“I absolutely know you’re not crazy.”
I looked at him in disbelief. “Now I know you’re lying to make me feel better. I’m fucked up in the head. Nobody does the things I do, or has thoughts in my head like I do, without being fucked up.”
He shook his head, a smile battling at his lips. “No one is truly fucked up in the head,” he said, laughing gently. “So quit thinking that. You’re either being overdramatic or you’ve been severely misdiagnosed.”
I snorted. “No one is truly fucked up?” I asked, and he nodded. “John Gacy? Ted Bundy …”
“I get it, I get it,” he said, cutting me off from rambling off every serial killer I could think of. “Those people truly are, ‘fucked up in the head,’ as you put it, but that’s definitely not you. As much as you can be a loose cannon at times and make some stupid decisions.” He shook his head when I flipped him off. “You’re still far from being a psychopath like them and you know it.”
“Then how do you explain me?”
“You’re confused. You’re pissed off about something and acting out because of it.” I nodded in agreement. “Why don’t we start off with what happened the other night when I picked you up?”
“Seriously?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t make you talk about it then.”
I bit my fingernails, the bitter taste of fingernail polish floating along my tongue. “I was over at my boyfriends, well ex-boyfriend’s house. I guess you could say things went sour.”
Sour. That was a decent word for the ass beating he gave me. The sad thing was that I wasn’t pissed about Oliver hitting me. I’d been hit before. I was mad that I didn’t have enough fight in myself to win. Every time I lost a battle, I was pissed off at myself.
“How long did you two date?”
“Only a few weeks.” I wasn’t sure if we’d actually been dating. Our dates consisted of going to dinner or a club, getting wasted, and then heading directly to his bed.
“So not too long, how did you meet?”
“My father.”
My dad would only set me up with men who were rich and had a good name. Oliver was the son of an affluent man in Congress. Those were the only ones suitable for marriage in his eyes. Oliver was far from being suitable for marriage. He liked to fuck and party. That was about it. He’d never be a “one woman man.”
“What happened?”
“I found a pair of cheap panties in his bed while riding him.” His back stiffened against his chair at my confession. He wasn’t expecting me to be so blunt. “You better put on your seatbelt for this rollercoaster, doctor,” I told him. “Me telling you about riding his cock isn’t shit if you want to know my story.”
He shifted in his chair and blew out a breath. “I can handle whatever you want to share with me,” he fired back, his tone challenging.
“Oliver couldn’t even find a good excuse to argue with. He wanted to explain himself, convince me to believe his lies, but I told him to take me home, which he didn’t want to do. So he pinned me to the wall instead. When I tried to leave, he attacked me.” I’d fought back, using every fingernail, bone, and power in my body.
I decided to leave out the part where he’d been on ecstasy. Weston would’ve assumed I was doing it with him.
“Have you talked to him since the incident?” He asked, not taking his eyes off of me.
“I saw him last night” I held up my hand to stop him when he gave me a look. “And I told him to leave me alone. He’s called a few times, but I haven’t been answering. Fuck that asshole.”
“What did your dad say when he saw your face?”
“That it’s my fault.”
“What?” He asked, unable to hold in the shock. He was just getting a taste of the filthy secrets on my plate.
“According to my father, I attacked him because that’s what Saint Oliver told him. He can’t believe me because I’m a lying whore.”
“Why would you attack him?”
I flicked my hand through the air. “It doesn’t matter. It never matters.”
“It does goddamned matter, Elise. You come to me, and you tell me the truth. I want to know everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. You tell me your story. I want your happy chapters, I want your embarrassing chapters, and I want the dark, filthy chapters that you have under locks. I want the whole story, and you’re going to give it to me. I’m relentless, but I will help you.” I gulped, and looked down at my lap. How the hell was I supposed to reply to that?
“There’s some things I’m not ready for,” I whispered.
“I know and I’ll wait,” he told me, his voice sincere. “Let’s go into your family. Where’s your mom?”
“She’s dead. I never really knew her.”
“How did she die?”
“Who knows.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“I’ve never been told the real cause. I’ve heard she took a shotgun to her mouth and blew her brains out. I’ve heard she overdosed on every drug possible. I’ve heard she ran off with some junkie guy and he murdered her. My dad is the most creative storyteller in the world. But for some reason, he can’t stick to one.” If he drank Jack, it was one story. If it was rum, it was another. His story depended on the liquid in his glass.
“How old were you when she died?”
“Four, or five, maybe.”
“Do you remember anything about her?”
I wished I did. I’d racked my brain, pleading to myself to conjure any memory of her, but I always came up short. I’d lie in bed and make up my own stories. She’d be there for me. She’d save me, the sweet little girl playing with her dolls in the devil’s lair, and take me away from him. But I’d given up that hope a long time ago.
“She used to braid my hair,” I said, revealing the one vague memory I had of her.
He gestured to my hair, tied up in a loose braid and falling on my shoulder. “Is that why you keep it that way?”
“I guess.”
“With your mom gone, you were raised by your dad?” I nodded. “Tell me about him.”
“Malicious. Controlling. Evil.”
“And why do you think your dad is all of those things?”
I shrugged. “Because he is. I’m twenty years old and useless. I have no control of my own life. Anytime I’ve brought up getting a job, he tells me a woman this pretty doesn’t need to work. He thinks work corrupts women, and if I thought about getting one, he’d throw me out of my apartment. I got my own place a year ago and it’s right across the hall from him. Anytime I’ve stepped out of line, he sent me to Sun Gate, even if I was clean, so I’d know who was in control.”
“Have you ever told him you want to go out on your own?” I nodded. “And?”
“He tells me no. He tells me I’ll end up just like her. A dead whore.”
“Has he always been this way?”
“For as long as I can remember. All of my friends have to be approved by him.” He obviously wasn’t doing a good job at that because I got in more trouble when I was with them. “He has to approve of the guys I date, and every single one is a jackass. I think he knows that. He knows they’re never serious. He doesn’t want anyone to take me away from him unless he’s getting something in return.”
We were interrupted by a knock on the door, and a blonde woman came walking in. Her hair was tied into a bun at the base of her neck, and a black pantsuit was covering her skinny figure. “Hey Wes,” she said, her deep red lips smiling. “Sorry to interrupt you, but I have an appointment in five minutes.” She looked at him apologetic. “Next time give me more of a heads up and I’ll get you extra time.”
“That’s fine, thanks Wendy.” She glanced over at me, giving me a tiny smile. I was waiting for her to say something, but she just stared before turning away and leaving the room.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Weston asked, pushing himself up from the chair. “Come a little earlier so we have more time.”
“Why are you d
oing this?” I asked, getting up.
“I told you why. I want you to love yourself. My goal is for you to see your worth.”
I tapped my head with the tip of my finger. “I’ve got some crazy shit in here.”
He stopped in front of me before I left the room. He stood just inches away from me, his eyes down casting to my face, and his hands smoothed down my hair. “I told you I want it all,” he said, poking my temple. “And that’s what you’re going to give me.”
“Good luck, figuring me out is like fighting off a gang of pirates, surviving the Bermuda triangle, and then catching a mermaid.”
“Well love, I’m always up for a good challenge.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELISE
“You use sex and alcohol to numb yourself,” Weston said. “I’m sure you know that. I’m also certain you know it’s dangerous. Those men don’t care about you. They only care about what you give them. After that, they can drop you off on the corner, or they can kill you and throw you in a ditch, or an abandoned alley.”
I told myself last night I wasn’t showing up again today. I wasn’t going to talk to him again. We had our one meeting, I told him how I felt and that was it. But when he texted me this morning, telling me he had bagels and coffee, he somehow convinced me to come. Or at least that was my excuse to see him again.
I didn’t want to tell him, but he’d been right. It was refreshing, almost liberating, to get everything out and not worry about him telling anyone. I could tell him my side of the story and be done with it.
But I was getting to know him just as well as he was me. I’d learned he didn’t hold back. He wasn’t afraid to speak the truth or call me out on my bullshit. He didn’t cower or keep quiet about issues other therapists had strayed away from.
“I know that,” I replied, defensively. “I don’t think it’s that unusual, though. People do it all of the time. Sex gives people a high. It makes us feel better, whether you’re drunk, in love, out of love. People have sex romantically, casually, or sadistically. Either way, they do it because it gives them a rush. It gives them a high that makes them feel wanted, something they feel they need in that moment. Sex is not only for people who are in love.”
I shook my head before going on. “Parents try to convince their children that they need to wait for love because they don’t want them out spreading their legs and fucking everyone in sight. Love is a joke. We all know eventually most of them are going to fuck and chances are they don’t love that someone.”
I thought back to the many men I’d willingly gone down on in dirty bathroom stalls in random clubs, and the ones who’d taken me home but never bothered to give me a ride or cab fare afterwards. I never had sex with a man who cared about me because I never had a man care about me.
But I couldn’t hold that against them. I knew what they were doing because I was playing the same game. I didn’t take names. I didn’t keep business cards. I threw them out with the next day’s trash. I didn’t want their fraudulent dinners or their lies of affection. I wanted them to take my mind away temporarily, give me my control, and then I discarded them. I was just as bad as they were.
“Wow, you sure do have a negative outlook on love,” he said, pushing his sleeve up his arms. “Don’t you think that’s wrong?”
I shrugged, popping a bite of bagel in my mouth. “Not really. Look at you, you don’t have a girlfriend, but I’m sure you’ve banged a few people. You know how enjoyable sex is.”
“Yes, I’m well aware that sex can be enjoyable,” he said, failing to hold back a smile.
I grinned, interest feigning my mind. “Does my doctor have a kinky side?” I asked, waiting anxiously for his answer. I went back to thinking about having sex with him. Was he a missionary kind of guy or did he study his partner to fuck them properly? The guy fucked with people’s minds for a living, I was sure he’d fuck a woman properly. And why was I constantly thinking about him fucking me?
He cleared his throat. “Talking about my sex life isn’t why we’re here,” he said, bursting my bubble. “Let’s stay on topic.”
I crossed my arms across my chest, slightly leaning forward to give him a good view of my cleavage. “But talking about yours sounds like a lot more fun.”
“No, I don’t fuck random people for fun,” he said, his voice flat. “Not everyone sees sex as a game.”
I took a deep breath. I knew where he was going with this, and I just needed to get it over with. “I don’t fuck people for fun, either.”
“But that’s just what you were saying.”
“I said other people fuck for fun. I fuck people for supremacy,” I clarified. “I fuck them for power and control.”
His eyebrows squeezed together. “Huh? Why? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I told you why three years ago.”
“I know, but …”
I clenched my jaw as my muscles jumped underneath my skin. “I was raped, Weston. Raped. If you don’t believe me, that’s fine. I honestly don’t care who doesn’t believe me, anymore. I’ve moved on from it. But you’re wrong about me using sex or alcohol to numb myself or doing it for fun. I don’t use it to forget what happened to me because I could never forget what happened to me, even with all of the sex and alcohol in the world. I’m not a victim anymore, I’m a survivor, and that’s what I use sex for.”
I didn’t mind being known as the overtly sexual girl. I wasn’t embarrassed about that part of my life. It was the other part that I was terrified of talking about. The secret buried deep in the pit of my soul, tucked away, and had only come out a few times. I didn’t want to be a victim and I’d hide behind a bad reputation to make sure that didn’t happen.
His shoulders went straight, his eyes flashing with surprise. He wasn’t expecting me to say that. He wanted to take it slow and ease into talking about it.
“And that’s why I have sex with all of those men,” I said, correcting him.
“So you have sex because you were raped?” Wes asked, baffled. “And it makes you feel in control?”
“Exactly.” The confusion didn’t leave his face. “Some people break down and cry after being violated. Some people get angry. Some take charge and don’t allow it keep them down. I decided to do the third one. I didn’t want to be the broken girl. That would mean they’ve won. I’ve had too much taken away from me. I wasn’t giving them that satisfaction. I don’t get sad when I think about what those guys did to me. I get angry. I get pissed off and I want to do anything to get my power back. Murder would’ve been my first option, but obviously that would put me in prison, so I found another way.”
“I don’t understand,” Wes muttered. He looked up at the ceiling and wiped his forehead. “I don’t understand any of it.”
I knew my situation was a total mind-fuck that most people wouldn’t be able to comprehend. I didn’t understand it half of the time. “You don’t understand it because you don’t believe me.”
He paused, struggling for words, fighting with himself on what to say next. I knew he didn’t believe me, and that was okay.
“Why weren’t the cops called? Why didn’t anybody believe you? Why weren’t charges files? Why did they say you lied about it?” He asked, rambling.
“The cops were called about Peter Kline. That’s when I decided to gain the courage and tell them what had happened to me. But they were bribed and my story was completely thrown out.” My stomach loaded with nausea, afraid my bagel would be coming back up and I’d throw it up in front of me. “It was forgotten about so he’d be protected.”
My father was a very intelligent man. If my files were to ever be leaked, it would exhibit a pattern, and people with patterns couldn’t be victims, right? It would show that I’d willingly had sex with Peter when I was fifteen, and he was thirty. It would show my word didn’t mean anything. “I was asking for it,” they’d say. “I was lying for attention,” they’d add.
He blamed everything on Peter and when I finally found my
voice to yell rape, I’d been pushed into the corner. The cops thought I was lying. People thought I was lying. Peter had tried to be on my side, but when the cops offered him a plea deal and my dad cut him a check, he shut his mouth and moved on.
He shifted in his chair and rolled his head in a circle. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you think about it. He wanted them all to believe that I was lying so he wouldn’t be exposed. I’ve had bad things happen to me, but it doesn’t matter because I’m a slut. People don’t care about bad things when it happens to whores.”
“That’s not true. It’s just hard to plead the case when you cried rape after you got caught with Peter. Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“I was scared. I was confused. I thought I’d get in trouble, but when Peter happened, I thought I finally had my chance. It only ended up backfiring in my face.” I took a deep breath. “Did you tell anyone?”
“That’s irrelevant now,” he snapped, his voice turning furious and irritated. The mood in the room had quickly shifted. Weston’s face turned from curious and compassionate to irate. He couldn’t even look at me, instead focusing on the hands shaking on his lap.
Irrelevant? The hell it was.
“You didn’t get fired, but I never saw you again. So what happened?” I pushed. I was being honest with him. He needed to be honest with me.
His eyes tightened around the corners. “Elise, they told me that you were lying, and I wasn’t experienced to deal with you. They wouldn’t let me ask anything else about it, so let’s stay on the goddamned point, okay? It was out of my hands.” He looked pained, almost terrified, as he opened his mouth in hesitation. “Be honest with me. Were you really raped or were you lying to get back at your father?”
“What?” I shrieked in horror. His accusation shot straight through my heart, slicing through it, and paining my chest.
“Did you make it up as a form of lashing out at your dad?” He fired back.
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