I didn’t feel calm when they walked in, appearing to be some uppity couple who had done everything right.
That was fake news.
“I know about your life before us, so don’t you dare judge me!” Were the first words out of my mouth. “You were as fucked up as I am, and as fucked up as he is.”
“Tris, I think you should sit and try to utilize the calming skills you’ve learned here over the past—”
“And I think you should go fuck yourself!”
Dad then snapped, “Okay, sign her out. This clearly hasn’t helped.”
“Oh, wow, really, Zandor! Really? You haven’t seen that in the past two motherfucking days?”
“Tris, don’t …” Mom whispered as tears began to fall a-fucking-gain.
“Don’t you dare play the sweet and innocent southern belle card with me, Bekah. Your wedding dress was white, lacey lingerie, and your ring, a black leather collar. You professed your undying love in a sex club at a collaring ceremony. You didn’t get to—”
Her knees buckled, and Dad caught her. Of course he did.
She sobbed out, “No, no, no, no—”
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” I raged.
The doors swung open, and two large women walked in.
“You let them take me, and I will never speak to you again. I will ki—”
Dad moved between them and me. “Don’t touch her.”
“Mr. Steel, she just said that she was going to kill herself. Obviously—”
“She said kick, not kill,” he lied, he so fucking lied, but it was to my benefit, so I didn’t call him on it like I was going to on everything else.
The shrink tsked. “That’s not what she said, and I am—”
“Paid by me. So, with all due respect, I suggest you start earning some of the three Gs that I lay down a day, or I’ll lay down thirty to get your ass closed down.”
“Zandor!” Mom gasped.
“Bekah, with nothing but love and respect, I’m telling you to sit down and let me deal with this.”
That pissed me off, too.
“Because you’re a fucking man? You think, because you’re a fucking man who collared his—”
“Because I’m your fucking father! And because I said so!”
“I hate you!”
“Good.” He crossed his arms and stood toe-to-toe with me.
“Good! What the hell is wrong with you, Zandor?” I screamed.
“It’s better than looking right through me. You wanna kick me, Tris? I can handle it. You wanna judge your mother and me for being a little—”
“Zandor, no more!” Mom covered her ears.
I laughed at her. I laughed so hard. “You’re a pussy.”
“That’s a month.” He said it so calmly, like grounding me for a month meant a damn thing.
“And so are you. You’re a pussy, too.”
Lips tight, he added another. “Two months.”
“In two months, I’ll be—”
“Shut your mouth, Tris, because if you keep your shit up, in two months, you’ll still be here and I won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”
Mom squeezes my hand, interrupting my little walk down memory lane and bringing me back to the here and now. “You okay?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m good.”
But I’m not. I’m not at all.
Monsters
Tris
My head won’t stop spinning with thoughts of that day and the months preceding it until I found my outlet. And when I close my eyes, I see … Matteo’s and feel like I’m floating. Then a sick part of me feels guilty about feeling that heat, that desire, and that part of me that makes my stomach turn.
I don’t owe … him … Marcello anything.
I don’t owe him another minute of my time, not even a fleeting thought.
All these feelings together are causing me to feel a lot like I did right before the monsters tugged that leash a little too hard and I lost control.
I throw the covers off of me, slide out of bed, walk to the bathroom, and splash some water on my face.
Maybe a shower, I think as I walk over and start the shower, twisting the silver lever all the way to hot.
I pull my nightshirt over my head and toss it to the floor, slip out of my underwear, and realize my hands are shaking a bit because my body is so fucking tired from not sleeping more than an hour at a time this past month.
It’s a shame my brain hasn’t gotten the memo.
Shame, I think as I look into the mirror at my naked form, one I once proudly displayed because I thought I was beautiful.
He told you that you were beautiful.
He’s a liar, and you’re disgusting.
My throat tightens as I force myself to continue staring, yanking the proverbial leash to call my monsters down. I’m thankful when the steam begins to fog the glass. But I’m not thankful that every good thing today is now undone.
I’m also grateful that my parents are asleep because, if they saw this—me—they would know that I wasn’t taking the pills that make me feel like a fucking zombie, pills that are meant to “help me” but make me just want to sleep, but I fucking can’t.
“Fuck this,” I say to myself as I grab the plush white hotel robe off the hook, wrap it around my body, and then quietly, so quietly, make my way from my room to the mini bar.
Three times while at parties back in Jersey, I got so drunk that I don’t remember anything, from where I was, to where I ended up. Every one of those times, I had someone in my face when I realized where I was. It was either Amias, Brisa, or Max. Sometimes, all three. I hated it, and my little red monster rage always accompanied my moment of clarity, that moment when I realized something was really not okay with me, and I lashed out at them.
Sitting at the bar, I am alone. Well, except for the five others gawking at me. I mean, why wouldn’t they? I’m in a robe. But whatever. Fuck it.
The bartender, who obviously has seen some shit in his days, didn’t even bat an eye when I sat down. He didn’t hesitate when I ordered my first drink. And, as he sets the second in front of me, all he says is, “Would you like that on your room tab?”
I nod and hold up my glass. “Get everyone gathered here in the lonely-hearts club a drink.”
“Of course.”
When the chair beside me is pulled away from the bar, I don’t bother looking. “I’m not interested.”
“Estás borracho. ¿Dónde está tu padre?”
My back stiffens immediately at the sound of the all-too-familiar voice, and I can’t move.
His voice, gruffer now, and with a bit too much insistence in his tone, he says, “Tris Steel, ¿dónde está tu papá?”
I am annoyed by the use of “father” in not one but two languages, as if I didn’t get it the first time.
My insides moan when I see his dark hair is damp, fresh from a shower, I assume, and he’s dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt that fits like it’s intended to showcase his chiseled chest, shoulders, and no doubt flat, toned abs. I bet, if I leaned in and smelled him, he would reek of euros, lots and lots of euros.