by Cecy Robson
My fingers idle on the keyboard. As much as I think counseling has been good for him, I’m not blind to how hard it is. The stories his peers share have a profound effect. For a time, Curran’s nightmares worsened. I worried he’d stop attending, but he hasn’t, demonstrating his commitment to his well-being and our future.
The first night he shared his experiences was the hardest for him. I met his shattered expression at the door, saying nothing, only reaching for him. Although he was emotionally battered, it was the first time in months he seemed to sleep peacefully.
Curran’s progress remains slow. He continues to wrestle with his regrets and the uncertainty of whether he can be the cop he once was—the one who won’t hesitate, and the one his fellow officers can depend on. But each session he attends reinforces that he’s not alone.
A sharp rap to the door jerks me back to reality. “Contessa.”
Oh, God.
I barely manage to push away from my dining room table before he knocks again.
“Contessa. I know you’re in there.”
I mutter a few curses as I stomp toward the door and wrench it open. “What took you?” he demands. “I haven’t all day.”
My jaw tightens. “I was working—”
“Is that what you call entertaining men I haven’t approved of?” he asks, scowling.
His bluntness and accusation cement me where I stand. Panic overtakes me as he storms past me, appearing to take everything in and searching for something to throw in my face.
“Farrington Blake phoned me. You remember Farrington?”
He’s not asking me, although I do remember that idiot. My grip on the door handle tightens. Any other woman wouldn’t cower. She would face him and remind him that he’s asking questions that are none of his damn business. A braver person would ask him to leave and not return until he learned how to treat someone like a human being. And a stronger person wouldn’t put up with such disrespect.
But when it comes to my father, I’m not brave, or strong, or grown. I remain that fearful child battered by his words, terrified he’ll hit me, and reduced to nothing.
My mother’s voice rings in my head. Don’t cry. You’ll make your father mad, it tells me.
I don’t want to think about her, or what she did to herself because of him, or that she left me when she left him and never looked back. So I think about my father, because he’s here, and awful, and hurtful. Just as he’s always been.
Get out, I want to say. You ruined me. Get the fuck out of my home.
“Farrington Blake,” Father repeats, growing more irate. “My former investment partner.”
But this isn’t your home, I remind myself. And he’s the one who can kick you out. Sweat slicks my palms. Two months. You’re free in two months.
“I asked you a question, Contessa.”
Two more months.
“Are you that dense?”
Just two more.
“Contessa.”
Jesus. Two months seems like an eternity. I shut the door, not bothering to flick the deadbolt. “What do you want?”
His hideous scowl, the one that ages him, deepens at my words. My tone is feeble, but hits him as if I shouted. “How dare you?”
“How dare I what?” I slap my hands against my sides. “Question your behavior? There’s clearly something you want, or need, or desire. Tell me what it is, but don’t treat me this way.”
He storms up to me, his fury darkening his complexion. “Do you remember Farrington or not?!”
I want to tear my hair out. “Yes. What about him?” I mean to scream, but his looming presence has me shrinking away.
Although he’s angry, a certain satisfaction plagues his sharp features. He enjoys watching me squirm, and it makes me sick. “He saw you last night, stumbling intoxicated out of some pub downtown,” he accuses. “He said you were clinging to a man, barely able to keep your feet under you.”
I blink back at him, stunned. “I wasn’t drunk. I was laughing and—”
“That’s not what it looked like to Farrington—nor to the other investors in Spencer’s campaign he’d been dining with.”
Like I give a damn what those men think of me.
“Who is he, Contessa? Who is this man you chose to parade before my associates and embarrass me with?”
Father and his “associates” are everywhere. Even when he isn’t with me, there’s no escape from his presence. My mouth tightens. Curran is the one thing I have that’s all mine. Our relationship is sacred—no, he’s sacred. I don’t want my father to know anything about us.
Yet as I take in his anger, and sense my own flare, I know I may no longer have a choice.
“Was it that police officer—the one who watches you?” He scoffs when I keep my mouth closed. “Will you bed the trash collector next? Or is he too good for a woman of your repute?”
My breaths release in painful bursts, and my body turns unbearably rigid. I can’t take his verbal thrashing. But I also can’t stay quiet. “His name is Curran. He’s Declan O’Brien’s brother.” Father straightens. “He makes me happy,” I admit, my voice shaking. “And he makes me laugh. Last night, he made me laugh so hard I could barely walk.”
“Declan O’Brien has a brother?”
He doesn’t care what Curran means to me, and he still doesn’t appear to remember him. His thoughts fixate on something else, not that it should surprise me.
My happiness doesn’t matter to my father. It never has. “He has several brothers,” I answer. “All professionals who have invested wisely.”
Oh, look. He’s not impressed. The distaste puckering his lips makes that clear enough. “But aside from Declan, none are known, have sought prominence, or engaged among the elite. None. Correct?” he points out.
Curran’s brothers Killian and Finn are well known in the mixed martial arts circuit, but that won’t impress someone like my father. “No,” I answer, quietly.
His face twists, in that same way it did the last time he beat me and called me worthless. “You’re such a fool,” he tells me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the blood coursing through my veins pulsing hard against my ears. I should be used to his cruelty. But my father’s words never fail to claw at my soul.
He circles me, like I’m his prey, probably because I am. After all, he’s spent years making me so. “The future king well within your grasp, Contessa, and you choose to bed the court jester, simply because he makes you laugh.” He walks away then, speaking with each controlled step. “Consider your last semester of law school unpaid—and consider it a charitable punishment. I tire of your incompetence.”
I startle when the door slams shut behind him, the sudden movement causing the room to spin and nausea to engulf me. I race into my bedroom and into the bathroom, throwing the lid to the toilet open as I fall into an awkward crouch.
I’m sure I’m going to be sick, the pain crawling from my stomach and to my throat burning like liquid fire. But despite the agony, I can’t escape my father’s judgment or his words.
It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve worked, or what I’ve achieved. To him, I’m nothing more than a drunken slut, far too inept to ever evolve into more.
The pain increases as his cruelty consumes me. I don’t want to be so weak. But when it comes to my father, I always have been.
Tears drip from my chin. How is it possible for him to defeat me with only words? Wasn’t he supposed to be the first man to love me?
The pain takes its time to dissolve until I’m finally able to stand and wash my hands. Slowly I walk out to my bedroom and lower myself to the edge of the bed. I glance down, realizing for the first time how hard I’m trembling.
I stare at my shaking hands. This time, misery doesn’t cause my tears. But hate does.
I hate my father.
It should hurt to think it, and I should feel some guilt. Yet all I feel is numb.
There are women who worship their fathers. Women who seek their advice. Women w
ho easily express affection to the men who gave them life.
I was forced to worship.
I was told to idolize.
I sought advice to pacify him.
And I was expected to show affection.
But I never meant any of it.
One memory. I rack my mind for one moment that would hint at a true gesture of love or kindness. I find nothing.
I hate him. But I realize then that perhaps he hates me, too.
I’m not sure how long I sit there, only that it’s long enough for my trembling to subside and for darkness to claim the room. I finally stand and return to the bathroom, stopping short when I see my reflection.
My mouth falls open. Am I really this pale, or is this how my interactions with my father leave me—an apparition of what I could be?
I startle again when someone knocks, two beats followed by one, then two.
Curran has arrived.
Chapter 23
Tess
I rush to open my cosmetics drawer when Curran knocks again. “Baby, you in there?”
I pass some blush powder over my cheeks. “I’m coming. I’m in the bathroom.” My fingers make quick work of fluffing my hair and adjusting my glasses before I all but run to open the door.
Curran crosses the threshold with a bag of groceries tucked under his arm. His smile isn’t forced. Not like mine. “Hey, angel face.”
“Hey, cop.”
As soon as I lock the door, he pulls me into a one-arm hug and kisses me, but when he pulls back, he’s frowning. “You okay?”
I step back, glancing around nervously. “Yes. Just tired. Long day of reading and research.”
He watches me for a beat, his attention traveling to the dining room, where my laptop is open and my books and notes are spread out. Yet despite my “evidence,” it’s clear he doesn’t believe me. I rub his shoulder. “But it’s better now that you’re here,” I say. And because I mean that so much, it helps me smile for real this time, helping us both to relax.
When his smile meets mine, I take his hand and lead him into the kitchen. “So, what magnificent feast do you have in store for me tonight?”
“Spaghetti. With my secret sauce.”
“Ketchup?” I offer.
He laughs and places the bag on the counter before stripping out of his jacket. “It’s actually made with roasted vegetables. It won’t take long once they’re done cooking.”
I stand behind him and circle his waist with my arms before kissing the spot behind his ears. “Mmm. Sounds awesome.”
“It’s not all wild sex and movie star looks, babe. I got mad skills you’ve never even dreamed of.”
“Really?” I nuzzle his neck. “I can’t wait to see them.”
“Yeah?” He turns his head to meet my face. “Well, what say we get these groceries unpacked and I’ll show you while the veggies cook.”
My body warms at the sizzle in his eyes. I release him, grinning, and step toward the paper bag perched on the counter. When I reach in, I expect to find only food. Instead my fingers latch on to the thick string of a small gift bag.
He shrugs when I glance back at him. “It’s no big deal. I saw it, and thought of you.”
“That’s so sweet, babe.” I push aside the green tissue paper, touched by the gesture. But when I pull out a pair of pink and navy argyle socks, my heart falls to the floor.
“I know you like those things, and I figured you can never have enough, right?”
His voice trails when he sees my face.
My father’s appearance had left me raw. And while Curran had managed to lift my spirits, these ridiculous socks and their significance cause me to lose my composure.
“Tess…what’s wrong?”
I back away when he reaches for me, batting my hands and trying to shake off my reaction. “What’s wrong?” he asks again. This time, he clasps my wrists and doesn’t let go.
“Christ,” he says, pulling me to him to cup my face. “What is it? Did something happen—did someone hurt you?”
“It-it’s nothing,” I insist, even though by now I’m crying.
A fierceness I’ve never seen spreads across his features, hardening them to steel. “Tell me what’s happening,” he says through clenched teeth.
My face meets his, that awful feeling of hate returning. “I don’t like the socks.”
It’s an asinine thing to say, and at first he seems confused, until he realizes I mean a lot more. “Why?”
I release a shaky breath. For all I didn’t want him to know, there’s no going back now. “Because I’m forced to wear them,” I admit.
“How are you forced to…Jesus,” he says, when he notices my worsening state. “Is this about your dad?”
I don’t want to answer, but manage to nod.
“He…dresses you? Picks out your clothes? Is that what you’re saying?”
Again, all I do is nod.
“Does he…” Curran drops his arms away, swallowing hard, his rage brewing close to the surface. “Does he put his hands on you?”
“No. Not like you think. What he does isn’t physical.”
“Then how does he force you, and why do you let him?”
My lips part. Curran’s harsh tone borders on accusing. “It’s not easy to explain.”
“Maybe not. But you need to tell me, and you need to tell me right now.”
There’s no getting out of this. And while I hate that I’ve kept so much from him, it doesn’t make it any easier to speak. I cross my arms and walk into the living room.
Curran follows, lowering himself beside me when I take a seat on the couch. He waits, giving me time to gather my thoughts. I only hope I can form them into words he’ll understand.
“I have nothing,” I tell him. “I have no claim to this apartment or anything in it. My education, rent, utilities, and everything else is paid for, but it comes at a price.”
Curran doesn’t move and barely blinks. But he’s listening. The anger stirring in his irises tells me as much.
My vision blurs with the start of my tears, and from the shame and anger raking my skin. But I continue. Not because I want to, or because it’s easy, but because for the first time, I have someone to tell. “Everything from my clothes, to my furniture, to my linens is selected for me.” I rub my hands. “Do you want to know why I don’t eat much, or why my pantry is always empty?”
He doesn’t answer, but I didn’t expect him to. “Because I’m restricted to a certain amount of calories each day. So I don’t get fat. I’m getting fat, you know.” Bitterness seeps into my voice. I try to settle down by continuing to rub my hands, but of course, it does nothing. “I’m allowed six ounces of protein a day and all the kale I can stomach. Before you came along, if I didn’t portion my meals correctly, I’d starve. I can’t buy what I want because I don’t have any money. And I can’t get a paying job because then I’ll be cut off completely, everything but the clothes on my back taken, and thrown out into the street.”
Curran’s jaw tightens and his form becomes alarmingly still. “Why?” he asks barely above a growl. “Is it just about control? Or is he punishing you for something his fucked-up mind thinks you did?”
I didn’t expect him to be so specific or for his anger to be what it is. “It’s always been about control,” I say. “Ever since I was a child, he’s had a hand in every aspect of my life—even the people I associate with.” I look at him then. “And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
Curran slowly rises, his hands balling into tight fists. “Does he hurt you? I’m serious, Tess. I need to know if he’s hitting you, grabbing you—anything. Or using words to scare you.”
I start to stand, only to sit again. This conversation is already too much, and my fragile nerves aren’t ready for it. “When I was a child, my father would repeatedly strike me and berate me to instill fear. But the last time he hit me, I was in my early teens.”
“So he doesn’t touch you?” he repeats.
> I lean forward, my head throbbing. “No. He’s very careful. His control now is financial and emotional. He continues to insult me, and degrade me, but not enough to constitute abuse.”
Curran gives me his back and swears. “No grounds for a Protection from Abuse Order.”
I wipe my eyes. “No, and I’d be a fool to try for one.”
He looks at me then. “No you wouldn’t.”
The lump in my throat builds so tight I can barely get my words out. “Come on, Curran. Can you see me before a judge? Opposing counsel would rip me apart. Here I am, this grown, intelligent woman about to graduate law school who’s taken Donald Newart, respected member of the community and political legend, to court—for what? Paying my tuition, giving me a lavish apartment with furnishings, providing me with food. I can hear his attorney now. ‘My, Miss Newart, if this was such a nightmare, if living the life of a kept woman was too hard to take, why didn’t you walk away? You had the education that your father paid for. Why didn’t you work at a coffee shop or a local dry cleaner for something better? If this was so torturous, why take it?’ ”
“Why did you?” Curran’s deep and vicious tone immediately silences me. “He’s an asshole, Tess. Why did you take his shit? You’re better than that.”
No. I’m not.
I can’t contain my quivering voice. “Because I always have. Because it’s all I’ve ever known. And because I never had a way out until now.” Tears dribble down my cheeks. “I have two more months of school and then the bar to pass. Once I get through this, I’m free.”
“Screw that. You can be free now. Walk away. Tonight. Leave now and don’t look back. You said it yourself—there’s nothing for you here.”
“I can’t.”
Curran throws out his hands. “Why the hell not? What’s stopping you?”
I stand to face him. “Didn’t you hear me? I don’t have any money, Curran. None. No line of credit, because I have no credit cards—I can’t even open a bank account.” I swerve right, then left, uselessly searching for a place to go, only to stop. “He found out about us. You know what he did to punish me? He saddled me with the tuition for my last semester of law school. Thirty thousand dollars. Where am I going to get this money?”