by Teresa Hill
"You bastard," he said, one hand on the guy's throat, cutting off his air. "What the hell do you think you're—"
And then he broke off abruptly, not sure anymore who he was seeing. The guy was gasping and trying to shout something.
Zach let go and backed away. "George? George Greene?"
"What?" The guy shoved Zach backward.
It wasn't him. Fuck.
The two men were about the same height and weight, same hair color and basic style, but it wasn't George.
"Shit," Zach muttered.
"What the hell?" the guy growled, obviously not so frightened now but very upset.
"Sorry." Zach backed up and held up his hands, to show he was done. "I thought you were somebody else."
The guy started cussing a blue streak, and Zach stood there and took it, feeling stupid and crazy and just wanting to get the hell out of there.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't..."
The guy nearly spit on him, cussing still as he turned and walked away.
Zach couldn't seem to move at first. His knees nearly buckled. He was still breathing hard. Adrenaline was still surging through him. He kept thinking that one day he was going to turn around and George would be there, come back to haunt him. He was out there now. Zach knew it. And he could be anywhere, doing anything, planning anything.
Zach remembered the feeling from when he was little, of wondering when George would be home, whether he'd be drunk, what odd thing might make him mad, what would make him start to hit. Zach always tried to be alert as to where he could hide. The fear stayed with him, chasing him, ready to overtake him, until he couldn't seem to stay inside his own skin.
Standing on the street, shaking and swearing and sweating in the cold night air, he reminded himself that he had an appointment with the shrink tomorrow, but now he wasn't sure that would be soon enough.
At times like these, the night seemed to stretch out endlessly, the darkness, the sense of being the only person in the world who was still awake and had ever felt this bad, this out of control.
If no one could help him, even this friend of his sister's, what would he do? Where would he end up? Being a mean, out of control drunk like George? The kind of man who hit women and scared little kids? Could he have a man like that inside him?
Even now, even knowing that, he wanted a drink, enough of them to quiet his thoughts, make him forget his heart was racing and he couldn't be still, couldn't get enough air. He hadn't found anything else that stopped the feelings from rushing through his head, stopped the fear, until that first night he'd spent with Julie.
He wanted her, too, wanted her desperately, whether it would be fair to her or not. Maybe she could get him through one more awful night, and then he could go spill his guts to the shrink, and maybe... just maybe, everyone was right. They could help him, and things would start to get better.
Zach was trying to believe it, but he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about anything anymore.
He was afraid if he got drunk he might never stop. That the feelings might never stop. He'd keep trying to drown them out, and then where would he end up? Assaulting more people on the street, maybe? Or just terrorizing women and children? Either way...
Just like Daddy.
This was the stuff he hadn't told anybody, wasn't even sure he could, the real stuff of his nightmares. How bad could it get? How low could he go? Would this be the night he found out?
Zach looked up and once again, he was at Julie's, as if maybe somebody was looking out for him and had steered him to the place he needed to be.
And all he had to do was go inside and open the door to the cellar of his soul.
Shit.
No lights upstairs or down in the front of the house. He went around to the back door and tapped softly. Julie came into the kitchen and snapped the back porch light on, then opened the door.
"Hi." She gave him a sexy, speculative grin. "What are you doing here?"
Zach remembered earlier at his parents' house, offering to put out to get her not to run away from all her problems. Now, here he was, wanting to run away from all of his with her, without ever telling her.
It was so not fair.
How could he do that to her? Him, a man who was so determined not to hurt her, a man who needed her so damned much. He really thought he loved her.
"I walked Grace home," he said finally, then looked inside the dark house. "Is Peter still up?"
"I don't think so. The music stopped fifteen minutes ago after I threatened to turn off the electricity again if he didn't go to bed." She paused, watching him. "Come on in, Zach."
He looked out onto the porch, seeing the old-fashioned glider sitting in what was mostly dark. He liked the dark when he wasn't alone. Surely this would be easier in the dark. "Why don't you come out?"
"Sure." She came outside and took a seat.
He frowned at the idea of sitting. She was looking at him like she were already worried. Maybe if he had her close, it would be okay. Zach sat down, put his arm around her shoulders, drew her to his side. She snuggled against him, her head against his side, arms wrapped around his waist. Yeah, that was better.
He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking maybe some of the peace of her might soak into him. She'd been in the shower. Her hair was still damp. She was wearing a robe and something beneath it. He wasn't really sure what, and she smelled good, like soap and woman and something else he couldn't quite identify. They could sit just like this for a while, couldn't they?
He turned her in his arms until she was sprawled across the cushions of the glider and facing him, practically lying in his arms, and he realized he didn't have to say a thing if he was kissing her.
He groaned, and his head bent down to hers, taking her mouth like the lifeline it was. He remembered, from that night in his hotel room, thinking she had life inside her, when at the moment he seemed to have none inside him, and that she'd been the one person who could keep him going for one more night.
Maybe that's how it would be tonight. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, got his hand under her little, black, cotton camisole and found nothing but soft, creamy, warm skin, and maybe if he could get inside her again the bad feelings would just go away and he would find peace in her arms.
She came willingly into his arms at first, but when his hand went beneath the robe to the tiny straps on her top, she put a hand on his to stop him. "Zach, we're on the back porch."
"I know, but..."
"Come on. Let's go inside."
And in the time it took to grab a breath, he saw his hand on that tiny, black strap, her hand on his, that soft, sexy anything-you-need look in her eyes, his own voice in his head saying, Just get inside her, and everything will be okay, at least for a while. But he couldn't do it anymore. She needed to know what she was getting into with him, what a mess he truly was.
Julie leaned down to kiss him again.
"No." He pushed her back and abruptly slid off the seat. She'd been leaning against him, and he saw her put out a hand to catch herself so she didn't fall. Damn.
He stood not five feet away, breathing heavily and trying not to panic, the feelings rushing back over him, as they had on the street when he'd slammed that man against the brick wall and thought about strangling him.
Julie didn't say anything, and for that he was grateful, because he was having trouble getting enough oxygen right now and that made conversation difficult. He didn't think she'd moved at all. Shit.
"I'm sorry," he managed to force out.
Still, she said nothing. He had his back to her and couldn't tell what was going on with her, was honestly afraid of what he'd see in her eyes. She might well think he was crazy.
He started trying to fight off the emotions through sheer force of will. For so long, he would have sworn he was stronger than anything, could overcome anything, but this stuff inside him—inside his own body—made him feel puny. It made him feel weak. And scared. Like a little kid. Fuck.
Zach groaned and sank down to the floor of the porch, bracing himself on the column to his right to keep from falling completely.
Julie was beside him in a second, sitting there on the floor with him, one arm around him, her face down close to his. "What is it?" she asked. "Did you hurt yourself tonight playing ball?"
"No."
"Are you sure? I saw you go down hard one time. You and your family play like idiots. It looked like you were trying to kill each other."
"It was just guy stuff, Julie. I was giving 'em hell earlier about getting old, and it was payback time." He was huffing and puffing as he said it, just as he'd been on the basketball court that evening.
"Then what's wrong?" she asked. "I'd do anything for you, Zach, but I don't know what to do right now."
"Sit here with me," he said, his breathing getting more and more shallow, more labored. That night in his hotel room, once he'd gotten his hands on her, hers on him, he'd begged her, Don't let go.
I won't, she'd promised. And she hadn't.
"Don't..." he began, then stopped, gasping now. "Hang on to me, Julie."
"Do you need a doctor? Is it—"
"No. It's not like that." But he might need Emma. Was it that bad? Could he breathe? Could Emma help him if he couldn't? Could she get him to calm down? Could Julie?
"Zach, you're scaring me," she said.
"Scaring myself. I have been for a while."
"Let me call someone. Or take you to the emergency room?"
"It's not... physical, Julie."
"What?" She clearly had no idea what he was talking about.
"I saw a doctor when this all started, had a complete physical. The problem's not there. It's my head."
"You hurt your head?" She put her hand on his head, checking for a bump or a cut. "What does your head have to do with you being unable to breathe?"
"No. Inside. It's what's going on inside my head, the things I'm thinking, things I can't stop thinking about. It's my father," he said, his throat threatening to close down completely rather than let the word slip past. "All this stuff with that fucking bastard who claims to be my father..."
"What about him?" she asked.
"I can't get him out of my head…. The way he looks. The way he sounds. The way he walks. All the shit he's done."
"Zach, you can't breathe," she said.
He shook his head. "I know, but that's not the problem. It's that I hate him. Do you understand? I hate him."
"Okay," she said, still holding him. "You hate him. But Zach, you have to be able to breathe."
"And I can't get away from him, because I came from him. Part of who I am is him, and he's shit, Julie. He's a coward and a drunk, and he beats up women, and he's my father."
"In some ways, he's your father," she said, her grip tight on his shoulder. "Some little, insignificant ways."
"And I hate that…. " He huffed and puffed and got it out. "I hate it so much. That there's anything of him in me. I want to get every little bit of him out of me. I want to rip it out, except I can't find the pieces. I don't know where he stops and I begin. I don't know what would be left of me once I got every bit of him out of me. And that's crazy. I know it's crazy. All of it... Shit."
He leaned weakly against the column of the porch, his shoulders heaving. He could hear his heart racing, like someone was beating a drum inside him, and his whole body pounded with each thrum. He wanted to run as far as he could go, so he'd never have to say this. Could he outrun it? Was there a way?
Except running was what Julie did, and he'd given her hell about it. He should tell her that he understood now, that he'd been wrong all along. Staying and facing things was hell.
Zach made himself face her for the briefest of moments. She was pale. Or that might just be the light, what little there was of the moon. And it was cold out here. He was just realizing that. She was probably cold.
He was hot, like a fever was burning him from the inside out. But he'd gotten this much out, this many words. He was supposed to feel better, wasn't he? He sure as hell didn't. And he was afraid Julie was going to get up and run, call the police or a doctor. Call someone.
"I think I'm going crazy," he said, the words spilling from him before he could stop them.
"Because of this? Because of the way you feel about your father?"
He nodded. "And because of what's going on with my body."
"It's happened before? You've felt like you couldn't breathe before?"
"Yes."
"And you saw a doctor?"
"Yes."
"And your heart is beating so fast, Zach." She had her hand overtop of it, looking really scared.
"I know. It does that sometimes."
"The doctor knows that? About your heart?"
He nodded.
"And he said there was nothing physically wrong?"
"Yeah. I had a complete cardiac workup two months ago."
She was quiet for a long moment. Finally, she asked, "Have you talked to anyone else about it?"
"Emma," he said. "It comes in handy sometimes, having a shrink for a sister."
"And what did she say?"
"She doesn't think I'm crazy," he said, because he really didn't want to scare her any more than he already had. "She doesn't think I'm so far gone that... she says it's something they can deal with. A shrink. She wasn't even shocked that I needed one, but then, I didn't let her see as much as you. Now, I mean. I've been trying hard not to let anybody see how bad it is. But I just can't keep it inside any longer."
"Then don't," she said. "Tell me. I'm right here. Just tell me."
Zach closed his eyes and said, "I wanted to kill him."
He let the words just sit there. They echoed inside his head. Or maybe this was him cracking up. He'd always wondered exactly what would happen when he did. Would he be able to pull himself back? Did people go to the other side and make it back to this one?
"Okay, so you wanted to kill him."
Julie didn't sound that shocked. He wondered, again, if he'd made everything clear. Because it sounded scary as hell to him.
"I really wanted to kill him," he said. "I haven't told anyone that, but I thought if I'd had enough to drink, maybe I could have done it. With my bare hands. That's how I wanted to do it. Nice and slow. As painfully as possible. I wanted him to have to look in my eyes and know I was going to kill him. That he'd never again be able to hurt anyone or scare anyone I love."
"But you didn't," Julie pointed out.
"I threatened to. I made Emma and Grace leave the room, and I put my hands around his neck and squeezed. I probably left bruises on him. If he'd tried to tell anyone, I might have been disbarred. Hell, I could go to jail, right where he's been all this time. Of course, I didn't think that was much of a risk—somebody taking the word of a murdering drunk over mine. But a part of me wished he'd given me a reason, so I could have killed him, and we'd never have to worry about him again."
Zach closed his eyes. He remembered the feel of that man's throat between his hands, the satisfaction that came from hurting him, scaring him, and all the time he'd spent wondering how close he'd come to actually doing it.
"I finally let go, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor, gasping and coughing, and I wasn't even sorry," he confessed, finally coming to the bottom line.
"Zach, you have a right to hate him. I can understand you grabbing him and scaring him."
"Do you know what that makes me, Julie?" He laughed in a way that scared himself even more. "It makes me just like him."
"No, it doesn't," she said.
"I had my hands around his neck, squeezing. I asked him how it felt to be at the mercy of someone else. To know I could do anything I wanted to with him. He could call here tomorrow and say something to Grace or to Emma, and who knows what I might do."
"Once you calmed down, you'd call his parole officer and have him thrown back in jail."
"You don't know that," he yelled. "You don't know how I felt that day. He
just had to see us. He wouldn't fucking go away. He wouldn't shut up. I wanted to slap a restraining order on the bastard, but shit, everybody knows how well those things work. My sisters didn't want to see him, but they didn't want it hanging over their heads, either. As if that bastard deserved to have any say about anything the three of us did.
"Finally, they decided to go ahead, get it over with. He wouldn't be able to surprise any of us that way, and we could all face him together. So I went with them. Grace was almost sick in the car. I had to pull over on the side of the road so she could throw up, and Emma was so pale it was like she didn't have any blood left in her body. And I hated that he could do that to them. I didn't think it was possible to hate someone that much, but I did. I saw him, and..."
"What, Zach? What happened?"
"I look like him," he confessed. "I looked into his face, and I could see me thirty years from now. He had a picture of me and him, claimed he'd had it all these years he spent behind bars, and once he got his act together and straightened up, he looked at this fucking picture and missed me so fucking much and was so fucking sorry... He's a drunk and a murderer, and he looks just like me. I've got his blood running through my veins. His genes. Maybe even how much he loves to drink. What about that?"
"What about it?" she asked softly.
"It's the damnedest thing. All this stuff that's going on... How crazy I feel? How out of control? Having a drink helps. Talk about scaring the shit out of me."
"You've been drinking?" she asked.
"A little. When it gets bad, and I can't calm down. When I can't breathe, and I can't be still, and it seems to get worse and worse, and I just don't know what else to do."
"You know it's not the answer, Zach."
"Logically, yeah. I know it. But I get like this, and the choice is either feeling like this some more or having a drink, and that's when drinking doesn't look so bad. I did that night with you. You saw how crazy I was. But drinking let me forget for a little while that he's a monster, and he's inside me, and I can't get him out."
Zach closed his eyes, and the words seemed to echo through the stillness and the dark. For the longest time, neither one of them moved. There was no sound anywhere. Nothing. Just the blackness of the night.