Page 116 of The Billionaire's Bride
I raise the glass to my mouth, and toss back the alcohol. Baron does the same. He fills up both of our glasses, then contemplates his own tumbler.
"What are you doing here, Ed?" he asks.
"I had to see you."
"What for?" he growls. "We’ve said everything there is to be said."
"Have we?" I peruse his brooding features, "We’ve never spoken about the incident."
"There’s nothing to speak about." He begins to prowl about the space. Walks around, restless, before he comes to stop by the window. "There’s nothing more to it."
"There’s everything to it." I tilt my head, "We need to address what happened that day. We couldn’t face it afterwards. Both of us agreed we’d never tell a soul what actually transpired that day..."
"And we haven’t." He glances over his shoulder. "It’s gone, buried, forgotten."
"But it isn’t, is it?" I place my glass on the counter with a thump. "It’s festering away within each of us. It’s eating us inside. We didn’t confide in our families, not our therapists, not even in the Seven. Hell, we haven’t spoken about it to each other since."
"So?" He shrugs, "Neither of us turned out the worse for it."
"We could have put ourselves out of our misery a long time ago, if we had acknowledged how much it had scarred both of us. It’s no joke when two young boys have to bugger—"
"Stop." He pivots so fast that some of the liquid sloshes over the side of his glass, "Shut the fuck up, Priest."
"Yeah," I glance at him thoughtfully, "I left the priesthood, and the rest of you seem to have adopted that nickname so naturally. Apparently, you can try to leave your past behind, but it always tags along somehow, know what I mean?"
"Go preach somewhere else," he growls, "I am not in the mood."
"Well, too bad." I stalk forward and he stiffens.
"The fuck you up to, Ed?"
"Just trying to put things right."
"There’s nothing to righten," he snaps
"There’s only everything to lose if I don’t."
"Fuck off," he snarls, "don’t come the fuck closer, man."
"Oh, yeah, what are you going to do if I do?"
He bares his teeth, "You wanna fight? Is that it, asshole?" He tosses back the rest of his drink, then flings his glass aside. It hits the floor and shatters. He throws up his fists, jumps forward as I rush him.
We meet somewhere in the middle. I bury my fist in his shoulder, but the asshole gets one in, right in my injured side. Fucking bullet injury—it hasn’t healed completely. Pain slices through my head. I shake to clear it. Punch him in the stomach. He staggers back, only to straighten and lunge at me. He head butts me and the breath leaves my lungs. He gets in another punch to my solar plexus. I reel from it, then lob one at his side. His chest heaves, he lurches back, then throws himself at me. I take his full weight, and the bastard’s fucking heavy. I sidestep the shards of glass on the floor but my feet slip on the drink he’d spilled earlier.
I crash to the ground, him on top of me. It’s like a brick wall has collapsed on me. My lungs burn, my side screams, and my shoulder hurts like a bitch. I shove him to the side and away from the broken glass. We roll over and over, until we come to a stop, me leaning over him. I dig my elbow into his throat. "Give up," I growl.
"No fucking way," he snarls.
I increase the pressure until the color leaves his cheeks.
"Give the fuck up."
He glares at me. Anger, hatred...and something else. That fucking helplessness I’d witnessed in his eyes, that I’d felt when we’d locked gazes during that fateful time.
"Fuck," I growl, "F-u-c-k." I release him, only to lower my forehead to his. "Fucking hell, man." I swallow. "I am so fucking sorry for what I did to you."
"Yeah." His breath emerges on a rattle. "Me too. No one’s more fucking sorry than me for what I did to you that day." He grabs the back of my neck, searches my eyes, "It wasn’t your fucking fault though, you understand?"
