Chapter Ten #4
of chances he's already had and forsaken, after all of the promises
made and broken.
And him! How was Mitch
able to sit across from me for two fucking hours, even talking
about how he never stopped loving my mom, and pretend as if
everything was normal? They're supposed to be divorced—living
separate lives. How was he able to give me that speech about real
love versus puppy love and how he knows how much I have to lose,
when he hasn't actually lost anything at all? He may not be living
in her house, but he obviously has her where he wants
her.
I find myself at one of my
favorite spots—one I often sought out when I was in the city as a
child. I've always loved The Balto statue along East Drive, right
by Sixty Seventh Street. My Grandma Lena went on a cruise to Alaska
with my Grandpa Alex before he died, and brought back all kinds of
souvenirs, including a children's book about the heroic sled dog,
and at six years old, I was hooked. I begged my parents for months
to get a Siberian Husky, but my father wouldn't let us consider any
breeds that shed their fur.
I feel an unsettling wave
of nostalgia as I look at the massive animal, mostly slate gray
with bronze still highlighting much of its coat and tail, and I sit
back against one of the great natural stones making up its
base.
I woke up this morning
feeling like an adult—a man. Now I don't know what I am, don't know
who I am, don't even know what goddamned planet this is I'm on.
Balto is the only evidence that this world is the same one I knew
as a child.
But it isn't.
This world has one less
drunken bastard, apparently cured by a twelve step program and
forgiven by the woman he hurt the most. In his place is someone
else, someone I want to judge and reject, but know I can't, because
I don't even know him. And the only things I do know are that he's
helping me with Rory, and that my mother seems to be a fan. But
knowing what I can't do doesn't help me figure out what I
should do.
I don't know what to
fucking think.
Fuck, what if he tells my mother I was his last client? What if
he tells her what I told him about Rory? About what went down in
that goddamned alley?
But he said anything I
told him would be privileged. And to trust him as a professional.
Well, I guess this is a good way to find out if he's actually
worthy of that trust. Better to test it with my ass than Rory's.
Because if he tells my mother what I did, what I said… my ass is
fucking toast. I mean, I'm eighteen, so it's not like she can take
away my car or anything, but she learned quite a bit from her
mother-in-law in Jewish guilt, and it's goddamn brutal.
My mother would be
so disappointed,
so worried, and
she would have me promising to see Dr. Schall about it. She'd try
to make me promise not to do anything reckless, to be careful. And I won't be able to do
it. I am trying
to do it her way, my father's way, but if for some reason it
doesn't work out… I'm prepared to do whatever I need to keep Rory
safe.
But the last thing I want
is for my mother to hear what happened that night—the violence I
meted out, the promise I made. Rory doesn't even know. Only me,
Tucker, and that motherfucking
bastard know what I did, what I said, and
not one of us told the truth in our statements to the police. But I
just recounted it detail for detail for my father, not that I could
forget a moment of it if I tried.
"Please just stay here
with Carl. Okay, baby? Please."
Rory nods uncertainly and
it takes everything I have not to grab her and hold her tight, to
keep her wrapped in my arms, where I can know she is safe. The
image that assaulted me when I entered the alley behind me shoots
through my mind, bouncing off of every surface, picking up velocity
until it's all I can see, all I can think of. And it galvanizes
me.
I turn, trusting Carl
beyond measure, and stalk back to where I left Tuck guarding Rory's
predator—my prey. I feel the strain of the clench of my jaw, the
grit of my teeth, the flex of every muscle in my body as fury
vibrates through every part of me, trapped and searching for
release.
My gaze lands purposefully
on the target of my rage, and I feel a subtle calm. Because yes,
the purpose is to punish the motherfucking bastard who tortured my
girl, to make sure he never so much as thinks about coming anywhere
near her again…
But I am going to enjoy
this.
I feel a buzz of
excitement flowing from my gut into my limbs, charging me with
renewed energy as I approach to find Tuck slamming his foot into
the bastard's ribs, and I allow him to get one more in before I
stop him.
"Tucker." My voice is low
and in control. Very unlike the version of me who has gotten into
physical altercations in the past.
Tucker steps back,
watching me warily. He's nervous, presumably worried about what I
might do, but he doesn't say a word. He knows he can't stop
me.
I wait for the piece of
garbage on the ground to make eye contact.
"Get up," I
order.
"Cap," Tucker warns, but I
barely even hear him.
The bastard spits on the
ground beside him, but doesn't get up.
"Get. The fuck.
Up."
He wipes the blood and
spit from his mouth, and slowly, with an effort that satisfies
something deep in my belly, makes his way first to his elbows, and
then to his knees, until he's staggering to his feet.
He spits again, saliva
tinged pink with blood, and then he makes the mistake of speaking.
"She ain't who you think—"
I deck him in the jaw,
throwing all of my weight into it until I release so much force I
nearly topple over myself. The motherfucking bastard flies backward
into the brick wall, his head wobbling beautifully, and he slides
back down to the ground.
"Again," I demand, but he
doesn't obey. His eyes blink open and try to focus, but I'm losing
my grip on my patience. "Again!" I shout. "Get up!"
"Fuck!" he whines. "You
don't… even know her…" He plants one foot on the ground. "The
fuckin' bitch—"
As soon as he shifts his
weight to try and get up, I strike again, hammering my fists into
the sides of his face in quick succession. This time, I go down
with him, pinning him to the cold concrete with my weight, knowing
he won't be getting up again.
He makes a pathetic
attempt to fight back, his limbs barely twitching with all of his
exertion, and I let out a low, sinister chuckle at his
efforts.
I grab him by his hair and
slam his head into the pavement, but only once, though every cell
in my arm aches to do it again, and again, until he no longer
exists. Until I know with a blessed certainty that he can never
threaten Rory ever again.
But I am not myself. I am
not the Cap with
anger and impulse control issues. I am in full control, calculating
my every move, and I'm painfully aware that I can't kill this
motherfucker right now in this alley, not with all of these people
around and Rory barely fifty feet away.
And I need him conscious.
I need to get my message across. Because it's the last one I'll
deliver him. He'll either heed it or he won't, and if he doesn't,
the next time I'll make sure he doesn't walk away breathing, no
matter what the consequences.
"Hey," I say, slapping his
cheeks to keep his attention. "Stay with me, tough guy, I'm not done
yet."
I wait for his gaze to
clear, and then I hit him again, immensely enjoying the way his
head snaps sideways, twisting in an almost impossible angle until I
shove it back to face me.
"Look at me," I growl,
slapping him again, needing his focus.
I know it won't take much
more before he's completely knocked out, so I shift my attention
lower, landing solid shots to his stomach and sides, relishing his
agonized grunts, the feel of my fists pounding into his kidneys. I
savor the deep whoosh of air leaving his body as I pound his
diaphragm, the gratifying sounds of his desperate
wheezing.
I give him a moment as he
gasps for breath, allowing him enough air to stay cognizant of what
I'm about to explain. Because how seriously he takes my words can
be the difference between life and death. And not Rory's,
his.
I watch him carefully as
he blinks into some semblance of focus.
"Cap…" Tucker warns. He's
anxious. I can only imagine the look in my eyes in this moment, and
it must be fucking murderous.
But I ignore my best
friend, and am only even vaguely aware of him in my peripheral,
nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Cap—"
I hold up one hand to
stifle him without breaking my gaze from the piece of shit lying
bloody on the ground beneath me, and then redirect that hand to his
throat. I exert enough pressure to restrict his airway, giving him
only the smallest taste of what he put Rory through, and as much as
my fingers ache to tighten and end him, I forcibly restrain
myself.
"I should kill you." I
keep my voice calm and clear, trying to compensate for the fact
that he's obviously fighting to stay conscious. "You
know I should kill you.
You know it's what you deserve. After everything you did to Rory,
you disgusting, pathetic piece of fucking shit." I take a moment to
re-gather my control before I start gnashing my teeth at him. "But
despite the fact that you fucking deserve it, and that I'm fucking
itching to do it…"
My hand twitches like a
fucking addict hurting for a fix. If I just squeeze a little
harder, or deliver just a couple more good hits, I can make sure he
can never hurt Rory again—I can punish him for ever hurting her at
all. I can rid this world of the worst fucking kind of
monster.
But I wont.
"Instead, I'm going to do
what I know she would tell me to do. I'm going to make the choice I know
she'd want me to, even though you just beat and tried to fucking
violate her, again," I growl.
And I am. Because Rory
taught me in one afternoon what Dr. Schall couldn't quite get
through to me for years. I have a choice to do things better.
To be better. And