Page 57 of The Marriage Auction 2: Part 3

“Well, yes and no. We’ve discussed the business, the forgery, and, of course, the fight her brother and I had. But, at the moment, she’s more concerned with me and my mental health after what occurred.” That tight feeling in my neck crept up, making me want to remove the damn tie all together. Instead, I tugged at the offensive thing once more.

“What about the baby?” She asked the one thing I wanted to talk about less than the attack.

“What about it?”

“It?” The single word sounded more like an accusation than a question.

I ground down on my back molars, feeling like a dragon, ready to blow fire and burn the world to ash.

“There’s no proof that I’m the father of her baby, and we won’t know unless she gets a pre-natal DNA test done or until after the child is born. If it’s mine, Julianne and I will raiseit. There’s really nothing more to say about the issue, and I’d appreciate it if we moved on.”

She stared at me for a long moment. This time I didn’t back down, staring lasers right back.

“Okay. Let’s get back to the nightmares.”

* * * *

When my session ended, I felt emotionally fileted. My therapist assured me that the nightmares would eventually subside. Her theory was, the more I worked through the trauma, the more likely they’d come to a natural end.

I wasn’t convinced, but I was tentatively hopeful.

That hope died when I finally made my way home. I’d barely stepped a foot in the door when I heard glass break from deeper within the apartment. I moved quickly to the kitchen. Instantly my hackles rose, seeing Brenden sitting at the bar top, his hand wrapped around a beer. Directly behind him was a dent in the wall and a shattered beer bottle, the contents splashed everywhere, strewn across the tile floor.

“What the hell is this?” I snapped.

Brenden popped off his stool so fast it crashed to the ground as he backed away, hands in the air.

Another bottle flew across the kitchen and slammed into the wall again, just barely missing hitting Brenden in the head.

“Jesus, Jules!” he screamed as he ducked out of the way. “I’m calling a truce!”

“Fuck your truce!” she screeched. “I thought I could listen to you apologize, but you’re not sorry!” She reached for another beer, the fridge door hanging open as she launched another full bottle.

That one hit the target, hitting Brenden in the center of his chest and then exploding into a million pieces when it hit the tile.

“Ouch, holy hell. Stop! Stop!” he cried. “Are you going to do anything about this? She’s going crazy!” Brenden looked at me for help.

I leaned against the counter, crossed my arms over one another and watched him dance while my wife lost it.

“I’ll show you crazy, you rat bastard!” She tossed another bottle.

That one clocked him in the knee, and he went down to the floor and curled into a ball. I grinned at the sight.

“Nice one, baby,” I praised.

She blew the wild red curls out of her face. “Thank you,” she panted and shut the fridge door.

“Feel better?” I asked.

“A little bit, yeah. How was ther—uh, your appointment?” Her eyes went wide as though she were afraid she might have unintentionally shared my private business.

“Therapywas good,” I admitted loud enough for the cretin to hear. I wasn’t ashamed of having a therapist. I was ashamed of the specific reason behind why I needed one. “She gave me a few things to think about and try. We’ll discuss them later. I see your day has been productive.” I gestured to Brenden, who was using the kitchen table to balance as he shifted a chair and folded his body into it.

“Brenden said he wanted to apologize in person,” she sneered, her focus on her brother.

“Did he now?” I asked, surprise evident in my tone.

“Jules, I didn’t try to take the business away from you, but that’s exactly what you are doing to me,” Brenden blustered, his narrowed gaze on my wife. Then he turned toward me. “Both of you want to remove me from my birthright.”

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