Page 98 of Beat of Love
He’d pounded the bag until his knuckles split —aftera brutal midnight run in freezing weather — just to sweat out that hopeless urge to drown in the numb silence drugs once gave him.
Trent gave him that look taught in PSYCH 101 — the practiced stillness, eyes steady but unreadable, a slight tilt of the head that said: go on.
And yet now, sitting here, he balked at laying it all out.
Because,fuck, it was as nasty as the weather outside.
“Then tell me about Esther’s wedding.”
Rafferty’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between inhale and denial. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.
This man was good. Scarily good.
And to think this was only their third session.
“The wedding?” he rasped, the rest of the sentence swallowed by his shock.
“Figured it might stir the waters,” Trent replied.
Stir the waters?
God.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“How would you describe it?”
“Like I’d fallen off a raft into the rapids and can’t come up for air.”
Trent didn’t flinch at that. Just gave a slow nod, like he’d expected it. Maybe even counted on it.
“Tell me where the current takes you.”
Rafferty looked away, his fingers digging into the arm of the couch, the fabric rough beneath his skin, grounding him just enough.
“Backwards,” he muttered. “To Vegas. To Charlie. Toourwedding.”
Trent said nothing. Just waited. That maddening, patient silence again.
Rafferty hated it.
Hated how it made the truth crawl up his throat.
“Charlie wore a white dress she bought at a secondhand shop down the street, and Elvis pronounced us husband and wife with a fake accent and a crooked wig. And it was perfect.”
He stopped. Blinked hard. The sleet tapped against the window, a steady, needling rhythm. “Until it wasn’t.
“And yesterday, when Essie said her vows … it hit me — we should’ve marriedhere. Notthere… where danger lurked.”
Trent leaned in slightly. “And you think that would’ve saved her?”
Rafferty looked up, eyes blazing with pain. “Iknowit would’ve saved her.”
Silence. Again.
Except now the silence felt dangerous — like standing on ice and hearing the first crack.
“If I had brought her home,” he whispered, “Oliveira wouldn’t’ve seen us in the Vegas elevator. And he wouldn’t’ve followed us to Klamath and taken my wife from our tent. And I wouldn’t’ve gone to Brazil and tracked him down.” He flexed his hands, the burn from the broken skin searing his soul. “And I wouldn’t’ve beaten the fucking life out of him.”
