my head to throb angrily. I need to fight something, to fight someone, and since I’m the only one available, I’ll fight myself.
After checking my dresser drawers and finding them weed-free, I grab Kira’s stuffed cat from the couch and head right back out, down the stairs and to the post office three blocks away. I fall twice, even with my cane. There’s a hole in the knee of my pants, and I could care less. They’re khakis. I only wore them for the court related matters today because they’re conservative and look like something Middle America would wear, which should earn me brownie points in the parental department. It didn’t today, obviously. The palm of my left hand is also bleeding from the run-in with the rough concrete. But I get Pickles into a Priority Express box for overnight delivery five minutes before they close.
And then I walk out and sit on the bench outside. The sun sets before I rise again.
I stop at a convenience store and make an impulse buy that is driven by soul-searing anger, along with a stick of beef jerky, and a cheap bottle of wine. I shove the angry purchase in my pocket and eat the beef jerky, chasing it with swigs of red on the walk back home.
I’m buzzed by the time I round the corner in front of my apartment complex, and I don’t want to go upstairs. I’m too tired, so I sit under the tree, and I nurse the bottle until it’s empty. And then I fall asleep like a proper wino, on the ground under the canopy of Mother Nature. I hope Miranda’s private investigator is still watching because I’m putting on one helluva show tonight. I hoist my hand, middle finger raised, into the air before I let sleep pull me under just in case I have an unwelcome audience.
I’m awakened by the sound of Faith’s scooter pulling up in front of her apartment. When she kills the motor, the world goes quiet. I hear her keys jingle followed by her door opening and closing.
That’s when I struggle to my feet. My head is swimming in alcohol, and my legs don’t just feel numb, they feel like they’re made of lead.
Walking to her door is slow.
Knocking is clumsy.
She answers in her horrendous Rick’s BBQ t-shirt, and I can’t help but think how beautiful she is before I remember how much I’m supposed to hate her for her part in the Shit Father of the Year award I was presented earlier today. “Seamus, what’s wrong?”
“Everything,” I mutter as I stumble my way in. “Close your curtains.”
She shuts the door behind me, draws the curtains closed, and watches me cautiously. Her apartment is a studio, just one room, and there’s nowhere to sit except the futon cushion on the floor that has a blanket and pillow on it. I turn and glare at her remembering why I’m here. “Are you a prostitute?”
She narrows her eyes at me, but the shock I see in them is all the answer I need. It’s innocence. “No. Why would you ask that?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration; anger is rising in me. “Have you ever been a prostitute? Ever taken money for sex? I’m begging you to be honest with me right now, Faith. What remains of my sanity depends on it.”
She shakes her head and takes a step so that she’s standing directly in front of me. “No. What’s going on, Seamus?”
I believe her. She’s just another pawn in Miranda’s game. Any ill feelings I felt toward her disappear, but the anger is still bubbling within me, like a volcano preparing to erupt.
I reach out and run my fingertips along her cheek. A light touch and the restraint is physically taxing. Smashing things would relieve stress and anxiety; softness only makes it roil. When I get to her mouth, I switch to my thumb and increase pressure. Her bottom lip drags under my touch.
“Seamus?” she whispers my name. Her chest is rising and falling visibly now, and my mind is too fucked up to tell if it’s fear or lust filling her lungs so purposefully.
I lower my forehead until it’s resting against hers. My hand moves to the back of her neck. It’s a gentle movement, caressing the skin there.
Her hands are on my chest now. She’s not pushing me away. She’s fanning her fingers apart and then squeezing them together tightly. It’s the blatant, repetitive motion of someone