Dollars

Michaels held out his hand, palm up, as an offering of support.

The urge to take it—to have someone squeeze me in comfort rather than in pain—was overwhelming. But I didn’t reach out. I hugged my sheet and myself, drawing comfort from my body the way I’d done for so long.

He nodded, linking his unwanted hand with his other. “I understand why you trashed your room. I understand why you haven’t eaten. I’m not saying I’ve ever been in your situation, but I’ve done papers on how the mind works and want to tell you whatever you’re feeling…the explosive anger, the deplorable rage, the unexpected grief, even the hopelessness and looking for a way out, let me tell you…it is normal. You’re allowed to be topsy-turvy. You’ve been through hell, and your brain is only now coming out of protection mode and starting to sort through the past, try to make sense of your present, and figure out if it should be afraid of your future.”

Yes. Exactly.

The tears I fought won.

They spilled over my cheeks, stinging a little from old salt tracks from crying all night. To be told I wasn’t going insane—that I was allowed to feel this way…it helped. So much. Even though I’d known everything he’d said. I’d studied such conditions. I was a textbook case for people suffering an emotional breakdown.

But he delivered the news in a way I could accept rather than run from.

Michaels reached into his pocket and handed me a clean tissue. “Let it out. Don’t hold it in. I’m glad you gave the decorating team something to do. If it made you feel better, do it again. I’m relieved you cried and let yourself be sad. You should be sad. You should be in mourning. A part of you was stolen, and you might never get that back. But what you will get in return is someone so much stronger than the rest of us. Someone who has lived damnation and survived.”

He grinned, almost vicious with conviction. “You, my girl, are a warrior, and even warriors are allowed to be afraid.”

My neck bowed, tears splashing onto the sheet despite blotting them with his tissue.

“What you aren’t, though, is a girl who can afford not to eat. Okay? You need to give your body time to heal while your mind does, too. Will you promise me you’ll try?”

When I didn’t look up, he nudged my knee. “Nod for yes. I’m not leaving until you do.”

It hurt this time. The third time.

But I obeyed and nodded.

“Good.” Standing, he patted my head. It could’ve been condescending, but in an odd way, the weight of his hand on my scalp was…nice.

Clutching his bag, Michaels added, “There is one more thing.”

My jaw came up; my eyes making him fuzzy with tears.

“I know you’re afraid of him. That you expect him to be like the others who stole you.” He lowered his voice. “But don’t judge a man just because he has a past he can’t outrun. Don’t expect the worst because, by expecting the worst, you’re inviting it to come true.”

He took a breath, pondering how to phrase his parting wisdom. “You don’t need to know what the future holds. No one does. After all, no one can truly know or predict what their next day will include. All you need to know is right now. Can you survive right now? Can you survive today? If the answer is yes, then keep going. Who cares what other people’s agendas are? You can’t control that. You shouldn’t weaken yourself by worrying. Accept that you are strong enough to endure the present. The rest doesn’t matter.”

THE OCEAN WAS cool.

The water wet and welcoming.

For an hour, I powered through the gentle swell, circling the Phantom, giving the back end a wide birth. The low hum of the engines keeping her bulk in place added depth to the sea-silence, infiltrating the wave’s licks and laps against the hull.

My arms burned, my lungs shredded.

But I didn’t let up my pace.

I needed to feel the pain because it kept me centred, kept my thoughts on me rather than on her. Rather than on the manic, debilitating urges I constantly lived with. Urges I’d learned to control but had broken multiple times since I’d brought her aboard my home.

Just this morning, I’d found myself repeating the same thing over and over because I became fixated on an idea. The previous night, I’d returned to the dining room after leaving Pim in her suite, ignoring my unwanted erection by cleaning up the mess of pea soup and baked potato.

The staff had tried to help, but I’d turned them all away. The desire for cleanliness and order overrode my normal ability to let it go.

And it’s all her fucking fault.

The reports of what she’d done to her room yesterday made me storm to her quarters. I’d wanted to punish her for bringing pandemonium into my world and force her to fix what she’d damaged. I was half-way there before I’d ordered myself to turn around. If I saw her again—before I got myself under control—it wouldn’t end well. Plus, I’d meant what I said. I didn’t want to see her again until she stopped watching me as if I was that fucking bastard.

Waiting for me to strike her.

Expecting me to kick and fuck her.

The fact she wasn’t wondering if I would but when fucking gutted me. I was many things. I wouldn’t deny I had impure urges when it came to her, but I would never hurt her as bad as that motherfucker did.

My intentions were…different.

Slowing my stroke, I rolled onto my back and let the ocean cradle me. The engine hum echoed underwater louder than in the sky. A shooting star blazed overhead, bright and unapologetic, burning to death in its moment of absolute freedom.