Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
Axe
I drop her off at her apartment. Back home, I work all afternoon, but the hours drag, and my focus is scattered.
I then sit by the fireplace, drinking, my fists flexed like cudgels, moving only to stoke the flames with the poker.
The crackle of the fire fills the silence, but it doesn’t burn away what’s gnawing at me.
Something about Josie’s mother was off. She wasn’t thinking about Josie the way a mum cares for a child. Nay, it was deeper, something more controlling. Those eyes on Josie were drained of warmth, as if she saw her daughter not as a person but as a possession. A thing.
It’s a look I recognize well. I spent a lifetime around people who treated women like disposable objects, like tools for their own gain.
I think about Josie’s childhood—the constant scrutiny, the endless tests, the doctors and nurses who poked and prodded without a thought for her comfort or well-being. Will Josie’s work for She’s the One trigger those old feelings of being a guinea pig?
I’m used to the beast that is SynthoTech, with its relentless demands and prying eyes. Hell, I built that beast. But for Josie, it might bring back haunting memories and make her feel like an experiment again rather than the strong, independent woman she’s fought so hard to become.
The last thing I want is for her to relive that nightmare.
To make her relive her worst trauma.
I drain my whiskey and toss the glass into the fire, a proper Scottish tradition, rich with many meanings. Tonight, I decide to let it symbolize my release from dangerous memories.
I pour myself a second glass, drink it down a little too fast.
Toss that glass into the fire, too. This one is for Josie.
I stand up, resolute. Put the bottle back into the cabinet. I am not yet ready to give up having an excuse to see Josie all the time. And yet, tomorrow, while it might fuck things up with Niles von Shitforbrains, I’ll tell her it’s not too late to pull out of She’s the One.