I think about him when you ask me if I need anything.
He never cared. You care. You’ve always cared. I know you didn’t care for me sitting in my car. You thought I was going to run away. Not that I could. You wouldn’t let me leave. In the past, I never wanted to be anywhere but here. Now I’m not sure if I can stay.
I think about that asshole when I couldn’t find you.
Terror like I’ve never known burned through my body when I ordered every single one of my men to search the house and grounds for you. I ran with an inferno blazing in my chest fucking crazed with the idea that I’d lost you again only to find you in the garage. Contemplating driving away. Killing me that you want to leave. I can’t let you. I’ll never let you. Which makes me no better than that bastard. Except for the fact I love you more than you can seem to understand.
I think about him when I see the disgust on your face.
You don’t have to feel guilty about your revulsion. I understand. I really do. I disgust myself too. I wouldn’t want to touch me either. The scars and bruises remind both of us of what he did. What I did. Making me realize I should have fought harder and longer to keep him from beating me and torturing me and raping me. I thought I tried. While I was there I thought I tried really hard to protect myself. But now, looking back on it, I guess it wasn’t enough.
Dr. Miller said I wasn’t ready for surgery yet. Maybe when I am you’ll give me another chance. You won’t see his brand on me anymore, and you’ll decide I’m worth touching again. You’ll decide I’m worth loving again.
I think about you when I’m supposed to be working.
I’m so fucking distracted. You say I’m impulsive, quick tempered, reckless, dangerous. I’m all those and more when you’re hurting and I can’t do a god damn fucking thing about it. Except wait. You know how horrible I am at waiting. I just want to fix this. Now! I want to comfort you but you won’t even let me hug you. Fucking flinching every time I get too close. It’s not even about fucking you. I just want to hold you, rosy girl. I just need you to know I love you. God, I fucking love you and never thought I’d struggle this damn much to make you believe me.
I think of him when you got angry.
When you read my journal and got so damn angry. Ripping the pages right out of the spine and throwing them across the room and watching them float down to the carpet like confetti. That was MY book! MY BOOK!!! That Jane said I had to write in. That YOU said I should write in. Everyone thinks that damn book is so great. And then you tore it up. Tore it right up and made a huge mess and didn’t even care.
Now I’m writing on this stupid yellow notepad you found and gave me. This isn’t my journal. This isn’t what I want. This isn’t me. None of this is right!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I think about your husband when I scared you.
Your god damn fucking motherfucking bastard husband.
I can’t believe you’re married to that son of a bitch.
I’m losing my shit. I’m not going to lie. I know it was wrong to read your diary without your permission. I broke every single one of Jane’s damn rules. But I heard you crying in the shower. You were in there for over an hour and when you wouldn’t come out after I asked you to, I just freaked the fuck out.
I think I’ve lost my mind to know the truth. Of what he said and did and put you through.
Fuck. I’m sorry Giselle. So fucking sorry.
How the fuck do I make you understand I love you, and I don’t think you’re repulsive? You’re beautiful. And you’re mine. You’re MY rosy girl. I don’t give a damn what any paper says.
I think I hate you.
I KNOW you hate me.
You keep saying everything is going to be all right. You scream that you’ll fucking get me more therapists, more doctors, more medicine. You yell that you’ve got money and a plane and you’ll make them help me. You shout that you’ll pay whatever it costs, take me wherever we have to go, force whoever you have to for me to get help.
What helps me is that I know where you keep your guns. You should never have told me. You should never have taught me.
How the fuck do I keep from losing my god damn mind when the woman I love wants to die and pleads with me to pull the trigger? How do I keep going when you’re on your knees begging me to kill you because you think that’s what I want? Son of a bitch.
I think of him when you unbuckled the straps on my wrists.
He was harsh. You are gentle.
They are cloth instead of metal. They don’t leave any marks. They don’t make the scars bleed.
Which is good. I don’t like blood. I don’t want to get blood on the bed. Or me. Anymore.
Jane lives here now. She said she likes my new journal. That I made a good choice from the ten boxes of diaries you had delivered. I think so too. I like the daisies. They seem cheerful. Cheerful is what we need.
I think of that motherfucking bastard when you look at me with that vacant expression.
You’re awake now and seem calm. Didn’t even get upset when you realized we restrained you to keep you from hurting yourself when you had your breakdown. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or not. If I was fucking tied up, everyone responsible would be dead in a heartbeat when I got loose. I guess you don’t have it in you to fight any more.
That’s okay, rosy girl. I’ll fight for you. For fucking us. I’ve got enough fire to burn through any hesitation or doubt or bullshit. Whatever you need or want, no matter how big or small, I’ll fucking deliver. You never have to question my love or commitment again. You never have to worry about anything. This is all for you and about you. I will fix all of it.
I think about Tara and the other girls that worked for him when Mrs. Griffith brings me warm apple cider.
Two cinnamon sticks bobbing in the shiny, oversized black mug as much as her silver-haired head, encouraging me to ask her for anything I need. Don’t be shy, she urged me. Reminding me again that she’s happy to make me anything I want. Eager to provide me with anything I need.
I couldn’t control the tears that burned my eyes. But if I cried, she’d cry too, and I didn’t want that. So I nodded and hugged her with a strength I hope conveyed my appreciation. Her soft hand stroking over and over my back made me never wanted to let her go. A gentle yet firm touch conveyed a confident reassurance that she would help make everything better too.
Such a thoughtful person to remember what I like and try to comfort me. Yet she and her concern are also a reminder of the others who suffered along with me. Probably after I was gone too. I might be free, but I can only assume they’re still prisoners to his world. Left behind to navigate a new life without him. Figure out what to do when the boss is dead and your job suddenly ends in a burst of flames literally.
Because of me.
Because of you.
I’ve been afraid to talk to you about what happened when you found me. Frightened to know the truth. Terrified that the man I love would hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. I don’t think so. Yet this entire experience stirs my doubt. Uncertainty circling in my heart faster and faster that maybe they didn’t survive. Did anyone protect them when you burned my prison to the ground? Or save the women and children living in the homes you attacked? Those men may have been guilty of crimes I don’t even want to imagine but I have to know if you harmed the other innocent people trapped in this nightmare.
Jane said I should ask you. That I have to genuinely understand what you’re capable of to genuinely understand you. But what if you’re not the man I think you are? Then what do I do?
I think about my secret when you ask me what happened when I stormed his mansion.
You were nervous when you questioned me. Clutching a coffee cup so tight between your small fingers I thought the ceramic would crack. Pretending to wander into my office by chance, you perched on the edge of the cushion. Ready to bolt if I spooked you. Almost as awkwardly adorable as when we first met. God I fucking miss those days.
Thank fucking god you d
idn’t jump away when I dropped down in the chair next to you. Weird sitting on the other side of my desk. Even weirder that we attempted and failed at small talk instead of open, genuine conversation like we used to have. Clumsy and unnatural because we haven’t found our way back to where we belong. Neither of us ourselves yet.
But I was stalling. Trying to figure out how to answer without scaring you more. Without making you hate me.
You surprised me though. Impressed me, really, when you took a deep breath and jumped in. Asking if the women who worked for him got out safely after the explosion.
Fuck me.
So damn compassionate to care about others’ well-being after you were tortured. Considering their safety beyond your rescue to worry about them. This is another reason I love you so much, rosy girl. And another reason for you to despise me.
I was as honest as I could be when I told you I wasn’t thinking about them. Didn’t care about anyone but you. Wrong or right, I didn’t give a damn about anything but finding you and bringing you home. It wasn’t my responsibility to take care of other men’s families.
You were quiet for a long time. Sipping your drink and thinking over my proclamation. Grasping my selfishness compared to your generosity. Hopefully understanding my love for you.
Instead, you ran your fingertip around and around the edge of your mug. Revolving as much as the uncertainty clouding your beautiful face. Finally, questioning if I’d killed anyone besides my enemies. Now that pissed me off. Regardless of how fragile you are right now and how gentle I need to be with you, I couldn’t let you think I’d knowingly hurt a woman or a kid.
Luckily you didn’t flinch from the harsh tone of my response. You actually seemed to welcome the ferocity of my answer, and the tension gripping your narrow shoulders released. Your hands ceasing in their anxious movements. Whispering “good” two times as you nodded. While relief flooded through me that you accepted my adamancy without argument. Giving me a sliver of hope that you still believe in me. Trust in my word.
You caught me off guard again when you asked about me. What was it like for me while you were missing? Tears welled up in your gorgeous eyes when I told you it was hell. God damn motherfucking hell. I couldn’t help myself when fat tears streamed down your pink cheeks, and I swiped the huge droplets off your silky skin with my thumbs. Probably too soon to touch you. To be so bold, but there is nothing I hate more than you crying, rosy girl. Especially for me when all of this is my damn fault.
I hated your sob when I admitted I didn’t sleep for six days after that motherfucker ambushed you while you stopped for a latte after that newborn baby’s first photo shoot. Passing out from exhaustion and the sleeping pills Danny slipped into my food. I would of beat his ass too if I hadn’t been so laser focused on finding you when I woke up.
We traveled the world searching for you. Racking up more miles on my plane in that one month than the entire time I’ve owned the jet. I swear to fucking god I could still smell your strawberry shampoo floating over the leather seats. That I could taste your essence on my tongue when I drank from the water bottles in the drawer were I kept your favorite snacks. Could feel your satin skin under my fingertips when I sat in the spot where you’d let me fuck you on the way to Barbados. You surrounded me. It felt like you were right there with me, and yet I had no fucking clue where you really were.
I ate just to keep going because everything tasted like shit without you. I only slept when I collapsed because you were always in my dreams, and I couldn’t fucking rescue you in them either. I worked out only to keep from killing my own guys with my rage. No one could fucking track you or that bastard down and I didn’t know what the fuck to do with the adrenaline running through my veins twenty-four / seven.
Then to finally find you. In a motherfucking cage. Terrified like a trapped animal. Not even trusting me or that I was really there, I about lost my damn head then. So when you asked me rosy girl if I worried or cared or wondered about anyone but you, I’m sorry but the answer is hell the fuck no. I wanted you. Only you. And by god I’d found you and wasn’t fucking spending any time thinking about anyone else but getting you out and home and with me.
I don’t think either of us was breathing when you finally looked up. Or when you slammed down your mug onto the side table and scrambled into my lap. Shocking the hell out of both of us. But when you coiled around me, I almost fucking cried too. Letting me touch you. Allowing yourself to touch me. I don’t think I’d ever been happier despite you weeping on my shoulder. You needed me and I was finally fucking there for you. I swear to god from now on I’ll always be here for you. I love you rosy girl.
I think about him when I wake up and find you watching me.
He would smile too. But his smile was for him. For what he was about to do. For his sick glee from taking me without permission.
Your smile was for me. For what you were about to do. For your pure joy to hold me with permission.
My hand anyway. That’s all I can do right now. You didn’t act disappointed even if you were. Instead, you nodded and folded my small fingers between your huge ones after you kissed each knuckle. You told me you like me being in our bed. Being next to you. Being with you. I like all of that too. Most of all, I like that you like it.
I think about that bastard monster when you shrink into yourself under my gaze.
I know I’m a fucking creeper. But for the first time since you’ve been home you actually slept for more than four hours without waking up screaming. I couldn’t help but enjoy you resting so damn peacefully. Only for me to ruin your tranquility when you caught me.
At least you smiled back. You seemed to relax when I told you good morning. Almost, I clarified. It was still pretty early. You giggled anyway. You stayed calm when I slid my hand toward yours. Slow yet deliberate until my fingers tangled with yours, and I kissed your tender skin. Relishing the subtle fruity perfume that reminds me of that sangria you loved on vacation. I’m no romantic but I made love to you with my words as best I could rosy girl. Until your heavy eyes drifted shut and you sighed. I watched you sleep again. Hoping you felt safe and protected lying next to me.
I think about him when your strong fingers ball into fists.
Tapping your knuckles against the thick brown fabric of the chair-and-a-half. The comfy seat perfect for the library. More of the hot seat now that the room has turned into a make-shift therapist’s office. Your impatience and irritation were undeniable.
Yet you stayed. For me.
You’re what my grandmother always called a man’s man. Actually, you’re the epitome of the expression. Tough. Relentless. Successful. Loyal. Impressing women as much as men. Unconcerned with the opinions of others. Sexy and refined in your expensive suits and confident demeanor. Yet dangerous and gritty under the surface. Especially when faced with a challenge. Ready to fight to the death for anything you want. Including me.
Which is why I love you. Which is why I know you hate these sessions with Jane.
You don’t want talk. You want action. You want me. I want you too. I’m just hopeful Jane can figure out how I can give myself to you again.
I think about you while Jane counsels us together.
She says we need to talk more, and she needs to talk less. That our sessions with her are for us, not her. Well no shit. But doesn’t she know I fucking hate this stuff? That I’m fucking terrified I’ll say or do the wrong thing and destroy you. You talk, rosy girl, and I’ll listen. I’ll listen all damn day and night to anything you want to say. Anything you want me to hear. Anything you’re too worried to tell me. Because I know you’re holding back. You’re keeping something from me. Something that you think will hurt me. But that’s not fucking possible. Because as long as you’re here I’ll be fine. I am fine.
Except for the first time ever, I’m scared too. Because what I’m hiding might break us as well. But I have no choice. I can’t do anything other than what I do. I can’t be anything other than what I am. I can’t h
elp but fucking pray you love me anyway.
I think about you when I write down when I fell in love with you like Jane asks us to.
First we write, then we share. I like the idea of remembering what we have so we can delve into the present. To remind ourselves of our connection, our foundation. Because I know we’re both scared of what the future holds for us.
When you surprised me that day at my house, I was expecting lunch. Maybe wasting away the afternoon over coffee. I never, ever expected you to take me to a loft in the middle of downtown. Gorgeous with the tall windows and exposed brick and open floor plan. I loved the sound of my heels clattering on the hardwood. Powerful and purposeful as we toured the vast space. That I naively assumed to be your new office.
Not the perfect studio.
That you found for me.
So you bought the entire building.
Somehow I found my voice to speak, explaining that while I really appreciated your efforts and generosity I couldn’t afford this despite how much I loved it.
Dirty, Bruised Martini: A Dark Mafia Romance Page 5