Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
I've always been reluctant as hell to do that because I didn't want medication. But shit. Maybe that's what I need. And maybe it's time to admit that it's okay to need help. I'm not okay. I haven't been okay in a long goddamn time. But I can be. I will be. Because I'm not that little boy anymore. I'm not locked in a closet, listening to a fucking monster torment my mother. I get to decide what happens to me now. And I'm choosing freedom. I'm choosing healing.
I'm choosing Isla.
"What other bad tidings did you bring?" my mother asks.
"I'm paying off his dealers."
She's quiet for a moment and then she nods. "I figured you might. People like that don't just disappear until they get what they want."
"You aren't going to fight me about it?"
"Would it stop you?"
"Probably not."
"Sell the house, Brant. Pay them with the profits or recoup the costs. I don't care, but let this house be their payment."
"I'm not taking your house, Ma."
"It's not my house," she says, something flashing in her eyes. "It's his house. Every inch of it is steeped in painful memories. I want a nice apartment closer to you. One with a garden. One he's never stepped foot in. That's what I want."
"I'll make it happen," I murmur, my throat tight.
Daniel's waiting on my front porch when I get home. He pushes away from the wall, striding toward me with his hat pulled down low over his eyes and his arms crossed.
"Who called you?" I ask, meeting him halfway down the sidewalk. I'm not mad that someone called him. I planned to call him as soon as I got inside. Just curious who beat me to it. "Priest or my mother?"
"A better question is why didn't you call me?" He cocks a brow. "That's what you're supposed to do when you're spiralin'. You call me so I can talk you down."
"That's why I didn't call you. I didn't want to be talked down."
He doesn't seem surprised by the confession. Honestly, he looks like he expected it. "So…what? Shit gets complicated and you give up?" he asks. "What's the plan now, Brant? You forget about her by drinkin' yourself into an early grave?"
"Thought about it for about an hour," I admit, slipping my hands into my pocket. "Figured that's what I deserved. But then I came up with a new plan."
"Jesus Christ," he groans, tipping his head back to curse up at the sky. "What kind of self-destruction are we talkin' now? More fights? Gamblin'? Maybe you'll add whorin' to the list this time?"
"I was actually thinking about going to a meeting."
He tips his head down so fast his hat damn near tumbles from his head.
I smirk at him. "Maybe a few of them. And then I was thinking you can find me a psychiatrist, someone who can figure out what the fuck I should be taking for whatever the fuck this shit is."
"It's PTSD, Brantley. It's called PTSD."
"For that," I agree. "And after that…well, I don't fucking know what comes after that. I've never been able to see beyond this shit to think that far into the future. But I'm thinking about it now, brother. I'm seeing glimpses of it." I swallow, glancing away. "I think I like what I see."
"Jesus, Brant," he rasps, a thread of emotion in his voice I've never heard. "It's about goddamn time."
"I know." I meet his gaze, gratitude in mine. "Thank you."
He swallows convulsively, his jaw pulsing. "You don't owe me thanks, brother. It's what you pay me for."
"It isn't," I disagree. "You can't pay someone to give a shit, not the way you do."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm a carin' motherfucker." He flashes a grin at me and then nods toward the truck. "Get in. We've got a meetin' to attend."
It's nearly one in the morning when I hear a soft tap on my front door. I quickly cross to it, peering out through the peephole. My heart skips a beat before slamming against my ribcage when I see Isla on the other side, her arms wrapped around herself.
I practically rip the door off the hinges trying to open it.
"Isla," I breathe, beyond grateful she's here. My silent phone taunted me all evening. I damn near drove to her parents' place six or seven different times, only to stop myself because I told her that I'd be waiting for her to come to me. Trying to hold myself to that damn near killed me, but I owe her the right to decide for herself when she's ready to talk.
She glances up at me, her eyes rimmed in red and full of anxiety. The sadness lingering in the depths kills me a little. I should have told her the truth from the very beginning. I've been thinking about that all goddamn day. Thinking I could wait and put everything back to rights before I told her was idiotic. Securing Bella's safety doesn't change the fact that she wasn't safe to begin with. It doesn't undo what was done. It doesn't change what she went through or erase what she saw. Nothing will ever do that.