Page 47 of Brutal

“I’m not done,” Mimosa interrupts. “You’re also out of control. You’re drinking and popping pills, and all that self-medication must feel good but it’s never going to be enough. All your insecurities and issues are still there, and they’re going to keep staying there until you tackle the source of them. But that’s not manly, right? You don’t want to admit to having problems.”

I throw the empty bottle against the wall, but it’s too well made to crash and shatter the way I want it to. It does leave a nice little dent, though, something I’m going to have to fix before I have Hunter or Chase over again. Fuck.

“The source of them,” I say, my laughter gone as I repeat her words. “Christ, you really are studying psych. You think I need to tackle the root of all this bullshit. Like I’m really going to turn into a better person by analyzing my feelings.”

But I am having them. I’m having loads of feelings, despite the fact that the alcohol is trying to numb the worst of it.

Or really, it should be, but all it’s doing is making the emotions seem more present, more immediate, and I don’t know what to make of that.

“Go on,” I challenge her.

“Why are you really taking a break from work? It’s not because of me. You could have taken time off immediately, but you waited almost a week instead.” Mimosa’s expression is hard.

I think I would almost prefer it if she were gleeful and gloating.

I let out a choked sound that should be a laugh, but inside, I feel like I’m…

What?

I can’t even identify the way I’m feeling right now.

I stalk over to the couch and flop onto it, fighting the urge to go find something more to self-medicate with. It would just prove her right, though, and… Why the fuck do I care?

“You really want to know? Doctor?”

“No.” Mimosa walks over to the armchair and sits down, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around herself. “If I had my way, I wouldn’t be here at all. But since I am here, and I can’t leave, then yes, I want to know why you’re such a fucking dick to me and everybody around you, and what is going on in your life that has you lashing out in the worst possible ways.”

No, she doesn’t want to know.

Yes, she wants to know.

She needs to make up her fucking mind.

The rest of what she said is mostly lost, mostly something I can’t stand to pay attention to. “I’m supposed to be immune to all of this,” I say, waving a hand in the air as I close my eyes. The room is spinning now. “Above all of this. Above you and everyone else.”

I’m not laughing anymore.

“Because you’re rich?” Mimosa asks, her tone softer now. “Nobody is above feelings. Unless you’re a literal sociopath. Which could still be an option for you; I haven’t exactly done a deep analysis of your psyche.”

“Of course I’m a sociopath, or a psychopath, or whichever word fits. I wasn’t paying attention when the doctor told me everything that was wrong with me.” I scoff. “It’s all bullshit anyway. My brain is fine.”

“Oh, so you have seen a doctor.” Mimosa’s lips curve up on the corners, almost resembling a smile.

I’m struck by how cute she looks like that.

Fuck. What is wrong with my drunk ass?

I almost lie, but there’s no point. I already spilled the beans. “Yeah. My parents made me, back when I was…” I trail off. I don’t want to think about my parents, or the psychiatrist who’d make me feel like a piece of shit. I laugh, humorless and dark. “There you have it. Does that explain it all to you?”

“Not really. You aren’t the first person to have mommy and daddy issues.” Mimosa fiddles with the blanket so it’s tucked around her chest like some sort of dress. “Did they abuse you?”

“Wow,” I say. “Just cut to the chase, why don’t you?”

She shrugs. “Why not? I’m not your licensed therapist. If you want me to have a soft, gentle touch, maybe pay me the five hundred bucks an hour every other therapist to the rich and famous charges. Oh, and give me real clothes, and don’t treat me like your sex slave.”

I bark out another laugh. “But you are my sex slave, Mimi. And that means you do whatever I want. If that’s free therapy sessions, that’s what you’ll give me.” I grimace, though. “But I don’t want that. Tell me, what’s with you? Why are you the way you are?”

Mimosa doesn’t say anything for long enough that I wonder if I need to repeat the question. Before I do, though, she slowly says, “I think I told you my parents died—when I was delirious with pain the other day.”