Page 90 of Cohen's Control

Tears roll down my cheeks and Lance’s hand comes to my back, between my shoulder blades. His small token of affection causes my tears to intensify.

I was going to tell him.

I just… I hadn’t yet.

“Don’t talk about what she wants like you know or fucking care,” Cohen defends me on screen, and I feel a million times worse. I know now why Lance’s gaze is lingering.

I think I know why Cohen went home. And I don’t know if it had anything to do with the punch or the gun.

“Oh my god,” the words rush free from me. Cohen told me about his trauma. “Oh my god,” I breathe, the office closing in around me. He told me about his deceased child, his marraige’s end, he told me everything with tears in his eyes, no fear of being vulnerable or anything. I collect my head in my hands before it smashes against Aug’s desk.

I keep my eyes lifted to the screen, because I have to know what Cohen knows.

This isn’t about Pete at all anymore.

“You’re right. Killing you isn’t worth it. She’s nothing more than a useless whore who can’t keep her own baby alive.”

My elbows slide out from beneath me as my vision goes dark, just for a moment but long enough for my head to slam against the desk. Aug and Lance smother me, bending down to rub my head and ask me if I’m okay.

“I’m... it’s fine,” I breathe, still dizzy and sick. My eyes are still on the screen. Until Cohen isn’t on that screen, that’s where my focus is. But Aug pauses the recording.

“That’s pretty much it,” he says, pointing to the bottom of the picture where he’s entered the screen. “He threatens to call the cops, I tell him to leave and Cohen walks out of the lot to get an Uber.”

“Wh-what”—I can’t get my words to do what I want—“What did he say when he left?”

They know I mean Cohen. They know Cohen is all I care about. “He didn’t want you to see the blood on the ground,” Aug says. “He didn’t want you to know there was… violence.”

Lance’s voice is so quiet I can hardly hear it over the fear and embarrassment coursing through me. “You didn’t tell him about the miscarriage.” I don't know if it’s a question or a statement, but I look up from the chair at him.

“I was going to. I just... We were progressing. Dr. Evans said I should. And I was going to but…” I look between him and Aug. “I didn’t want it to cause him any more pain.”

I can’t tell if they know about Cohen’s past, but it doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is I get to him. I push away and grab my keys. “I’m going home.”

Aug follows me out. “I’m driving behind you until I see you get inside.” He levels his gaze. “We don’t know where Pete could be.”

I don’t give a fuck about Pete.

“Fine, let’s go.”

I dig my phone out of my purse while I drive, unable to sit behind the wheel without moving. I check the screen but I have no missed calls, no text messages waiting. I try to imagine what he must be thinking. What he pulled from those words, because I certainly know it sounded terrible.

What happened was terrible. But it’s not at all how Pete portrayed it.

Aug’s headlights shine in my rear view as I pull into the parking spot in the complex. I slam the door and jog across the lot to the bottom of the stairs. He idles nearby, squinting up at me. From the breezeway, I crouch and give him a thumbs up. He waves me off, and then I stand there between the two apartments, hoping to fuck, for once, that he’s not home.

I want him to be at my house so goddamn bad, for so many reasons.

I put my key in the lock and turn slowly, opening and closing the door the same way. As soon as I have the door relocked with the chain on, my vision pulls to him, sitting on the couch, looking… like shit.

One eye is marred with maroons and pinks, swollen. Dried blood is beneath his nose and his hair is mussed. I’m on my knees between his feet, his face in my hands, in a frenzied moment. He places his hands over my palms, and tears fill my eyes. He stands and I clamber to my feet to stand with him, too. Then he puts an arm under my knees and around my back, and collects me, pressing me to his chest as he guides us down the hall.

He lowers me to the edge of the bed, the way I placed him last night. And he, my good protector, my sweet man, he falls to his knees at my feet. His soft but faithful grip on my ankles has heat burgeoning up my thighs. I bring my hands to his face, inspecting the growing knot, the discoloration, the trickle of pain left behind.

I lick my thumb and swipe the remnants away, and, with a tremble in my bottom lip, face him.

His head falls but I raise him up again. Looking down at this man who held a gun to his chest for me, I know what he wants to hear.

“I wanted to tell you,” I breathe, not needing to quantify or clarify. We know which of Pete's words are currently haunting us both. “I just… I don’t know. I felt ashamed.”

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