Page 58 of Bidding War

They say civility is the leash on every man’s inner beast. Right now, Anderson’s leash must be choking him. He snarls like an animal and snaps, “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

It is all I can do to sit still right now. I want out. The air is thick with our anger, and I can hardly breathe. I have been through some shit lately, facing down men who had goals contrary to my own. When I was kidnapped, I tried—and failed—to fight off my attackers. When Elliot West broke into my apartment to steal back his money, well, I didn’t do much of anything because I was in the middle of sex with Anderson and was in too much shock to speak. You don’t exactly expect your boyfriend’s father to walk in on you during sex in your own apartment. When Neil attacked me, he was a cross between annoyed and rapey, and I tried to fight back then, too. None of them were angry with me. Not like this.

But Anderson? The man I care about being truly angry with me? I have only one frame of reference for it, and it’s not good.

I know he’s not my father. I know he’s not about to start hitting me. But I can’t help but shut down under the onslaught of his anger. He has never put his hands on me in anger, and right now, it almost doesn’t matter. My reaction is the same. Shut down and hope it stops. Be quiet, and it’ll stop sooner. Just don’t say a word, and he’ll ignore me.

“June, talk to me.”

I can’t. Not right now. It’s like my voice evaporated. A weight sits on my chest, my thighs, my back. It’s grinding me down, just like when I was a kid. But now, there’s no place to hide. My heartbeats drum in my ears and my skin. I’m in hell.

Please, something make him stop.

Except, I am the thing that has to make him stop. I’m not a child hiding in a closet anymore. There’s no running from my problem, no mom to run interference. I’m a grown woman. It’s up to me to end this.

I have been through hell and back so many times that I have frequent flier miles. I can do this. More than that, I have to do this. I love Anderson. He doesn’t know anything about my parental PTSD because I have never told him. So, he doesn’t know why his rage is shutting me down. That’s not fair to him. I have to do this.

My voice comes out in a rasp. “Stop yelling at me.”

He frowns, cringing back. “June, I’m not yelling at you. I’m yelling at the situation. I love you.”

Right. Of course, he does. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me. I have to hang onto that thought. I want to tell him why I went quiet. But I can’t. Not right now. It doesn’t feel helpful because it’ll drag out a whole slew of other problems, and that won’t let us focus on the topic at hand. Plus, I don’t have it in me to deal with the amount of emotional shit that’ll dredge up. Not right now. Not after all of this. I’m already wiped out.

So, instead, I nod and stare at my half-empty plate. “Okay.”

“Please talk to me.”

“About what?”

He’s incredulous. “About what? About this, about why you’d take that job, about why you have hardly said a word in the past five minutes. Are you that pissed off at me?”

Yes. No. Maybe. But the truth is, my anger at him is growing. “Not everything is about you, Anderson.”

“So, you’re giving me the silent treatment because of my father?”

I glare up at him. “What makes you think this is about either of you?”

“Because I cannot imagine why you would willingly go to work for Andre, June. Dad is blackballing you, I know, but there has to be better places to work than the bar that aren’t run by a maniac!”

When he raises his voice, I want to curl up into a ball and hide under the table. But I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor. Even when the difference feels razor-thin, it’s still there.

“I want respect.”

He squints at me. “I respect you?—"

“Professional respect. Do you think I get that at the bar?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s a bar?—"

“When was the last time you saw a bartender and thought, ‘Gee, she’s great at her job. I should show her some respect.’?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re being petulant.”

He pauses, drumming his fingers on the table. “You want to be in your field again, I get it?—"

“You don’t. Not at all. You are more comfortable with me flashing my cleavage to drunk men than you are with me working for someone who wants to hire me for my brains. You would rather me use my body instead of my mind, and that is how I know you do not get it.”

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