Page 150 of Handsome Devil
Except for Gia. But she wasn’t a human. She was a goddess.
“I think I’ll just go to bed if that’s okay.” Gia looked around her, hugging her midriff.
I stepped sideways to give her access to the door. “I have a weighted blanket somewhere. Would you like me to bring it to our bed?”
“I’d like to sleep here if that’s okay.” She licked her lips. “Alone.”
I’d been shot before. Once. In the ass. It happened when wife number two caught me in bed with her sister. Or maybe it was her cousin. Anyway, they bore adequate similarities, and by the time I realized I was fucking the wrong person, I was too close to the finish line to stop.
I was running stark naked from the French chateau where it happened when she decided to aim a vintage rifle at me from her Juliet balcony. The bullet not only grazed my ass, it took out a nice chunk of it. At the time, I thought nothing could be more painful or humbling than to have my ass stitched together sans painkiller while a judgmental doctor listened to my ex-wife animatedly explain how the accident occurred.
But I was wrong.
This was worse.
Far worse.
More painful. More humiliating. Moreeverything.
“Alone,” I repeated. “Of course. Can I get you anything before I leave? Water? Tea? Some Advil?”
She shook her head. “I just want to rest. I haven’t really slept well since they transferred Mum to hospice. I kept waking up every hour to check my phone.”
I evacuated myself from her room, stalking off to my office. An office that currently looked like a math book vomited all over it. Every inch was covered in numbers. I cracked open some books. I did my equations. I tapped. I counted hardcovers on shelves. Grains in an hourglass. Tiles on floors. I readAlice’s Adventures in Wonderlandin English.
And Flemish.
And French.
Nothing helped. I wanted to claw my skin off my fucking body.
It was never about my OCD. It was all the other stuff Dr. Patel diagnosed me with. The things I ran away from. The mood swings. The chemical deficit. What were his exact words? Oh yeah—the antisocial personality disorder you struggle with, paired with your cognitive distortion and traumatic past, is the equivalent of sitting on a barrel full of dynamite and playing with matches. I strongly recommend psychotherapy, keepingup with your mood stabilizers, and cognitive behavioral therapy. Consistency is key.
I was sick.
I had been sick for a very long time.
I’d had no one to get better for.
Until now.
I’d been selfish, I realized. Selfish in pursuing my revenge, in putting Gia at risk. Selfish for not taking care of my mental health, my issues, my shortcomings, and letting everyone around me bear the consequences.
I would never be a good man.
But Iwouldbe a good husband.
I logged into my email and was about to answer Dr. Patel. Then, thinking better of it, I called him. It was one in the morning, but he’d survive.
“Tate,” Dr. Patel answered on the first ring. Talk about a fucking fanboy.
“Arjun.”
Silence ensued before I managed to push the words out of my mouth. The last time we spoke, it ended with me stalking out of his office in a blaze of fury.
“I got married.”
“Congratulations.” His voice was neutral and belied his true feelings. “I’m guessing Gia Bennett is the lucky bride.”
