Page 35 of The Bonds We Break
“You want the truth or my easy go-to answer? Yes, that oneisa psychologist question. I’m trying to figure out if you really care.”
He takes another gulp of the beer, then sits on the sofa, closer to me than I expect. From my position on the floor, it would take nothing to tilt my head and rest it on his knee. “Give me both. I’ll decide which one I like better.”
I sigh and look back at the fire for a moment. “Fine. Thanks for the offer, but I’ve never really liked the taste of alcohol.”
“Was that the truth or the lie?”
“Could be the truth, given I never drink it. But the real reason is the first time I remember my father whipping me, I was six and could smell whiskey the whole time. I’m pretty sure it was rum the time he knocked me unconscious with a hardback large-print volume of the King James Bible. And it was definitely beer that trickled down my face the time he used a bottle to cause this.”
I lift my hair so he can see the silvery scar at my hairline that came from eleven stitches. “It’s in my medical records asfell off the swing set onto concrete.”
“Shit, Rae.”
I look up at him, and for a moment, I see sympathy. And while the broken pieces of me crave it, I don’t really want it. “Yeah, well. Now you understand why the lie is easier and why I’d rather avoid talking about it.”
King looks at the bottle in his hand. I can see the wheels turning in his mind. He’s thinking about what to do with the beer.
“Just drink it. I’m fine,” I say. I’m a little disappointed when he sits back in the sofa to drink it but buoyed when he moves the beer to his right hand and holds it near the back of the sofa, far away from me.
I suppose that’s compromise too.
“Your brother told me about all that shit. Didn’t know if it was true or not,” he says, finally.
I rub my hand over my wrist, over the scars from the times I didn’t know how to deal with the pain and rage inside. “It was most definitely true. Our father was a monster. Filled with all the fire-and-brimstone shit. Could lead a hundred people through the most fear-inspiring sermon but had no idea how to lead his family.”
I glance back at the fire and watch the flames as they start to lick the glass. Heat is seeping into my bones, but I shiver at the thought of my father reaching into the cupboard where he kept his short whip. There isn’t enough fire in hell to warm me if I think about it too much.
“You ever think about killing him?” King asks.
I look back at him; his eyes are intensely focused on mine. From here I can see their arctic-blue color clearly. “I’ve thought of him dead. I’ve never considered killing him myself. As I got older, I started seeing him for who he is and made some kind of peace with that. But I know I haven’t done all the work to process it properly because I can’t ever be in the same space as him.”
King tugs a hand through his hair. “How do you do that?”
“Be in the same space as him?”
He shakes his head. “No. How do you put words to your feelings like that?”
I smile. “It’s my field of study. It’s my job. It’s where my passion lies. Understanding how people tick and why they tick the way they do. I like assisting people as they unravel and unpick their histories, to build a firmer foundation for themselves as they enter the next parts of their lives. Sometimes, I have the privilege of helping people at their very lowest dig their way out of the holes they find themselves in. There is a joy that comes with guiding someone as they build a life that is healthy and works in their best interest. You can only do that if you can communicate effectively.”
“Huh,” King says, as if he finds my answer interesting, but he doesn’t have anything else to add.
“You don’t like questions. Why is that?”
“Because they’re usually asked by people who don’t deserve to know shit about me or my life.”
“So, you’re a private person then?”
“You could say that.” After placing his beer bottle down by his feet, he sighs as he closes his eyes, tipping his head back on the sofa. “Maybe I just don’t like talking about myself with strangers.”
The fire crackles in the calm that settles between us. I question why I’m not more scared. I don’t have a death wish. Maybe it’s the faith I have in Ryker. I know my brother won’t let me down once he understands what’s at stake. He never has. Not once.
King is an exhausted man, and I watch him until he falls asleep.
Ryker told me a little of what has happened alongside the situation with Briar. There had been old scores to settle. I wanted more details, but Ryker was also as much a biker and member of the brotherhood as he was an ATF agent. There are details he’s never going to share with me.
I think of the wordcompromiseagain.
My stomach grumbles. Maybe I’ll start preparing more food for dinner, even though I hate the pressure of cooking a meal for someone. Flashbacks of Mom cooking to pacify Dad come to mind again, but it would be utterly selfish to cook something just for me.
