11. Drake
CHAPTER 11
Drake
I go straight for the liquor cabinet.
Mimosa closes the door behind her as she follows me inside, and it’s almost funny that she does it so fucking meekly because she could easily make a run for it. She even has a blanket she could use to cover herself. She could go straight to the police, who might or might not listen, depending on which officer she talks to.
She’d probably be fucked, though. I have enough money and power to get myself out of almost any situation. A scandal might hurt me — and my stocks — but I’d recover.
For now.
I grab a glass but rethink it, choosing instead to grab the bottle of whiskey and taking a swig right from it.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself as my thoughts go right back to the maze and what I’d stupidly done to get myself blacklisted over a woman I don’t even like. Why had I done it? “Fuck!”
Mimosa is so quiet that for a second I wonder if she’s actually run away after all. But a brief glance tells me she’s still standing there.
Her expression is strange, and I feel another stab of emotion I don’t want to think about. “What? You got a problem? An opinion ?”
Mimosa nods. “I have an opinion. But you won’t like it.”
I laugh, the sound half-crazed even to my own ears, then take another long gulp from the bottle. “Oh, I won’t like it. Since when has that ever stopped you, you crazy fucking bitch?”
“Considering I just spent an hour running around, only to be assaulted by two men?—”
“I fucking stopped that, didn’t I?” I snap back at her. “And it’s not like I can go back anyway.” I lift the bottle to her in a mockery of a toast. “So you’re safe from that.”
She pulls the blanket tighter around herself. “But I’m not safe from you , am I?”
“You’ll never be safe from me,” I tell her. Another gulp of the whiskey. Another hard look at her before I laugh again. “Fuck, I rescue you, and now you’re scared of me? I put my whole reputation with the friends I have in high places on the line, and now you keep your fucking mouth shut. Unbelievable.”
I stalk toward her, stopping just in front of her, and I scowl when she flinches.
Why does she have to be terrified of me now, when…
When I don’t want her to be.
I don’t know why.
“You expect me to stay calm after everything?” Mimosa looks away from me. “You expect me to just forget everything that happened and keep trucking along?” She laughs bitterly. “I guess that’s what men want in general. A person who doesn’t exist outside of them. A person with no thoughts or feelings of her own.”
“Tell me,” I demand. “Fucking tell me. What opinion do you have, huh? What thoughts and feelings do you fucking have?” I’m going to end up draining the bottle at this rate, but that’s fine. There’s always more. There’s always what I have in my safe, and I have a feeling that I’m
going to need it by the end of the night. “Or do I need to get the cane back out, make you talk?”
She scowls, showing a hint of that fire that is always hidden behind her eyes. “Fine. Let’s see how right I am, then.” She takes a breath and tilts her head to look me directly in the eyes. “You suddenly care, just a little, about my safety. That’s why you didn’t want those men to potentially rip me apart. It’s cute, given how you’ve been treating me. ”
I stare at her, then drink the last of the whiskey from the bottle because fuck, I need it if I’m going to listen to this. “You?—”
“I’m not done,” Mimosa interrupts. “You’re also out of control. You’re drinking and popping pills, and all that self-medication must feel good but it’s never going to be enough. All your insecurities and issues are still there, and they’re going to keep staying there until you tackle the source of them. But that’s not manly, right? You don’t want to admit to having problems .”
I throw the empty bottle against the wall, but it’s too well made to crash and shatter the way I want it to. It does leave a nice little dent, though, something I’m going to have to fix before I have Hunter or Chase over again. Fuck.
“The source of them,” I say, my laughter gone as I repeat her words. “Christ, you really are studying psych. You think I need to tackle the root of all this bullshit. Like I’m really going to turn into a better person by analyzing my feelings .”
But I am having them. I’m having loads of feelings, despite the fact that the alcohol is trying to numb the worst of it.
Or really, it should be, but all it’s doing is making the emotions seem more present, more immediate, and I don’t know what to make of that.
“Go on,” I challenge her.
“Why are you really taking a break from work? It’s not because of me. You could have taken time off immediately, but you waited almost a week instead.” Mimosa’s expression is hard.
I think I would almost prefer it if she were gleeful and gloating.
I let out a choked sound that should be a laugh, but inside, I feel like I’m…
What?
I can’t even identify the way I’m feeling right now.
I stalk over to the couch and flop onto it, fighting the urge to go find something more to self-medicate with. It would just prove her right, though, and… Why the fuck do I care?
“You really want to know? Doctor ?”
“No.” Mimosa walks over to the armchair and sits down, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around herself. “If I had my way, I wouldn’t be here at all. But since I am here, and I can’t leave, then yes , I want to know why you’re such a fucking dick to me and everybody around you, and what is going on in your life that has you lashing out in the worst possible ways.”
No, she doesn’t want to know.
Yes, she wants to know.
She needs to make up her fucking mind.
The rest of what she said is mostly lost, mostly something I can’t stand to pay attention to. “I’m supposed to be immune to all of this,” I say, waving a hand in the air as I close my eyes. The room is spinning now. “Above all of this. Above you and everyone else.”
I’m not laughing anymore.
“Because you’re rich?” Mimosa asks, her tone softer now. “Nobody is above feelings . Unless you’re a literal sociopath. Which could still be an option for you; I haven’t exactly done a deep analysis of your psyche.”
“Of course I’m a sociopath, or a psychopath, or whichever word fits. I wasn’t paying attention when the doctor told me everything that was wrong with me.” I scoff. “It’s all bullshit anyway. My brain is fine.”
“Oh, so you have seen a doctor.” Mimosa’s lips curve up on the corners, almost resembling a smile.
I’m struck by how cute she looks like that.
Fuck. What is wrong with my drunk ass?
I almost lie, but there’s no point. I already spilled the beans. “Yeah. My parents made me, back when I was…” I trail off. I don’t want to think about my parents, or the psychiatrist who’d make me feel like a piece of shit. I laugh, humorless and dark. “There you have it. Does that explain it all to you?”
“Not really. You aren’t the first person to have mommy and daddy issues.” Mimosa fiddles with the blanket so it’s tucked around her chest like some sort of dress. “Did they abuse you?”
“Wow,” I say. “Just cut to the chase, why don’t you?”
She shrugs. “Why not? I’m not your licensed therapist. If you want me to have a soft, gentle touch, maybe pay me the five hundred bucks an hour every other therapist to the rich and famous charges. Oh, and give me real clothes, and don’t treat me like your sex slave.”
I bark out another laugh. “But you are my sex slave, Mimi. And that means you do whatever I want. If that’s free therapy sessions, that’s what you’ll give me.” I grimace, though. “But I don’t want that. Tell me, what’s with you? Why are you the way you are?”
Mimosa doesn’t say anything for long enough that I wonder if I need to repeat the question. Before I do, though, she slowly says, “I think I told you my parents died—when I was delirious with pain the other day.”
I nod. I’m intrigued despite myself. “Yeah. You said they drowned when you were a kid.” Those words had left a surprisingly strong impression on me.
“Yep. After that, it was just me and Irene.” Mimosa lets out a soft laugh. “More like, Irene taking care of me. She’s seven years older than I am. It must have been really hard to be a parent that young.” Her expression turns darker. “But then she threw everything we had away to work for Giulio fucking Pavone. And she was too stupid to realize that pissing him off would have consequences for us—for me .”
I arch a brow. “Where is she now?” I ask, sitting up on the couch and trying to ignore the way my head spins.
“Still with Pavone?” Mimosa suggests with a shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t exactly been in contact with her since Pavone snatched me from my life and forced me to whore myself out, all to teach Irene a lesson.” She frowns. “I guess I don’t know if she’s still alive.”
“Do you care?” I ask, leaning my head back against the couch. “I don’t give a fuck that my parents are dead.” I don’t know why I offer that last bit of information. I must be drunker than I realized.
“I…” Mimosa looks down at her hands. “I hadn’t thought about it. I assumed she was still alive. I…” Her voice cracks, and she shakes her head. “I don’t want her to be dead. She’s my only family. Even if she fucked up, she raised me.”
I sigh, closing my eyes again for a moment. “I could probably find out,” I offer grudgingly.
Why I said that, I don’t know. I don’t care about her sister, and even if she’s alive, I have no plans to rescue her
“Oh.” Mimosa meets my gaze, and I don’t know how to feel about the way her expression softening has my pulse quickening. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it. ”
My heart hammers faster in my chest. “Yeah,” I say awkwardly. “Who knows when I’ll get around to it though.” I’m the first one to look away, unsure of why I offered something so fucking nice. “Go get me a glass of water, Mimi.” I drag myself up off the couch. “Bring it to the bedroom.”
I stagger in that direction without glancing back at her. Either she’ll do it, or she won’t. If she does, well, maybe I’ll let her sleep in my bed. If not… I can always punish her tomorrow.