Текст книги "Once Kissed"

Автор книги: Cecy Robson

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Chapter 20

Curran

“Please tell me,” Tess says, again. “By the way you lashed out, and the way you were yelling, it must have been horrible.”

My knuckles brush along the curve of her waist. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It was too much” is all I can say.

“Because it involved me?” She swallows hard when I don’t answer. “It’s okay if it did.”

“No, it’s not.” I stare at the pile of law books stacked on her dresser without really seeing them. “I can’t lose you, Tess,” I admit. We’ve been together for more than two months now, and while it doesn’t seem like a long time, I can’t picture her and me not being together.

Her hands splay along my shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You did in my dream.”

Her hands stop moving. “It was just a dream.”

I shake my head against her skin. “No. It played out like the night Joey was shot. Only this time, you took his place. You took those bullets. I failed you, and because of it you died in my arms.”

My words should freak her out—hell, they freak me out. But I couldn’t stop them from shooting out of my mouth.

Shooting? I huff. Nice.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I am, too.”

Her voice remains calm as she strokes my hair. “Curran…I think you have PTSD.”

“I know what I have, Tess.” I’m not yelling at her, but I am yelling at myself. Mostly because there isn’t shit I can do to stop it. My frustration is, I should be able to stop it—turn it off like a switch or something. I’m better than this. Damnit, I know I am.

If she’s mad or hurt about the way I snapped, she doesn’t show it, keeping her motions and her voice gentle. “If you know what you have, then you also know you need professional help to overcome it.”

I adjust my weight against her. “No. I can’t. It’s not in me.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Nor is it a sign of weakness. It can happen to anyone despite their strengths and preparation. Look at all the vets coming back from war, the firefighters who lived through 9/11…and your brothers and sisters in law enforcement. All of you deal with events that require physical and emotional strength beyond what most will ever face. But none of you are immune to the trauma your duties subject you to.”

“Tess, I get it. But you’re talking like a civilian from the outside looking in. I’m talking like a cop, and cops don’t talk. We keep it inside. It’s the only way to function given the amount of shit we see.”

“But you’re not functioning, Curran—not as well as you could be.” She releases a small breath. “I think that by trying to bury your pain instead of dealing with it, you’re spiraling into a very dark place.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not trying to insult you,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “Or make you angry. But I am telling you that I’m scared. These dreams are getting worse. I couldn’t wake you. You were screaming my name and begging me not to leave, and there was nothing I could do to bring you out of it.”

“Sorry” is all I can say.

“Curran…”

“Let’s just lie here, okay?”

“No. Please don’t pull away from me.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“That may not be your intention, but it’s what you’re doing—”

“I hesitated.”

Her fingers curl against my skin before sliding to rest against my shoulders. “What?”

I steal a glance her way. As much as she’s trying to hide it, I recognize the surprise in her face. She knows where I’m headed, and maybe she doesn’t like it. But for all I said about not talking, my mouth keeps going anyway.

“I hesitated,” I repeat. “That day with Joey, I held back.”

It’s a hard thing to admit for many reasons. Growing up, we were all talented in one way or another. And even though we made Ma proud, she’d remind us that our strengths and smarts wouldn’t always be enough to save us. You’re going to make mistakes, she’d tell us. It’s all part of being human. Man, was she ever right.

“I can shoot,” I say aloud. “Better than anyone on the force ever has. I see my target, I aim, I pull the trigger, and it’s game over. It wasn’t anything I ever needed to master. Once the basics were explained, it came naturally, like something I was born to do.”

Aim was always my thing. I rarely missed a basket when I played ball, constantly got the crumpled piece of paper in the garbage can, and won a lot of those ugly stuffed bears by tossing the rings or knocking down pins. “Some people called it a gift,” I mutter against her skin. “They said the same of how I followed my instincts. But I didn’t use either when they mattered.”

She waits for me to say more. But I’ve already said enough. I hope she’ll let it go. Instead she continues, pushing me more than I’m ready for. “You told me how you were often pulled from your duties to train the recruits. I don’t know much about your line of work, Curran. But to pull someone with only a few years on the job, your superiors must have believed in you, and considered you someone special.”

She’s listening, but she doesn’t understand. “Maybe they did. I doubt they think that anymore.”

Her arms return to my neck, her hold loving—shielding even—like she feels my pain, and maybe hurts for me, too. I don’t want her pity, but her compassion is maybe something I need. So when she asks the next question, it throws me for a loop. “Why did you hesitate?”

Right to the point. She’s not messing around. My mind wraps around the moment me and Joey found the perp—when I shone the light in his face and saw how scared and young he was. “He was just a kid,” I say, exactly like I did that night. “Another little punk on his way to prison for a stupid decision he can never take back.”

Tess’s voice softens in a way that tells me she’s ready to cry. “You felt sorry for him. That’s not a bad thing.”

“It is in my line of work. Kid or not, I should’ve had him on the ground the moment we cornered him.”

“So why didn’t you?” The kindness in her voice doesn’t match her point-blank question. When I don’t answer, she says, “Curran, I don’t know you as well as I want to. But I know your heart. If you didn’t throw that boy to the ground, you must have had a reason.”

I clutch her tight, reacting to the way her words punch me hard. It’s not just what she says about us—about not knowing me like she wants to—it’s about how she does seem to know me, despite how much I’ve held back.

“I didn’t want to be that cop,” I admit. “The one who uses excessive force, the one the media bashes for taking a step too far. I wanted to do right by him, no matter what crime he committed. Mostly, though, I didn’t want a dead kid on my conscience.”

I take a moment to feel the way I fit against her, and how her kindness seems to seep through her with each of her tender strokes. But then I continue, sensing the heaviness that’s followed me since that night. “The thing is, there’s a reason cops sometimes go too far. Kids or not, these perps don’t want to get caught. They get desperate, and do shit they probably think they never would….” My voice trails. “Like shoot a cop.”

The hollowness in my tone swallows us whole, leaving only the sounds of our breaths and the gentle thud of Tess’s heartbeat until I speak again. “His age, how scared he was—it shouldn’t have mattered, Tess. I should have had him down and cuffed. Instead I approached him slowly, trying to give him the chance he never gave us.”

She lets me lie there for a beat, allowing me to lose myself in my thoughts. “He was just a kid,” I repeat. “But then Joey is, too. And now he’ll never walk.”

“You’re afraid you’re going to hesitate again, aren’t you?”

I’m ready to deny it. Instead I say, “Can you fucking blame me?”

“No.”

“Well, you might be the only one.” I practically snarl the next few words. “The captain flat out told me he thinks I lost my nerve. This assignment—guarding you—is supposed to give me time to get it back.”

“I don’t think time is what you need.”

“You’re right. I need to get my shit together and get back on the job.”

Her fingers spread along my shoulder blades. “I think you need more than that.”

“Don’t tell me I need a shrink, Tess. That’s the last thing I want to hear.”

“Curran, you just told me a great deal. For someone as guarded as you, it speaks volumes. But as much as I’m here to listen, I’m incapable of helping you. You need to see a therapist.”

“No.”

“I’m not asking if you want to,” she says. “I’m telling you, this is what you need.”

I mutter a curse. She’s getting that lawyer voice of hers—the one that tells me I’m in for a fight, and that I’d better give in ’cause she’s not backing down. I don’t want to fight with her. But where she’s determined, I’m stubborn as all hell. “I’m not doing that shit. Look…I was mandated to meet with someone after it happened and the guy was a total douche.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a good fit.”

“And maybe I’m just not cut out for it. I met with the shrink, told him what he wanted to hear, and he cleared me. I did my part.”

“No you didn’t, Curran. No therapist in the world, no matter how gifted, can help you if you don’t open up.”

“I’ll just deal with it,” I mumble.

“Given the frequency of your nightmares and their escalating intensity, your strategy of burying your head in the sand—with the hope your trauma simply vanishes—is neither helpful, plausible, nor productive. You need professional intervention, cop. And you need it soon.”

Based on her SAT vocabulary, now I know she’s pissed. I groan. This is what I get for dating a smart chick.

I breathe against her skin. God, I’m tired. “Am I wrong for trying to choose another way?”

“Curran…”

“Tess, if one thing I know, I’ll fall, but I’ll grow.”

“I know you’re—” She tenses beneath me. “Wait a minute. Did you just quote song lyrics?”

Damn. She caught me. “I told you, I’m not good with words.”

Her body trembles beneath mine when she laughs. I lift my chin and plant a kiss between her breasts. “This is all the therapy I need,” I tell her. “You, here with me.”

“I wish I were enough,” she adds, quietly.

“You are.”

She shakes her head. “If I were, your guilt and anger wouldn’t manifest in your dreams like this. Curran, your trauma is worsening.”

She’s scared. I can sense it in her voice. And while I don’t like hearing what she has to say, I know she’s right. “Look, I mean it when I say I can’t see a shrink.” I let out a long breath, not sure why I’m yapping as much as I am. “But there’s something Lu’s been bitchin’ at me to try. I’ve been thinking about doing it, if only to shut her up.”

Her finger trails over my temple. “What is it?”

“There’s a peer counseling group that meets twice a week. It’s not therapy—at least not the sitting-on-the-couch, pouring-my-heart-out kind of shit—just a bunch of retired vets from the force who listen to you, and tell you what they’ve seen.”

“Like an emotional sharing network?”

I frown. “Don’t pussy it up for me.”

She laughs, but I keep going. “It’s cops talking to other cops. I don’t know—given my choices, maybe it’s not so bad.”

Her smile softens. “I think this could be exactly what you need,” she says. “But if it’s not enough, I need you to be honest with me, and yourself.”

“But it’s a start, right?”

“It is,” she agrees.

“Then what’s up? You look like I stole your favorite pair of argyles.”

Her finger stops along my jaw, and an odd expression plays across her face like I hurt her. Really hurt her. Damn, what did I say?

She averts her gaze and takes a breath, obviously needing a moment. When she faces me again she seems on the brink of tears. “Curran, I don’t know how you feel about me, and I’m not asking. But I’m to the point where I can’t picture my life without you.”

What she says then—about the future—is exactly what I’ve been thinking. Hell, I think about it all the time, seeing how we’ve all but moved in together. But the hurt in her features warns me that something’s wrong. “That’s supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it?”

A tear dribbles down her cheek. “Not if I have to walk away. But I will if you don’t get the help you need.”

My voice grows an edge as I lift off her. “Are you threatening to break up with me if I don’t do what you ask?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not meant as a threat, Curran. I’m only trying to be honest. I’ve spent the first part of my life being miserable. I don’t want to spend the remainder the same way.” Her voice trembles. “But I can’t be happy if you’re not. So go to counseling, and get the help you need, so we can be happy together.”

Chapter 21

Curran

As much as I told Tess I was willing to give peer counseling a shot, I never expected it to be what it is. The first group session, following a brief introduction, I just sat there, steeling myself to be tested and judged. I was the new guy, right? I had to prove myself—just like I did in the academy, and just like I’d done on the force. But it wasn’t like that. All focus quickly left me. Those who weren’t directly looking at the group leaders were drilling holes into the floor with their stares.

David, a retired cop who served thirty-two years on the force, started us off. “Me and Thomas are leading tonight. Shit gets too rough, you stop. All’s there is to it. You don’t have anything good to say, get the fuck out. No one needs to hear it.”

Some people nodded like they understood or simply agreed. Others like me barely moved as David’s gaze swept around the circle. I didn’t expect anyone to understand me. Yeah, I mean I know they’ve seen and done shit they regret. But they’re good men, good cops. They don’t know the fucked-up emotions striking me like a pickax through my skull. They don’t feel what I feel when I crawl into bed with Tess and hold her against me—the fear that comes that millisecond before I give in to sleep, wondering what my subconscious is going to do to me this time. Or when I wake, what will trigger my guilt or shame. No way. As much as they hurt, they aren’t me.

Holy shit, didn’t I get an earful and a real eye-opening.

“You okay?” Tess asked afterward.

I didn’t tell her how I wasn’t sure how I made it to her place. Didn’t admit how I don’t remember the drive. I slipped into my truck and then there I was, knocking on her door. For as much as I tried to set my “cop face” in place, I couldn’t manage. “Baby,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around my neck. My hands clutched her hips, then slid to her back as my head fell against her shoulder. Jesus help me, I thought I’d never let her go.

Did group get easier? Hell, no. But one thing it showed me was that I didn’t stand alone in my mistakes, my guilt, and yeah, my pain, too.

Tonight was a rough one. I pat Levon’s shoulder as I step past him. He nods once, his way of giving me the pass to leave. I think I should stay, but everything in his sunken eyes tells me he’s done talking and needs room to breathe.

This shit’s fucked up. All of it. And I’m not sure how long he’s going to keep it together, or if more of us won’t follow him down the same path.

I stomp down the stone steps of the church. A few of the boys loiter behind—including Arnie and Malik, the two retirees who had led tonight’s group. They stand close to Levon, but not too close, giving him the kind of space I think he needs and I’m not so sure I’m capable of.

Levon had finally shared, and that shit tore him in half. But how do you get over shooting a baby when the bullet was meant for his piece-of-shit dad gunning for you? You don’t. And you never will.

This is the ugly side of law enforcement the media never mentions, and one critics turn a blind eye to, the one no politician runs to point out. They don’t have to, I guess. They have that luxury. Levon, and others like us, never will. We relive our sins with each passing day.

I rub my eyes as my head continues to pound from everything I heard and felt. A part of Levon died that day, with that baby, with the realization he couldn’t bring her back. It’s obvious from the way he carries himself, and how his eyes beg for a quick death. It’s the one way he’s certain he’ll find his peace—he said it himself, which is why he’s being monitored so closely.

I want to shake him—to do something. Those cops Lu talked about blowing their heads off in the basement. Levon has that potential. If he doesn’t get it together, this may be the last time I see him. I told him as much during group—so did the other boys. But words don’t mean much to him. Not the way his mind is messing with him, and not with those crying babies he says he hears at night.

I glance over my shoulder. Arnie and Malik flank him, speaking quietly, trying to hold his focus. They’re good that way. But they’re not good enough to stop Levon if he wants to die bad enough. For the sake of his wife and kids, I hope Levon has the guts to hang on.

I cut through a small garden, the one dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Like I told Tess, I’m not a good Catholic, but I cling to the rituals I was taught. I kneel down in front of the statue and pray for Levon and his family.

“In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit,” I mumble, crossing myself. I bound down the steps in time to see Joey, his long arms forcing the wheels of his chair along the walkway.

My stomach bottoms out, and I freeze. For all I think I need my cop face now, it doesn’t come. Every muscle on me tightens, the same way they do when I see a fist swing my way and know it’s a blow I can’t avoid.

I know he sees me, but his focus is so fixed ahead, I think for sure he’ll roll right past me, like he did during the trial. Instead he stops directly in front of me. “Hey, Joey,” I say.

He blinks up at me, his jaw set tight. “Hey, O’Brien.”

Neither of us says anything for what has to be the longest damn minute of my life. “You here for the group?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Been coming long?”

I try to shrug, but can’t manage. “A couple of weeks.”

“This here’s my first time.” His voice is hollow. Kind of like mine. “The sarge told me it might help. I don’t know, but what the hell. Got nothing else to do tonight but piss through a straw, right?”

It’s a kick to the nuts I don’t need. “Sorry” is all I say, but I feel it down to my gut.

Joey stares straight ahead, then angles his chair and keeps going, up the ramp as fast as his chair can take him.

Chapter 22

Tess

I flip through my Torts notes, trying to make a dent in my class work now that I finished emailing Declan all the documents he needed and wrapping up my phone call with the judge’s clerk. Good Lord, the Montenegro case has been brutal, and my law school work just as demanding. If it weren’t for Curran, I’m not sure I’d know anything but stress.

I miss him. Since he started attending his peer counseling group on a regular basis, his superiors have allowed him to return to the station one shift a week. It’s desk duty, which he gripes about, but it’s a step forward.

While I’m happy he’s moving toward something positive, it’s hard being away from him. The other police guards I have are nice. But they’re not him. They’re not who I love.

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 who 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.