Page 60 of Possess Me
“I’m sorry to tell you this, girl, but stay away from that man no matter what you do.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s bad news. His entire family is, but, in my eyes, he’s the worst.”
“O-kay. That’s not good enough, Jazzy. I need to know why.” Every inch of my body stiffened. If there was anyone who would know the truth about the man, Jasmine would. Plus, I trusted her implicitly. It was better to discover the truth before it was too late.
Why?
Because I already liked Vissarian more than I should.
“You need to listen to me, girl. That man is dangerous. He’s done some bad things.”
“He’s told me he has.”
“Not like this,” she half whispered. “Not like this.”
When she spouted off the words, I slumped against the counter. I’d been right.
Vissarian was no hero.
If what she said was true, he was nothing but a monster.
CHAPTER 16
Vissarian
“You don’t havea favorite ice cream flavor? You are kidding me.”
Laughing, I had to shake my head. “I’ve never been asked the question before.”
“But you have had ice cream in your life. Right?” Megan shot me a look with her cute little nose wrinkled. I reached out with my thumb and forefinger, catching the tip, but only for a few seconds before she jerked away. She pushed hard against my chest before twirling around, reaching for the door handle.
“Yes, I’ve had ice cream,” I told her. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts, marveling at the way the sun had cast a shimmer across her face.
“Uh-huh. Funny how I don’t believe anything that comes out of those tight lips of yours.”
“My lips aren’t tight!”
Grief wasa debilitating and funny creature.
There were weeks, even months that went by when my mind wasn’t strangled by the events of fifteen years before. Hell, I’d even managed to lose track of time over the years, no longer counting how many days since I’d heard her laugh or felt the soft brush of her fingertips against my skin.
Then I went through bouts of mental torture when days and nights ran together, nightmares constant even when I did manage to catch a few hours of sleep. At first, the only thing soothing the demons had been violence. I’d gone off the deep end for months, searching for every goddamn Italian from Jamaica to Vegas, rousing every Italian crime syndicate to the point my father and uncle had been forced to intervene.
They’d taught me the art of anger management while finding other reasons and methods to curtail my need for revenge.
The worst thing about my sorrow was that the people responsible had never been found nor had they claimed the act of violence as their own. But I’d discovered enough in my months of being rogue that in my gut, I knew the person responsible. What I had determined was why. Everyone in my family had attempted to convince me that the people who’d committed the act had been random criminals.
But I knew better.
I’d seen the look in their eyes, had heard the laughter as I’d fallen to pieces. They’d allowed me to live so I’d suffer for the rest of my life.
Time didn’t heal. It festered, old wounds easily picked at.
The memory was bittersweet, images that had remained dormant in the back of my mind for years. Where they should remain. Every once in a while, grief did that to me, picking apart the sweetest memories to bring nightmares from the shadows for no other reason than to torment me.
As the image of Megan’s face began to fade, another equally beautiful one shifted into place.
