“Jesus, Zeke. How the hell can you stomach shit like that?”
“You talking about my demons or the whiskey?”
“The fucking whiskey. You need to slow down, brother. It can’t be that bad. For fuck’s sake.” He’s about to hear how bad it really was and still is.
“It can’t be that bad?” I seethe.
Everything inside me that’s been wound up so tight rushes out all at once. Anger, disgust, lust over a woman that’s so fucked up that the last thing she wants or needs is to have a man wanting to do anything to try and help her. I’ve seen the way she looks at me. At any male for that matter. She doesn’t trust us. She’s been ripped apart. Her life was stolen from her, and with everything that I am, I know it has everything to do with a man. That’s what drove her to live in the gutter. To damn near die in one. And I’m a sick bastard for wanting to turn her life around just to get one look at the beautiful woman underneath her fucked-up mess. I let loose on my baby brother.
“Let me tell you how bad it is. It’s the nightmares every night from seeing the blood of a woman beaten half to death, attacked in some dirty alley. Degraded in a way no person should be. Wait, this is an everyday type of business for you, isn’t it?”
Shit. I immediately regret those words before I finished saying them. I’ve fought day in and day out to keep Amelia from haunting my mind and soul. I have no fucking idea what kind of spell she’s put on me. Whatever is going on in my head, the last person I should be taking it out on is my brother. He loves that club. Those people are as much family to him as I am. I guess tonight is all about being honest, because every single one of them are family to me, too.
“Damn it, Saxon, that came out wrong. I did not mean you would hurt a woman. I’m sorry.”
The words themselves are hollow, because I damn well know if any woman double crossed the club, they’d have their consequences just like everyone else. My mind is a fucking mess. I take another swig of whiskey praying that all the puzzle pieces would link together and give me the answer to the one question that’s been dragging me down since the day I found her half dead. Why her?
“I know what you meant. Not going to apologize for the shit I do. That club and my brothers in it are just as much my family as you are. The only difference is, we are blood, and I know my blood. You care about this girl more than you're telling me. Got some questions for you.” Damn. We may not look like brothers, but we sure as hell can tell what the other one is feeling and thinking. He snatches the bottle out of my hand, taking a long pull of the whiskey, then wiping his lips with the back of his hand. I internally laugh. Yup. He’s my brother, all right.
“First one is, why the hell didn’t you tell me about this? You may not agree with what we do. But there is no way in fucking hell you wouldn’t want retaliation on these fuckers. Especially with what went down with our sister.” Truth. My skin stings. His words slice me wide open. I may as well tell him what’s eating away at the other half of my soul.
I take another swig as I stand in front of him before admitting all of my wrongs and his rights. “You wear your soul on your sleeve, Saxon. I’ve buried mine deep under my degree. But this girl has brought every single fucking insecurity of mine out, and I hunger in ways I can’t comprehend to protect her.”
Saxon nods as if he understands where I’m coming from. He doesn’t.
“We couldn’t save our own blood, and I know this. This girl brought it all back for me. It hurts like hell, but then there’s such a hollowness in her pupils making me want to help her. I wear the suit coat of a doctor and the scrubs. The lines are black printed on white. I’ve blurred them for the club, but this girl makes me want to spray all sorts of colors on that fucking rigid canvas.”
“Are you in love with her?” Saxon plucks the bottle out of my hands and grins before he downs more whiskey. Maybe I should have grabbed us some glasses after all. “You are feeling shit you’ve never felt before, brother.” More truth. This I’m not ready to admit to him. Hell, I haven’t quite figured out how to fully admit all of this to myself.
“No, I’m fucking struggling. I know I should stay away, but I can’t.” I slam my hand down on my thigh. “Fuck, I already paid for all her surgeries and made sure she was safe in a rehab facility, and it’s taking everything inside of me not to go see how she’s doing.”
It’s clear Saxon picks up on my fucking tension. “Christ, Zeke. That had to cost you some cash. Not that money is more important, because we both know it ain’t. What all do you know about her?”
This question strikes me fucking hard in the gut. I take a seat and bury my face in my hands then rub my palms over my cleanly shaven head deep in thought. “That’s the problem. You hit the motherfucking nail on the head. I know nothing about her. Not one absolute fucking thing.”
“Here’s an idea, dipshit, find shit out about her. Who she is, what she likes, and most of all, who in the fuck did this to her. And, if you’re really invested in that shit, you know you can call me, and I'll take care of it. If this is a fluke, then move on. Not rocket science, asshole.”
“Dick.” Fucker knows me well. The same as I know what he means by taking care of it.
That’s all my mind requires. Whatever kind of feelings I have for this girl doesn’t have shit to do with what went down with our sister. It has everything to do with the fact that I’m afraid she would crumble my walls. Be the one person who could make me strive to be a better man. To want something more out of life than fancy cars and clothes. A house too big for a single man to live in. Again with the why her? She can’t even see past her own shadow, let alone think about a future.
“I know you have that fancy degree and all that fucking jazz, man. Don’t mean shit when you're living your dream alone.” He hands me the bottle, and I indulge. “But seriously...find out more and make your decision.”
I take two long and very healthy gulps of the whiskey before I ask him a question. “You’ll really be there for me, for her, if needed?”
I glance his way. Knowing that was the dumbest question I’ve asked him in my life. “Have you saved countless club members?” He pauses. “Did you save Katch? Create fake names for him and Caitlin? Put your motherfucking degree on the line for the club? And”—he leans into my space—“do you and I not have the same blood running through our veins? Blood that’s so thick with wanting to help others out that it doesn’t matter how we do it as long as it get done?”
“Man, do you realize how screwed up that statement is? Your way of helping others out is by slicing their throats. The same throats I should be saving.” He merely shrugs. The little fucker.
“Nah. I leave the slicing the throats to Curtis. I can’t stand all that blood. I rather shoot them between the eye and be done with it.” For shit’s sake. I don’t even want to know.
A stale silence fills the room. I know for fucking sure he doesn’t need to ask any more questions. It’s a known fact. Saxon will be there for me, and I’ll always be there for him.
That’s why my question stuns both of us.
“I’ll deal with finding out who did this to her if you’ll talk to Katch and find out exactly who Amelia Moore is?”
7
Amelia
I lie back on the mattress after my guardian angel leaves my room. The confusing part of my brain is asking me how words spoken by a young nurse could be what pushed me over the edge to admit I truly need help. While the addictive part of me is screaming like a bitch in heat that I should be going to the dining hall acting like a victim who is healing. You are one. I know I am.
I should be heading down the hall to take my pills, playing the part. Or go with the option of simply walking out that door naked and resume my degrading life. Not a one of those feel like the right option for me. The bigger picture has now been painted before me, and it’s staring me down like a blank canvas in my mind.
I have a choice.
And I know it now.
The first order of business
will be admitting my wrongs no matter how painful it may be. And it’s going to hurt like a bitch.
I make my way to the nurse's station, get my meds and swallow each jagged pill, feeling their edges slice my throat wide open. I don’t want to put any type of pill in my mouth again. Once I get through with what needs to be done first, I’ll be asking my therapist about this. I want a clear mind. A blank canvas. And no matter how bad it becomes, I’m determined to make it on my own.
I walk back to my room, place the antibiotic ointment Zoe gave me for the scratches on top of my pillow as a reminder to apply it after washing my perfect, fixed face before bed. I have a choice to keep up with my hygiene, and it’s time to hold myself accountable. There’s no excuse not to when my personal bathroom is full of products. Change. For me.
I fidget with my hands as I walk down the hall with my head held high, hesitating before I knock, turn the knob, and enter the cheery room for my session. Making sure the door stays open. That’s a fear I may never live without.
Everything looks different in here this time around. The light-yellow walls with pictures of a sunrise so beautiful I fight back the tears. Not once have I sat and enjoyed the true beauty of a new day or the end of one. My life has been nothing but a constant storm setting over the horizon. It saddens me. The power I’ve allowed the evil in this world to have over me. They made me hate myself. Abuse my own body in the same way they did. And every part of me is screaming inside to let the real me out. Whoever she is.
I sit in the chair across from his empty desk, my impatience becoming thinner with each passing second. I start to wring my fingers together in my lap. I’d be lying if my next high wasn’t a priority in my thoughts. It would help me get through this. It’s all I think about. It’s the current thought in my head; it’s the next step I want to take. I need it. Crave it and have that consuming feeling I’d give anything up to feel numb again. I need help. God, I need so much of it that I don’t know where to begin.
The pain fades into unforgiving thoughts. The sound of my torn flesh as my stepbrother rams himself into me must go mute. That’s why I need the high. The sounds need to be silenced. The feelings numbed, not me. I need to feel. To know that every second of every day means I’m living.
I have a choice. I can do this.
As long as there is oxygen in my lungs. I have a choice.
A shadow appears in the doorway, snapping me out of my vicious vortex of thoughts. I peer up to Ronan McDaniels entering his own domain. He strides easily to his chair positioned behind his cleared-off desk without looking at me. He’s angry. Has every right to be. It’s then, with the tension in this room so thick I could get lost in it, when all my awful thoughts flood back in.
I’m not only addicted to getting high. I’m highly addicted to sex. It’s the stepping stone to the gateway of freedom. My body needs not wants. It craves. My thighs rub together with a dampening happening in the apex of my thighs. It’s a chain reaction. I have to have the high and feel the numbing in my head while thinking sex is the highway to get there. It’s all one ball of fucked-up with me in the center.
Ronan relaxes back in his chair, with an ink pen going between his sexy lips. Those eyes would admire me on my knees while I sucked his cock hard. No. They would not. He wants to help you. Let him.
Choice, Amelia, you have a choice.
The ache is real between my legs, my panties soaked, and it’s all written in that sunset behind him that I need his help. I refuse to leave here until I understand the true meaning to what, why, or how I’m here. Ronan stares at me, making it clear the ball is in my court. On a nervous reaction, I clear my throat and fight to clear my mind. It’s a struggle. The true fucking Merriam-Webster Dictionary type of definition. I bow my head. Unable to look at him. I’m so ashamed.
“I need to say something.” Silence. So much of it that my fucked-up head has no idea what to do with it. I close my eyes. The sting of how quiet it is rings in my ears. It thumps.
“You need to look me in the eye, Amelia. I won’t have a conversation with you about anything without eye contact.” Oh, God. Help me. Give me strength.
I lift my head. My first thoughts battle with the shame of what I’ve done. The dimple in his chin fucking turns me on as he waits for my answer. My tongue would easily sweep into that crevice then down his chest until my lips were wrapped around his thick cock as I seek my prize to my next high. I root deep to an invisible anchor low in my belly. Please, help me.
“I’m sorry, Ronan.” I need to say these words. I pause waiting for his reaction, but there is none. He’s blank.
He rocks back and forth in his office chair with his pen now tapping that chin I could lick. I brush it all away. It’s time for Amelia. Time for me to stop thinking of hurting myself. Facing my fears and knocking down my weakness.
“It was very wrong what I did. I’m in a bad mess. I…uh, I…uh…I’m an addict, and it’s not just drugs. I need help, and I’m so scared right now that if I don’t get the help I need, I’m going to die either by my hand or someone else’s.”
The door creaks, causing me to stiffen and my stare to go directly to it. It’s till wide open. I hate hearing things. No door to my room is the only saving grace here that allows me to sleep at night. I screamed bloody murder when they first closed me in, convulsing in my bed. Begging them to take it off. I gaze at the sturdy door for long moments, waiting for someone or something to come in and rescue me. Nothing happens. No one is there. I swear someone is there waiting for me. I shake the crazy thoughts from my muddled mind. I’m losing it. Hanging on by the thinnest of threads.
I turn back to Ronan, who is still staring at me in a way that further creeps out my mind. He doesn’t believe me, and it cuts me wide open and raw that a man who only wants to help me is a man who I threw myself at in order to ease my high. To erase the pain flowing through my veins if only for a little while. I’m a disgrace. I clear my throat. Bow my head and lift it up again.
“I was hurt when I was younger. It made me into the person I am today.” God, each word that slips from tongue is devastating, harsh, and cruel. It’s a living nightmare. No matter how tight my insides are squeezing until I can barely breathe, or how much I think I honestly love how the old Amelia lived, I push on. I have oxygen and a choice. “My stepfather and his son raped me nightly. I fell pregnant at the age of fourteen. They became so angry. Fighting and yelling over the fact that one of them had fucked up. They took me into my stepfather’s office for an abortion. I tried. I really did try to get the words out to the nurse who helped my stepfather take the baby. I couldn’t get them to come out. I was frightened out of my mind. My mother knew and turned a blind eye to it all.” Still, there’s silence. He’s testing me. I can see the push for me to go on in his eyes. I swallow that lump that wants to stop me from talking. It does not belong there. Not today. Not ever.
“I’d count numbers in my head. Picking multiples that were hard to memorize. I’d chant out the numbers over and over in my head to try and ignore what was happening to my body. What they were doing to me. Numbers were my game that made the pain disappear. Then one night, I snapped and ran. Survival was my game. My sanity the only victor. Only I didn’t survive, and my sanity became a loss. I found meth and the ways in how to get it. Everything became a blank slate. Didn’t matter how I got the drugs. I needed them so bad to clear my head. Those men could fuck me however they wanted as long as I was numb. When I came down from the high, I hated myself. I didn't want to let them do the things they did or see their pleasured expression as they got off on me. I needed to be numb, Ronan.”
Silence fills the suffocating office more than ever now. Ronan continues rocking in his chair.
“Tell me more, Amelia.”
I don’t hesitate or stutter once the floodgates are flushed wide open. I’m not sure what he wants me to say, but it all comes rushing out. “My stepfather. He’s a surgeon. I learned at a young age that power and money trump all. I’m sterile, Ro
nan. Once he and his partners ripped out my insides, they made me fair game. Their seed endlessly coated my insides. Throat and vagina. I was their prey and they were the predator. I ran. Found the high. Sex, cock, and meth fuel me.
“You fucking turned me on, Ronan. I was wrong the other day when I came on to you. The need for a release and to forget is so strong it consumes me. I wanted you to fuck me to produce a high. That was wrong, and I’m… I’m so ashamed. So incredibly sorry, and you have every right not to believe me. Just don’t give up on me. I need your help. I need you to help me get my life back. The rest of it I’m determined to do on my own. I don’t want any more pills to calm my anxiety. I just need someone to talk to. To tell me I’m going to be all right and to show me the right path to walk on.”
I pause to catch my breath. That’s the most talking I have done all at once in years. I feel a lone tear trickle down my face. I swipe at it knowing it’s bullshit and real feelings are foreign to me. They exist, and they hurt in ways I’m not able to comprehend yet. I continue talking, letting more of my story escape.
“My body is addicted to escaping the pain of my past. I don’t know how to stop it or even begin to heal. Honestly, Ronan, I don’t think I deserve it. When I’m high, it feels so good, like I’m in a different life. More than the drugs, more than the fucking, I hate my old self and her beauty people say I have. She makes me cringe and want to die. I can’t look at her. I want someone to love me for me. Not my looks. Not my body. Me.”
He continues rocking in his chair with a stone-cold look on his face morphing more into an understanding one the longer he stares. Frankly, him not speaking is making me nervous, but if I don’t do this now, I may never do it. I may go back to my room and take care of the craving for a high myself and the part of me that sees my life for what it is. The part on the inside that has scabs I continue to pick depriving me of healing is what’s keeping me firmly planted in this chair.
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