Page 56 of Lesson Learned

But even without the denial, I can sense she doesn’t think that. I reach over to the table, snagging a container full of tiramisu, and feeding her a bite.

“Saski cheated on me,” I whisper. There’s still a slight tug in my chest at the confession but nowhere near the pain levels I’m used to. Paisley is a balm to all my wounds. “I came home and…”

I came home to my wife being raped, is what I can’t say, and not just because that turned out not to be the truth.

It was where my mind went, though. She was in the bedroom, one man fucking her up the arse, another with his cock shoved so far down her throat she couldn’t breathe.

I thought they were hurting her and attacked. By the time I understood they weren’t, from her screams, her sobs, her pleas, it was too late. My family had taught me from a young age how to kill anyone who threatened me.

Turned out, I’d internalised those lessons far better than I thought.

“She was with another man,” I say, revising on the spot. “I wanted to work things out, but she didn’t. She used me as a steppingstone to get away. I thought I was getting a loving wife and creating a new family, but she hated what we had as much as the life she escaped.”

Perhaps she would have stayed, travelled beside me in our sham marriage, but not with her lovers’ blood on my hands. Not with the debt the resulting cover-up cost me. The debt to Creighton I’m still working to pay.

And it probably says something about me that even after learning the truth, I preferred my original version of events. That I came home to find them raping her. It speaks to my psychopathy that I prefer that story to the one where she found two guys who fucked her the way she liked to be fucked.

I continue to feed bites of dessert to Paisley, asking her questions that come with ever slower answers, encouraging her to drink every drop left in her glass.

“Did your friend threaten you?” I ask when she’s snuggling into my side like a cat seeking warmth. “Over the dress.”

Paisley doesn’t answer for so long I think she’s fallen asleep, then she stirs, yawning. “Her boyfriend bought it for her.” She takes three goes to get out the words, “Sentimental value.”

I continue to stroke her shoulder. It doesn’t sound like the full truth, but with each second, she’s falling deeper under the drug’s spell. It’s a hard balancing act for me, the first time I’ve questioned someone I didn’t want to hurt.

“She’s my best friend aside from you. I can’t afford to lose her.”

And part of my heart cracks wide open at that small addition:aside from you.“Stay there,” I tell her when she struggles to keep her eyes open. “I’ll just clean this mess away, then we can watch a movie, or I can walk you home.”

In the kitchen, I take my time, memories of Saski filling my head.

Part of me knows the insults she lobbied my way were just a balm to the terrible wound I inflicted on her. The sight of men she cared for being torn apart while she screamed and begged and pleaded for their lives must have hurt.

But the verbal barbs she threw my way also did lasting damage. They’re lodged so deep in my head, I can’t imagine the work required to get them out, crush them.

I never thought to drug anyone so I could get close without the risk of setting off those vocal memories. If not for the bartender, I could have gone my whole life without unlocking that particular kink.

But now I know how it feels, I also can’t walk away. Not without having another taste.

The first time was an honest mistake. You can’t frame it that way again.

No, I can’t.

And I care for this girl.

Each minute I spend with Paisley is a minute that I learn to enjoy her more. I would even if my memory weren’t crammed to bursting with the images of her lying in bed, unresponsive, not able to judge, not able to critique, not able to score my performance against others.

Any thought of doing this with another woman is long gone. Even in my imagination, nobody else fits. She’s filled my brain to overflowing, leaving no room for anyone else.

One time. Just one more time, then I’ll go back to normal.

When I walk back into the lounge, she’s slumped on the sofa. I take my seat beside her again, rolling her unresponsive body against mine, sipping the last of my drink.

Paisley stirs, fighting the medication, blinking her eyes. “Sorry. I’m sleepy.”

I cup her face, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips and she reciprocates, reaching out for me with arms that might as well be pool noodles, they have that little control. “Do you want to go home?”

She mutters something unintelligible, grasping a handful of my shirt, ending with, “… stay.”

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