Chase’s head snapped up. “What?”
“You heard me. Was there tongue?”
“It uh…” He waved his hand in the air. “It happened so damn fast, Nixon. Yeah, probably, I don’t know. I’m not sure. All I can say is I’m sorry. It was the only thing I could think to do. I was afraid Trace would be pissed, but she understood.”
“So you’re upset because…?”
“Well, I like living, thank you very much.” Chase smirked. Was everyone going to lie to me today? Could I trust no one but myself?
“And?”
“Nothing.” He forced a smile. “It just ate me up all day, that’s all. It felt wrong, it feels wrong; you know what I mean?”
My eyes narrowed. That part, at least, seemed genuine. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I hate it more than I could ever say, but Chase, remember, this isn’t to torture you.”
He snorted. I continued. “It’s to keep her safe.”
“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?” Anger filled Chase’s eyes as his mask of guilt slipped off, and in its place… something I hated to see. It was as if a knife was being thrust into my back and there was no way for me to pull it out.
Betrayal.
He wanted to betray me.
And there was nothing I could do except pray that when the time came… he wouldn’t.
Chapter Seventeen Phoenix
I woke up with blood pooling around my head. I tried to maneuver my chair so I could at least sit comfortably but I knew it would take strength I didn’t have—and honestly, what did it matter anyway? If I died lying down or sitting in a chair or getting thrown into the lake?
My throat felt tight. The minute I’d seen Nixon coming into the room I knew the truth: He’d never forgive me. It would be better for me to die with the knowledge that I had—than put him in any more pain or danger. I refused to be the cause of even more turmoil than I’d already heaped upon him and his family.
If I’d had a heart to break, staring at my ex-best friend and the look of betrayal on his face would have done it—shattered it into billions of pieces and burned it on contact with the air. I could never fully explain to him the depth of my humiliation—of the horror I’d experienced when I was with Trace.
They thought I’d tried to hurt her because I was a monster—and that was true. I was sick; they just weren’t aware of how sick. I’d always hidden it the best I could. The first time I blacked out during an episode, my dad had called in the best doctors.
“He’s not remembering things! Is my son stupid?” His tone was on edge; after all he’d just spent thousands of dollars he didn’t have in order to get me seen by the world’s best shrink.
“Sometimes”—the doctor gave me a sad smile—“when people experience trauma, or continue to experience it, the senses completely shut off. It’s as if the body performs on autopilot. It looks like he’s aware of what he’s doing and in a way he is—and he’s powerless to stop it. After the episode, he doesn’t recall details, only that something bad happened, and the cycle repeats.”
Dad slammed his fist onto the desk. “So? He’s dumb? He’s crazy? What do we do?”
“None of the above.” The doctor had way more patience than I would have had. “Hypnotherapy might be advised, if you’re willing to have—”
“Out of the question,” Dad interrupted. “How do I know you aren’t just trying to brainwash him? How do I know—”
“Mr. De Lange.” The doctor licked her lips. “Your son needs help. You can’t just keep ignoring the problem, it will get worse. It’s almost as if…” Her voice died off.
“What?” I said numbly. “As if what?”
“As if your rage is so deep, so unforgiving, that even if you loved someone beyond measure—even if you were willing to die for someone… If they set you off, you’d kill them and you’d feel nothing.”
Well, that felt good to hear. Not only was I crazy but I was about five seconds away from killing those I loved.
“We’re done here.” Dad crossed his arms and glared while the doctor grabbed her briefcase as well as the thick manila envelope he’d given her, and walked out of our house.
“Doctors don’t know everything. The way I see it,” Dad snorted, “is you’ll be the best mafia boss in the history of the family.”
“How do you figure?” My voice dripped with sarcasm.
Dad’s grin was evil as he leaned in and patted me on the back. “You’d kill your own blood to get ahead and not even blink. Apparently, you’re more useful than I thought.”
I froze in my chair. I wanted to run, I wanted to scream but again, I felt nothing. It was as if all the darkness inside kept swallowing up the guilt and shame I should have been feeling. If anything, I was in a constant state of loss.
“So this girl.” Dad licked his lips. “The one who eats lunch with you.”
My head snapped up. Of course he’d know about Trace. After all, he was the dean of Eagle Elite. And it was for that very reason that Nixon was protecting her. He knew a pretty girl like Trace would appeal to my father’s tastes. Not that my father would ever cross Nixon, but still.
“How old is she?”
“Old,” I replied fast. “Eighteen, too old for you.”
He moved to slap me but I caught his wrist in my hand and flipped him so fast against the table that I heard his arm crack. Good, let him feel pain.
“You should probably take the doctor’s advice.” I kept twisting. “After all, I’m about five minutes away from losing my shit. Who knows what I’ll do. Remember, you said I’d kill my own family—don’t test me.” I released his arm and stomped off.
My head pounded with the memory—it seemed like an eternity ago. I’d walked away from my dad that day feeling more empowered than I had in a long time. I’d actually fought him; I’d threatened him.
A smile curved across my lips—hell yeah, that was the day I’d become invincible, and lost my moral compass.
I’d seen Trace the next day at school and noticed something was different. Nixon’s eyes were lingering on her, as well as Chase’s, but when she looked at me? Nothing. It was as if she could sense my darkness. Which pissed me off. She didn’t know me! Maybe that’s why I did it, why I tried to scare her away. If I couldn’t have her—the one girl that for the first time in my life made me want to smile—then I didn’t want anyone else to have her, either.
And that’s when I’d felt a snap.
The girl I’d raped. That same girl. She hadn’t been wanted by the client after all—just like Trace wouldn’t be wanted by Nixon or Chase if I did something to prevent it. If they could see that she wasn’t deserving. Matters were made infinitely worse when it was her fault I was excommunicated from Nixon’s inner circle. After the hell I’d been through—every sacrifice I’d made—and in the end I had nothing, all because of her. The hatred that I felt for her in that moment was stronger than anything I’d ever felt toward my dad. I wanted her to suffer because she’d stolen my family from me. I’d never loved my dad, but Nixon? Chase? Tex? We’d been blood brothers until that bitch had stepped in. I lost it—all of it.
Bile rose in my throat as I puked up blood. For the first time in seven years, I cried like a baby; the only sound in that hollow room was my own screams and whimpers. The terror on her face, her soft pleadings, and my hands, my bare hands ripping at her clothes. My teeth chattered as the memory hit me with a force so strong that I was gasping for breath. I did that. Not my dad. Me.