybe it was just an idle threat, trying to scare you.”
“I may not know my dad all that well, Sophie, but one thing I do know about him: he doesn’t make idle threats. It’s real. He has some sort of plan cooked up—maybe he’s going to escape or something.”
The three sat quietly for several moments, sobered.
Finally Hunter offered, “What an intense confrontation. I know you doubt yourself, Grant—we’ve already discussed your tendency to question yourself as stemming from the abuse—but I think you did an admirable job of confronting your demons. That took balls to go in there and stand up to your abuser. I’m not sure I could’ve done the same.”
“Me neither,” Sophie jumped in. “My dad is about ten times less intimidating than your dad, and it took me years to get up the nerve to talk to him.”
Hunter studied Grant, who seemed to have trouble taking in their praise. “I don’t mean to sound condescending when I say this, but I—I’m proud of you.”
Grant slowly met his psy
chologist’s penetrating gaze, feeling warmth in his chest. His reaction to those words was much different than when his father had said them.
“Thank you, Dr. Hayes,” he said.
“Well, I’m proud of you too,” Sophie added, beginning to smirk. “And I do mean to be condescending.”
Grant chuckled and swiftly locked his elbow around her neck, pinning her in place for a pretend noogie. “I’ll show you how to be condescending!” he said over her shrieks.
They wrestled for a few moments, laughing the whole time, while Hunter watched in amusement.
“Okay, you two, take your roughhousing elsewhere, ’cause our time’s up. This is a very serious place in here.”
Sophie’s laughter slowly faded as she smoothed her hands over her mussed ponytail, carefully replacing her fashionable hat. “Said by the man who performs rap songs for his students.” She smirked at Hunter.
He snickered. “Hopefully your rendition of ‘OVP’ will be better than mine.”
Rising to stand, Grant extended his hand. “Thank you, sir.” He locked eyes with Hunter and solemnly shook his hand, the muscles of his forearm rippling.
Bradley, Bradley, Bradley, Hunter silently repeated. “Have a good week, Grant. You too, Sophie.”
He watched them walk out, feeling deep satisfaction about their progress in counseling. Thinking about Carl Rogers as he sat down to write a case note in their chart, Hunter acknowledged that both Grant and Sophie were striving to achieve their bright potential. They had to fight and claw their way through, but there was no question they’d continue to prevail.
As the parolees strolled down the hallway, Sophie mused, “I wonder if I’ll actually have the nerve to sing ‘OVP’ to my class this afternoon.”
“You’ll do great, Bonnie. You’re an awesome teacher.”
Grant stopped short, turning toward her and pulling her body flush to his, gazing down at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “You’ve sure taught me how to value the orgasmic process.”
Sophie giggled and closed her eyes as he leaned in to brush his lips against hers. Between kisses she whispered, “I think I have some more lessons in store for you, McSailor.”
His throaty baritone made her knees weak. “I can’t wait.”
20. Contender
The cab made its way north on the Stevenson, into the city from the airport.
“It’s great you two came out to meet me, but I thought it’d be Roger,” Commander Joe Madsen said. “I’m staying at his place, right?”
“Um, Roger’s at work, Joe,” explained a nervous Grant, wedged in the backseat between his uncle and girlfriend.
“Oh. Where should I put my bag until he gets home?”
“I have his key—we’re headed to his apartment now.”
Mollified, Joe nodded, but then thought of another question. “Rog is at work? Then why aren’t you at work too, Grant?”
Feeling him squirm slightly, Sophie suppressed a smile. He’d unconsciously begun tapping his right thigh, and she scooped his hand in hers, soothing his jitters.
Grant finally said, “Well, sir, I don’t work with Roger anymore.”
“Really? I assumed you’d continue on with the bus tours in the winter.”
“They weren’t hiring.”
“Oh—bad economy, huh?”
“Yes, sir.” He squeezed Sophie’s hand for courage. “I got another job, though. Sophie arranged it for me.”
Joe leaned forward to catch Sophie’s eye. “Thanks for keeping this one out of prison, Sophie,” he said, tilting his head in Grant’s direction.
“He did the same for me,” she immediately responded. “Twice.” She couldn’t keep the smirk from spreading across her face. “Maybe you should hear what the job is before you thank me, though.”
Joe looked at Grant, whose cheeks were turning crimson.
Grant cleared his throat. “Uh, you know how I’d end every cruise with a Frank Sinatra song?”
Joe nodded.
“I sort of turned that into a career. A friend of Sophie’s dad owns a hotel, and I, um, I sing in the bar there a few nights a week.”
Joe was silent for a few moments, and Sophie felt Grant tense next to her, awaiting his response. Then a strange sound came from the other side of the cab. It took Sophie a second to realize Joe was snickering. He tried to squelch his laughter at first, causing small snorting noises to leak from the back of his throat, but soon his body began shaking and a full laugh escaped.
Crystal eyes narrowed. “What’s so funny?”
Once Joe settled down, a smile still brightening his tanned face, he managed, “You’re a lounge singer?”
“It’s a bar,” Grant corrected defensively.
“I gotta tell Archie,” Joe crowed, thinking of Grant’s former boss at Naval Station Great Lakes. “He’ll love this career change—lieutenant to lounge act.”
Also grinning, Sophie added, “McSailor to McCrooner.”
“Fine.” Grant folded his arms across his chest. “Make fun of me.”
“There’s no shame in singing, Grant,” Joe said. “A job’s a job. Just please tell me I get to see you in action on the stage?”
Sophie leaned forward so she could see Joe. “We’re hoping you’d like to join us tonight at the bar. After we watch Grant sing, we’re going to have drinks, uh, with my dad.”
Joe gave her a dubious look. When he’d first met Will Taylor at Logan’s funeral, it wasn’t such a pleasant encounter. He still felt a quick flash of anger, thinking of how Will had intimated that he worked for the Mafia before dragging his daughter away, yelling accusations. But Joe just nodded.
***
Grant’s rendition of Mack the Knife mesmerized Sophie. This was the first time she’d experienced his singing as an audience member, and she thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to watch him without the burden of filling drinks for cruise passengers. She was entranced by his charming smile as he held the microphone just close enough to capture the smooth intonations of his sexy baritone. The light in his aquamarine eyes danced with every note—he seemed to be having the time of his life.
Sophie glanced apprehensively at her father sitting next to her. Though he appeared absorbed in Grant’s performance, he felt her gaze and turned, his stern expression melting once he caught a glimpse of her chestnut-brown eyes. She’d worried about the little foursome gathering this evening, but so far her father had behaved himself. And he’d actually been friendly to Grant’s uncle.
Across the table sat Joe, dressed in civilian clothes for an evening out on the town—a dark blue suit jacket, white button-down shirt, and khaki pants. Sophie watched him smile warmly at his nephew as he listened with a combination of wonder and admiration. Apparently he hadn’t realized the extent of Grant’s talent.
Applause filled her ears, and she glanced around at the merry atmosphere in the bar. Even her father was clapping. She looked up to find Grant smiling shyly, taking in the adoration. Then he stepped down off the stage and headed to their table.
Once he arrived, he took Sophie’s hand and pulled her out of her chair, unabashedly drawing her body into his and planting a definitive kiss on her startled lips. When he deepened the kiss her eyes widened, feeling the hot stares of both her father and Joe. “My dad,” she protested, whispering against his lips.
Between kisses he murmured in return, “Trying to avoid…women buying me drinks.”
Sophie giggled as they took their seats. Grant attempted to ignore Will’s scowl.
“That was awesome.” Joe beamed. “Look at this!” He surveyed the bar and then looked back at his nephew. “Grant, you’re a hit!”
Grant bit his lip. “Thanks, Joe. I was a little more nervous tonight than usual. I wanted a good performance for my special guests.”
“Who knew you could sing like that? That’s definitely not from our side of the family.” Joe shuddered. “Karita singing was like a yowling cougar.”
Grant smiled, looking curious. Hesitating for a
moment, he quietly asked, “My dad didn’t sing, did he?”
Joe’s grin faded. He stroked the weathered skin of his face, his light blue eyes gazing into the distance. Finally he said, “Your father used to have a brilliant voice. He…he sang to Karita at their wedding reception—a moving rendition of Cara Mia.”
Sophie glanced at Grant, who seemed caught between wanting to end the conversation and yearning to hear more. Will also studied Grant.
“I—I never heard that before,” Grant said. “He never sang for us at home.”
“He probably ruined his voice with all those cigars he and Angelo would smoke,” Joe said. “It was disgusting.”
Grant suddenly remembered how Joe had gone ballistic when he’d caught Logan smoking as a thirteen-year-old. He hadn’t wanted his nephews to turn out anything like Enzo.
“Well, Grant doesn’t smoke,” Sophie interjected, glancing at Joe and then her father. “He doesn’t drink either.”
As if to prove her wrong, a waiter swooped in with a vodka tonic, setting the drink squarely in front of Grant. Having performed this exchange countless times, the waiter appeared supremely bored as he reported to Grant, “The woman in the red shirt, twelve o’clock. She wanted me to tell you her name’s Alicia.”
Grant sighed, and Sophie squinted at the woman before shaking her head. “I guess your kiss didn’t do the trick. That’s okay, though, vodka tonics are my favorite.” She leaned in conspiratorially, winking at him. “I love limes.”
As the waiter took Will’s and Joe’s drink orders, Sophie stared straight at Red Shirt Twelve O’Clock and held the drink aloft. She smiled pleasantly while mouthing “thank you.” The woman’s lips tightened and her cheeks flushed almost the same red as her shirt.
Grant was utterly amused as he watched Sophie take a long sip from the glass. “I guess Alicia won’t be buying me any more drinks,” he said.
Sophie glanced up at a passing waiter. “Can you bring some hot tea for Grant?”
Bad Behavior [Confuct Series #2] Page 26