Did I look this pathetic when my dad punished me?
I shove Beau’s head under the hot water and watch him squirm, knowing what kind of terrified thoughts are running through his head.
Nails hook into my forearm and scrape along my flesh. I startle awake in a cold sweat, the dog whimpering with his paw on my arm.
Somehow, I ended up laid out on the couch in the living room, darkness engulfing me.
Lurching upright, I sprint up the stairs, my heart beating too fast. No sign of life in the spare bedroom. No Beau here to hurt.
But it’s not enough to reassure myself.
I rush into my bathroom, only sucking in a full breath when I don’t find a body.
Slumping down against the cabinets, I cover my face with my hands.
I used to sleepwalk when I was a kid. I’d wake up under my bed or in my closet. Sometimes outside in the backyard. Those moments when I realized what happened—realized I had no control over my body—were almost worse than anything my dad could ever do to me.
Pulling tricks from therapy to calm my racing heart rate, I practice box breathing and focus on my surroundings. The cold tile beneath my feet. The faint smell of lemon cleaning solution. The quiet blanketing me.
A small, fluffy black shadow appears in the doorway. I’ve heard Stas murmuring the name Cosmo when she’s loving on him.
“Come here, Cosmo."
He hurries over and lays down next to me, resting his head on my thigh. I run my fingers through his silky fur. I pet him for a while, but it’s not enough to calm my ragged nerves.
Rising up, I snatch Beau’s forgotten pack of cigarettes from the spare bedroom. As I head to the patio, it’s impossible not to see Stasi and Beau everywhere I look. Lounging in the music room. Pressed against the hall as we succumbed to lust the night of the party. Sitting at the kitchen island eating dinner. Dancing and laughing in the rain outside.
It’s only been hours since I’ve seen both of them, and I already miss them. I want their warm bodies next to me in bed. Want their smiles in the morning and kisses when we get home from work.
No lights shine from the interior of my house as I drop into a patio chair, a cigarette propped on my bottom lip. I’ve always been more comfortable in the dark. Easier to hide that way.
I’ve moved through life the same way. Silently. My only call to attention the sound I create with an instrument and the pleasure I summon from my partners in the bedroom.
Lifting up on one ass cheek, I tug the lighter from my pocket and singe the end of a cigarette while breathing in. I suck the smoke deep into my lungs, hopeful it’ll shave a couple more years off my meaningless existence.
Which isfucked. I haven’t had a thought like that in years.
I check my phone. No returned calls from Beau. My gut twists.
One missed call from Stasi.
Does she know Beau’s gone? Does she even want to talk to me? She’d rushed to her car so fast after we’d arrived home from the hospital. She’d rushed out of the studio earlier, too.
Then again, I made no move to comfort her.
Can I be any more unreliable? Almost two decades of therapy, and I still don’t have my shit together.
I hit the call button. Stasi answers on the first ring. “Liam?”
“Yeah," I push out. "It’s me, angel."
“Are you okay?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I debate how much to tell her. Even with how close I am to Hail, I’ve kept him mostly in the dark about my life outside of music. I didn’t want to bring him into my fucked up world.
Over the years, I never shook that need to shelter others. No matter how torn up I was feeling on the inside, I’d convinced myself that was always ameproblem.
“No, I’m really not. Beau’s gone.”
