Page 80 of Was I Ever Free

Connor studies me from behind his glass while he slowly takes a sip. His slow appraisal is making my skin itch and I idly finger the small bottle of painkillers through the pocket of my jeans.

“What?” I say coldly.

He shrugs his shoulders, unbuttoning his suit jacket, and sits down behind his desk. He drums his fingers on the mahogany surface before he speaks. “Doctor says you should still be—”

“Doctor can fucking die for all I care,” I say, ignoring his amused smirk at my little outburst. Sitting in the chair facing the desk, I add, “I’ve missed too much work already. Especially with that silly little road trip, you made me go on.”

“Silly?” Connor says, quirking an eyebrow.

“What?” I bark, this close to walking out of this fucking room, desperately needing to numb my thoughts with a few more of the pills in my pocket.

“Nothing, except…” he trails off, taking a slow sip of mezcal before continuing, “According to Lucy, there was nothing silly about it.”

His eyes narrow, most likely waiting for a reaction but I don’t give him the satisfaction. Except I do, and regret my words immediately when I say, “I don’t want to talk about her.” I avoid eye contact and stare out the window behind him.

“What the hell were you thinking fucking Lenix’s little sister in the first place?” he says incredulously and with a lot of bite.

My gaze snaps back to him. Anger burns like gasoline through my veins, but I keep my face flat. I know he's goading me, pushing me for a reaction, so I give him a slow blink and say, “It’s not like that.”

Connor’s laugh is dry, his eyes moving about the room as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “It’s not like that,” he says, parroting my words back to me. “Look, I usually don’t give a shit who you fuck Bastian, but you made itmyfucking business when the person who’s crying over you is my goddamnsister-in-law,” he hisses.

The idea that Lucy has been crying because of me is enough for me to spiral even deeper into self-loathing. I’ve never felt like more of a piece of shit in my entire fucking life. But I say nothing, avoiding his stare.

“The only reason Lenix hasn’t come for your balls yet is because… well—” he says, vaguely gesturing my way as if to saywell look at you.

I stew in silence for a few seconds and finally say, “I’ll handle it.”

“You fucking do that,” Connor mutters while his attention shifts to the door. I recognize Byzantine’s steady footsteps without having to look.

He places a hand on my shoulder and my first instinct is to pull away but I don’t. He’s standing to my left, and since I’ve lost all peripheral vision from that side I don’t even bother to look up.

“How are you doing, brother?” he asks and the genuine concern in his tone makes me want to light myself on fire.

“Fine,” I say glacially.

Suddenly, I’m breaking out into a cold sweat, continuously tracing the curves of the bottle in my pocket with my thumb. I’d pull it out right here if it wasn’t so obvious.

Eventually, the attention shifts away from me as more of Connor’s men filter into the room. Gradually, I realize the conversation might have shifted but the attention is still on me as I catch most of them furtively glancing my way, to look at my eye—or the lack thereof.

I’m not sure what I feel then; shame, embarrassment. All I know is that I’d rather be dead than be this self-conscious. I white-knuckle my way through the meeting, barely paying attention—making my being here even more fucking useless. I leave as soon as I can, not bothering with any goodbyes.

In the car, my heart is beating wildly in my chest, my hands clammy and shaking as I finally open that pill bottle. I tell myself it’s for the constant pain in my face. But I know better. The angel of temptation perched on my shoulder knows better, delighted as ever.

I shake three pills onto my palm, stare at my hand for a beat, then decide on five. I swallow them down dry, cringing at the acrid taste but nothing about that matters, as long as they dissolve fast and get to work. Unfortunately, there’s enough time between now and when the numbing wave of warmth crests over my body for the all-consuming grip of shame to take hold.

I hate everything about this shit. Except for how it makes me feel.

How else am I supposed to process any of it, when most of the time I wonder if I’m still locked up in that dark fucking room, and this is just a hallucination. How can I know if any of it is real? How can I know for sure that I didn’t just create an alternate reality, a psychotic break, where Lucy is alive? And that’s not to mention the constant flood of flashbacks from my childhood that I can’t seem to suppress or manage.

I squeeze my eye shut, hitting the back of my head on the headrest behind me, breathing hard through my nose while I grip the steering wheel with both hands.

“You need something stronger,” the angel whispers in my ear, still sitting on my shoulder. “Don’t you miss it? You can’t lie to me. I know you do.”

I ignore the voice—as soothing as it is—and start the car.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m back home, sitting on my couch, wringing my hands together. The pills have finally hit, I’m high but nowhere high enough for what mental hell I’m trying to escape. I swallow hard. From across the loft, I stare at the bottom drawer of my nightstand.

My knee bounces as I sit and stew. Finally, I spring up and cross the space. I open the drawer, push a few knickknacks out of the way, and find the latch for the false bottom. Underneath, there’s a metal tin box the size of a book. Pulling it out, I walk back to the couch and place it on the glass coffee table in front of me.

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