32. You don’t get to judge monsters when you’ve seen how they’re made #2
My face drains of all color. “He used to what?” I turn completely to face him. The rage filling my chest is unmatched by anything I’ve felt before. But with that comes a deep ache. A sadness. I’ve felt many emotions toward Oliver, but never bone-deep sadness.
“You're done driving,” he says calmly. “I want to get wherever you were going in one piece. I’m not taking the chance of losing you because of your own reckless actions.”
He gets out. I watch him round the car and open my door. My legs are shaky as I head to the passenger side.
“How long did he do that to you?” I ask softly as he puts the car in drive.
“Until I left for college.”
A horrible realization dawns on me, and I feel like throwing up. I cover my mouth like that will help. “Oh God…the day I hit you.” That’s why his reaction was so cold, so detached. I hit a man whose father hit him, and maybe worse.
“I told you not to ever hit me again.” His jaw clenches. Not in anger, but almost as if he hates showing weakness.
A tear drips down my cheek and onto my clenched fists. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching my hand out. I can’t help it; I need the contact. My fingers graze his cheek that I slapped all those weeks ago. “Those words are too small for how horrible I feel. I-I didn’t know.”
“I know, and it’s done.” He glances at me. “You hitting me that day was nothing like how he used to inflict pain. With you, it was because I was under your skin. He used to do it to hurt me. Punishment in all forms.”
His hand comes up, wiping my cheek, eyes still glancing at the deserted road. “Don’t cry for me. I only want to see your tears when I’m stuffing one of your holes with my cock.”
“Oliver…” I whisper.
He sets his hand on my thigh. “The night I asked you to hit me and didn’t, it made me see things differently for the first time. That you could be mad, hurt, angry, or anything you specifically were feeling in that moment, and not act on it. Not hurt me because of your emotions.”
“I told you I’d never hit you again.” My heart physically aches.
“It could have been worse. I’m glad they didn’t have more kids. No one should have to live through it.”
“Where was your mom?”
“She was just as much of a victim. We don’t have a close relationship.”
“Was?” I look over at him to see his jaw flex and his hand on the wheel tighten.
“My father’s dead.”
“Good,” I say without thinking, but mean it with everything in me.
Fuck that guy. If he weren’t already dead, I would do it myself, and I know deep in my soul it’s true. Thinking about a younger Oliver, hurt, pushed aside, and scared, grips my heart and won’t release.
I see out of the corner of my eye him biting his lip. “Protective of me, are you?”
“Yes. Parents are supposed to protect their children, not hurt them.”
His smirk disappears. “Not all parents. You happen to have good ones.”
I don’t say anything, knowing that to be true. My parents are the best. I’m lucky. My siblings all feel that and so much more because they picked them. Is this why Oliver is the way he is? Because he wasn’t shown the love and support that he should have gotten from his parents, his own father?
“How did he die?”
“Shot during a home robbery.”
“Were you there? Were you hurt?” I scan the clothed body as if I can see through it. Even though I know every inch of his skin and know it’s unmarked.
“I was there, and no, I wasn’t hurt.”
I study the words he just spoke. “Was it really a robbery?” I ask hesitantly.
“Do you really want to know that?”
“I don’t want secrets between us.”
I watch for any reaction, the dash illuminating his handsome face. “Yes, he was shot.” Pause. “It wasn’t a robbery.”
His hand on my thigh squeezes like he’s afraid I’m going to jump out of the car at this revelation. I put my hand on his and squeeze lacing our fingers together.
“It was time I protected my mother, even though she never did that for me.”
He doesn’t need to say more. I’ve gotten good at reading between Oliver’s words, catching the nuance he tries to bury. What he just told me is heavier than a confession. It’s a line he crossed. A line he’d cross again.
Maybe it should scare me, but it doesn’t. Oliver, in his own fucked-up way, did it to protect his mom and himself from the abuse that was going on for most of his life. If I had the guts, I’d have killed a few people in my life too. Instead, I ran from it. Oliver lived in a nightmare for decades.
“You’re good in your own way.” He chuckles at that.
It doesn’t excuse it. It doesn’t rewrite it. It just makes it make sense in the ugliest way.
“When did it start?” My throat is tight as I speak. “The physical abuse.”
“I was four. He slapped me across the face, then put me in the closet for one hundred and eighty-seven minutes.”
I bite my lip to hold back the tremble and do everything in my power not to break down because that’s not what he needs. Still, I can’t help the silent tears that track down my cheeks and the way my heart physically hurts like I’m having a heart attack.
“Don’t be sad for me, Lyra.” He catches my eye quickly, then looks back to the road. “It’s in the past.”
“The past can still haunt the present. And hearing it hurts me because I care about you.”
“With you…it has been easier to live with.”
We sit on that. The heavy confession between us and everything he has just revealed. So lost in what he just shared I forgot the whole point of this car ride. “Can I have your phone really quick?”
He slides it out of his front pocket and hands it to me. I type in the coordinates and hand the phone back to him.
“Your mom, where is she now?”
“She moved to the city right after he died. She comes from old money and has plenty to start a new life.” I hang on every word. “Callan and Vienna’s mom was our housekeeper since I was five. My mom and their mom became close friends. When my father died, they moved to the city together.”
“No one ever suspected he was hurting you both?”
“Chief of police, remember? Very powerful. Even if we did tell someone, no one would have believed us.”
“Is that why you want to be a lawyer?”
He shrugs. “That’s very selfless. And as much as I know, you’d love me to say yes. No, it’s not. I need control in my life, Lyra. That job gives me that. It’s one of the few I don’t have to show emotion unless I choose.”
If only he understood that showing emotions isn’t bad. That doesn't make him weak. He squeezes my thigh, bringing my attention back to him. “Your turn, Dollface. Where are we going?”