4. Chapter Three #2
“Margie,” I say, forcing a smile as I get up and make my way into her office, sliding my hands in my pockets.
My voice doesn’t betray the annoyance I truly feel.
When I serve my subs, there is no room for error.
My tone, my body language, even the way I breathe are indicators of my mental, emotional, and physiological state.
But I’ve learned that when it comes to therapy, that doesn’t exactly work.
Because I’m not the one in charge here. I mean, I am to a point, but Margie says if I truly want to remember what happened, if I want to move past this block, I need to trust her.
I need to let her do her thing. As long as I can appear docile enough, keep my extracurricular hobbies to myself, Margaret won’t have anything to complain about.
So, I head into her office and take a seat on the couch while she shuts the door. I wait for her to sit down at her desk, in that giant squeaky red leather chair, and address me like I’m the fucking queen of England.
Patience is a virtue, or so I am told. But sometimes I think it’s a crock of shit.
Still, I need to be on my best behavior if I ever have hopes of moving past this memory block that’s been plaguing me for most of my life, and unearthing the truth.
“How are you sleeping?” she asks nonchalantly.
I have to play nice, at least for now. The last thing I need to give her is a reason to call me a psychopath, like my father. Normally I don’t mind Margaret’s cut-to-the-chase, no fuss directness, but after the day I’ve had…
Yeah, I’m not in the mood for direct and brash today. Not in the least.
“Like shit,” I mutter.
If I sleep at all. Which I haven’t been able to do much lately, because the nightmares usually leave me exhausted.
“How much sleep would you say you’re getting? Eight hours? Six? More? Less?”
I know the right answer is eight hours, but truthfully, I’m lucky if I get half of that. No matter where I move, or whoever’s bed I end up in, I can barely get a few hours of sleep. And it’s even worse in my own place.
Nothing helps. Not medication, not sex, not drugs. Alcohol takes the edge off a little bit sometimes, but usually it takes a lot, and I end up waking up more because I have to pee like a racehorse. Which doesn’t help my no-sleeping problem.
So instead, I pass the midnight hours by working. Serving clients, perusing the Kinktastic boards. Sometimes I watch television or doomscroll. Read. Bake cake at two am. Anything to work out the anxious energy.
“Enough to do my job,” I tell her. Technically, Margie knows what I do, but she thinks I keep regular hours like her.
I don’t. I work when I want to. My clients schedule their appointments, and most of them are regulars with day jobs, so our sessions take place at night, which is great because I don’t sleep much, and it definitely helps pass the time. And pays pretty well.
Better than most of the jobs I’ve had, to tell the truth.
In fact, my job might be the only thing that actually brings me some semblance of joy.
I like what I do. I like helping people, even if that help is something most people wouldn’t understand.
There’s a sort of rhythm and comfort in what I do.
People need me to help them make sense of things.
They need me to help them let go. They need me to keep them accountable.
And yes, they need me to get off, sometimes, too.
But most of the time, it’s less about that and more about finding the order they crave to feel like they aren’t a crumbling mess, and I know what that’s like more than anyone.
“And how is work?” she asks plainly, like we’re talking about the weather.
Which would be a lot easier of a topic, honestly. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed about talking about what I do. But today, I’m just feeling out of sorts, I guess. I don’t know why.
Well, maybe I do, but I don’t want to dig into that right now.
I would rather keep Unknown unknown where Margie is concerned—for now. Besides, it’s not like I know much anyway.
“Work is fine.”
Margaret clasps her hands in her lap. I wait for her to press me, but she doesn’t. Which is… odd.
Maybe she’s having an off day, too.
“And Jasper?”
I scoff. “What about him?”
“Have you spoken with him since we last talked?”
I shake my head. I should have known if I was curt, Margaret would bring up this shit. The shit I would rather not talk about.
It’s been two years—two years since I found that file, and Jasper lied to my face when I asked him if he knew anything about my dad maybe having other kids.
Of all the people in the world who I thought I could trust, the one I trusted more than anyone looked me stone cold in the eye and said it wasn’t possible.
Not that it might not be possible, just a hard, resounding no in a tone that said the conversation was over, and that was the end of that.
So I left.
I packed my shit and headed as far away from the city as I could, somewhere Jasper wouldn’t have any jurisdiction, and didn’t even leave a note.
He calls me once a week, leaves a voicemail. I never listen to them, though. I delete them as soon as they come in.
Jasper Carson failed me in more ways than he helped me.
He couldn’t keep my mother alive. He couldn’t keep my father in prison.
And he couldn’t tell me the truth when it mattered the most.
As far as I’m concerned, Jasper is nothing to me.
“No,” I mutter solidly.
Margaret twists her lips, cocking her head to the side.
“Why not?”
Is she for real right now? I huff out an annoyed grunt, crossing my arms.
I glare at her. “You know why.”
Margaret remains poised, her expression solid, unwavering. She waits.
She’s patient.
It’s fucking annoying.
“It’s been two years, Kane.”
I grind my jaw. “I know how long it’s been. My mind hasn’t changed.”
I expect her to press me, to push me to talk about it, but to my shock, she doesn’t. Instead, she says something that actually takes me by surprise.
“And how is Carter?” she asks, switching gears, her tone lighter.
I sit up straighter in my chair, the leather squeaking. I swear the sound is like nails on a chalkboard.
But even hearing my friend’s name makes me feel a little lighter.
“Good, I guess. He’s been seeing someone. A cop.”
It’s the truth. Though Carter has been struggling like most of us—like me—for awhile, lately he’s been different. I don’t know if I’d say he’s happy, but he’s definitely not as quiet and he smiles a lot more.
Then again, getting laid will do that to a person, I hear.
Not that I would know. I don’t remember the men I sleep with.
Sex isn’t an easy thing for me, and the only way I can do it is if I’m drunk.
Drinking shuts off the switch; which is why I try to stay in control as much as I can and avoid people. Relationships, hooking up…
But I fall off the wagon. More than I want to admit, especially to Margie. I’m sure she’d have a lot to say about that.
Margaret purses her lips. “And how do you feel about that?”
I shrug, looking away from her. “Doesn’t matter how I feel. It’s not my life.”
“Of course it matters, Kane,” she says evenly. “He’s your friend. He’s needed you, and now he may not need you.”
Her words slice through me like knives, unearthing the sharp-toothed, venomous monster within me. Her words hurt.
“No, it doesn’t!” I snap. “None of this fucking matters.” I feel the anger fester, boiling to the surface.
Fuck!
I punch the air as my face heats.
“Is there something you’d like to talk about instead?” she asks, apathetic and even-toned, which only pisses me off more.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her about Unknown. To tell her I fell off the wagon last week. That I can’t sleep because every time I do, I have the same nightmare, and it’s equally terrifying each time, and I don’t want to feel that horror over and over again. I want to be free.
I want to escape this prison that gets tighter and tighter every day.
But I don’t say any of that to Margie. I can’t. Because the minute I do, he wins the game, my father. The minute I admit he still has control over me after all these years, I become his thirteenth victim. And I refuse to let him win.