Chapter 17 #2
“He was drinking rum, no coke. Sitting at a bar alone on the outskirts of Orlando, as was I. . . some vacation.” Ville snorted, inhaling the cigar he shoved into his mouth as he lit up.
“He was flicking through photos. He told me the toddlers and baby in the photo were his children, playing in a large yard, flowers surrounding a fancy swing set. It puzzled me why he’d show a complete stranger his children, and then it hit me.
He didn’t care about them. . . not the way most parents did.
The two tiny girls, cuddling with their mother, weren’t the center of the photo.
. . weren’t the center of his world. But he had eyes for his eldest. His son. . . if you know what I mean.
“He asked what brought me out here tonight, to a bar that no one really wanted to be in, and I flipped the question. He told me he was leaving with the barmaid, but she didn’t know it yet.
I told him she was a lucky girl, because even as a straight man, I had to acknowledge the man sitting at my side didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before, and he didn’t sound like anything I’d heard before, either, with his fancy French accent.
” A puff of smoke billowed around, causing me to cough.
Causing Woodrow to choke. Ville went back to his story, disregarding us both.
“I told him I was out to celebrate nearing the end of my training, and he laughed in my face over the fact that I was there to do it alone.”
Ville took another swig, memories coming to life with each drink.
“He told me that he had an opening for a psychologist in the business he ran, but he wouldn’t say what it was.
. . not until days later when I met him at a warehouse nearby.
He finally told me of his business. Told me to have an open mind, and if I didn’t, then he’d probably have to kill me.
I knew he wasn’t fucking kidding. The pretty ones are always the evilest.” He winked in the direction of his son, whose eyes had lowered to a place of shame.
“He isn’t evil,” I corrected with a harsh tone. “He’s unwell. And you had abilities to help him. To make his life better.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Ville’s lips crashed against the bottle again.
“You. You are what is evil.” My anger levitated me from my seat.
“Please, Jolie, are you really telling me that you accept him for what he is? A monster.”
“He isn’t.” My eyes flicked to Woodrow, who was still looking down. “You’re not. You’re not a monster. You’re loving, caring, and sweet—”
I was interrupted just as his pretty eyes met mine, warmth still behind them.
“He is, and you fucking know it. I heard you crying as he forced his way inside your cunt and fucked you while you begged him to stop.”
“Ah, fuck. . .” Muffled words fell from Woodrow’s lips, and just like that, his eyes lowered, in shame. In horror. In disgust. And the belief that he was all his father claimed, was settling, despite its unwelcome, in his veins.
I spun back around. “As I said. You are the monster. You have no excuses. You are just evil. You watched—”
“And he acted. . .”
“And you could have stopped it. You could have stopped it all before I even came along. He’s tainted by trauma and mentally unwell, but what you are, that is the definition of evil.” I was closer now, close enough to spit my venom on him as I regarded him. “You failed as a father. As a human.”
Ville laughed in my face, the concoction of mixed beverages on his dirty breath turned me sick, and the smoke he blew at me burned my face.
I dropped back, slumping into my seat, my eyes not leaving him—my true enemy.
He stubbed out his cigar with a heavy boot, after dropping it onto the floor I’d cleaned, making my anger strengthen. Then he took another sip, the bottle almost drained now.
Teena, and his dirty fucking hands—dirty with hints of mine and whoever fucking else’s DNA, poured glasses for himself, Sylvia, and the one with a normal man name—and because it was just that, I’d already fucking forgotten it.
He filled a fourth and fifth glass, swirling the glasses into place. In front of Woodrow and me.
He didn’t say a word. His mouth prioritized the cruel smile on his lips, that told me, we’d need those drinks. But we both ignored them. Woodrow didn’t even look up. I could hear him faintly humming a hushed song. . . the one I sing at night. My father’s favorite.
I knew Woodrow was centering himself, trying to find peace. And he was trying to give me the same.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” I soothed.
Ville’s hand clamped around my wrist, but before I could peel it from my bones, along with the skin he’d touched, it was gone. He wanted my attention, nothing more, thank fuck!
“My story isn’t done,” he told me, searching the table for another bottle to guzzle.
“I agreed not to say anything about the business, partly because I was shit scared. Back then, I was normal. I didn’t know the horrors of the world, and I’d never partaken in any.
This is where it changed. Inside the warehouse, one of probably one hundred—and I’m not sure that’s even an exaggeration—was girls, boys, women, men.
All half broken. And that was where I came in.
He needed psychologists to break the mind.
Some were tougher than others to crack. But, Alerion, that was his name—my new boss—told me that he’d been working with another psychologist, and it had been working well, but the numbers were too high for him to manage alone. ”
“So, you stepped in.” Wine landed on Ville’s tongue, and he enjoyed the taste, licking his dry lips.
“I did. And a few weeks later, he rewarded me with a trip to Paris. Granted, it was for business, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get any pleasure.”
I looked to my glass, thinking I should probably chug it back to hopefully blur out some of this sordid tale. . . but I kept it for a more challenging moment, knowing one would surely come.
“That was where I met Wynter. She was fifteen. 10 years younger than me. I walked in as she was being raped by her brother. She wasn’t who I was there to see, but she was all I could think about afterwards.
The poor kid, who had been shifted from New York when her father died.
Her only relative was his other child from a previous marriage—a sibling she barely knew of—a sibling who sold her into the skin trade and happily rented her back whenever he felt like it. ”
My stomach was churning, and the drink on the table was calling me again.
“I did what Alerion asked of me, and in return for breaking minds, I got to break in a few other things. . . but my mind was always on one particular girl. One already half-fucked to death.” Ville took another swig, this one from my fucking glass, and the anger inside me burned my throat as the whisky he’d stolen burned his.
“Ahh,” he gasped, preferring the strength of my drink.
“I’d been working for Alerion for six months, and by that time, he trusted me, to some extent.
I made an offer, to work for free for a few months, already having half of the money I’d need thanks to generous wages, and I asked if I could buy one of the girls.
He knew which one I wanted. He’d already been happy to hand me the key to her cell more than once.
For a while, he’d had an interest there, too, a little.
Until she turned sixteen. Somehow, the older they got, the less he enjoyed them.
He agreed to the sale, and her brother didn’t even bat an eye-lid, moving on to the next girl before he’d even washed his sweet little sister off his cock.”
“She let you bring girls here. . . someone like that isn’t innocent.”
“Not to your level. Though, if you really knew her, you’d probably say she never was.
Maybe what her brother did to her fucked her up.
Maybe it was me. Maybe both. Maybe she was already fucked before us.
She’d happily get the other girls in trouble; she’d enjoy punishing them if it meant no one touched her.
She’d watch as they were raped, and there were times she was caught touching herself during it.
I thought she’d like that I brought her from all that.
I thought I could change her mindset, but when we arrived home, we tried settling into normality. . . and it didn’t work for us.
She was already pregnant, due to pop at sixteen years old, and it was all a struggle for her.
She resented the baby, but I told her I’d help her through everything.
We’d be parents together. . . I still don’t know to this day, who his real fucking father is.
” Ville snorted in Woodrow’s direction. “But the hate she has for him. . .” Ville nodded towards Woodrow, who still wasn’t looking at anything but the ground as he absorbed the details.
“. . .tells me that Wynter definitely does. And it isn’t fucking me. ”
I almost said, ‘thank your god for that.’
Ville laughed; the devil had once again heard my silent words. “Seeing the things I do every day, changed me.”
For the worse. . .
“I was put in charge of breaking at a local warehouse. Alerion had opened one here just for me. Girls were getting shipped to me monthly and then back out. Work was long, and as time went on, mine and Wynter’s sex life dried up.
Parenthood taking its toll, I guess. We had less time for each other, demanding children will do that to you. ”
“Yours, or the ones you stole from their families?” I couldn’t hold that back.