Page 94 of Brutal

“Okay, and?” Irene asks. “He made you leave so he wouldn’t fucking hurt you? It sounds like he needs serious help.” It’s her turn to stare me down. “And that’s not help he deserves to get from you. I’m not stupid. I can see how bad you’re hurting. I don’t think for one second that he was ever kind or compassionate after the whole buying a person thing.” She pauses, though, and her voice is hopeful as she says, “Unless he was?”

“I don’t know. He got nicer.” I move to sit at the kitchen table again. “He was in withdrawal from some meds. I don’t know which exactly, but he was self-medicating with them. And between that and whatever happened to him at work that day…” I smile darkly. “Let’s not forget a small dose of Stockholm syndrome. Which I know isn’t a real diagnosis, but that’s as close as I’m getting right now without my textbooks.”

Irene joins me at the table, sitting down next to me and squeezing my arm. “You need to stay away from him,” she says emphatically. “How would you feel if I said I was going to like… beg Giulio Pavone for another job? He’s a human trafficking piece of shit, nice act or otherwise. And yeah, I know the guy bought me out of there, but one good deed doesn’t mean someone’s changed. You know that.”

“Yeah.” I press the palm of my hand against my eyes. “Yeah. I can’t do anything now. He made his bed, so he’ll have to lie in it.”

I say that, but I know as soon as she’s at work, I’m going to be researching everything I know about Drake’s symptoms and those pills I saw him taking.

He really is a psych student’s dream.

But if I’m being honest, I don't just want to psychoanalyze him. I want to save him from himself.

CHAPTER 24

Drake

She’s still gone in the morning.

It’s a stark realization, one I instantly hate, and as my gaze falls on the cage I’d had her stay in the first few nights, I feel a little queasy.

It’s not that I regret my behavior a hundred percent of the way. I don’t. I’d wanted someone I could torment and torture, but like they say, be careful what you wish for.

Fucking universe.

Fucking Mimosa.

My eyes are heavy, and my limbs are heavier. I don’t want to get out of bed, but I have to go to work. I have to put on a mask and pretend that everything’s all right when that couldn’t be further from the truth.

I’m not okay.

That’s been the truth for a long time, though, hasn’t it? Instead of facing it, though, I’ve been quashing that knowledge with pills and booze. I slowly drag myself out of bed, feeling like I’m trying to get out from beneath a lead blanket, and stagger to the bathroom.

If I’d thought I looked like shit yesterday, I look even worse today. My stubble needs to be shaved, my hair is a mess, my eyes are bloodshot, and I look like walking death.

There’s no way I can put myself together enough to go to the office, but I don’t have a choice. There are going to be questions about Caroline — and without her, I don’t have someone to move my never-ending appointments and obligations around on my schedule.

Of course, now I don’t even know how many times she’d “forgotten” to reschedule appointments when she’d said she would.

I’d meant to go through my phone more the night before, but a bottle of whiskey later, it had seemed less important than sleeping it all off.

And really, I’m not sure I want to know how badly she’s been fucking me over, or for how long, or why.

Am I really that bad of a person?

Yes.

It’s Mimosa’s voice I hear, not my own, and I close my eyes. I’m a fucking man, and I’m not going to cry like a hurt child even though that’s what I feel like: an injured, miserable child who doesn’t yet understand that the world isn’t fair and that people will fuck you over given the first opportunity.

I force myself into the shower, but I don’t have the energy to do much more than rinse off. The towel is harsh against my skin as I dry myself, and every little thing seems to be making the misery worse.

I know this feeling.

Usually, I’d take a pill — or a handful of them — but I don’t have anything to take.

Well. I have some hard drugs in my safe, but with the board meeting approaching, I can’t afford to have something like that in my system. If I could be sure it would dull the pain enough, maybe, but I’m not stupid. Any high would be short-lived at best, and I’d be back to crashing down again.

I pull my boxer briefs on, then my suit pants, but I realize as I stare at my neatly-pressed dress shirt that I just fucking can’t. I can’t go to work. Things might be bad now, but they’d only get worse if I went in. I check my phone, seeing a dozen messages asking about Caroline, but I ignore all of them.