Debt

"No, babe," he said, pulling back and looking down at me. "Did you ever say anything? Does he know how your life is utterly fucked because of him? Does he know that you're fucking terrified every time he goes out that you might be the one footing the bill again? Does he know you gave up a dream because of his fucking up? Does he know that shit? Have you ever actually said anything?"

And, well, when he put it that way, no I hadn't.

I always focused it on him, what he needed to do to get better, to make his life better. I always tried to keep my selfishness out of it.

"It's not about me," I said, shaking my head.

"Like fuck it's not about you. You're the one walking around my house in clothes you hate, doing shit you don't want to do, not him. You're the one with empty bank accounts. You're the one with a car that is older than fucking dirt. You're the one with a pit in your stomach all the time. It's fucking about you. So stop being such a fucking pussy and tell him that." It was harsh, but his words weren't hard. If anything, they were soft, borderline sweet. "You're not doing him any favors by acting like what he does doesn't affect you. What the fuck kind of relationship is built on a lie that big?" he asked, reaching up and swiping the wetness off my cheeks.

"It's not that eas..."

"I didn't say it would be easy. I said to man the fuck up and handle it. Nothing that matters is easy. You want him to keep living? You want him to stop throwing his life away at the tables and the tracks... nothing about making that happen will be easy. So stop making excuses, stop bleeding your heart all over the issue, and handle it."

With that, his arm fell from around me and he took a step back, then turned and strode back across the catwalk toward the door to the security room. I took a minute, wiping my cheeks, sniffling, blinking some of the redness out of my eyes, before turning and making my way back as well, grabbing my heels, but not slipping into them until I was safely back inside the room.

"Come on," Byron said, nodding his chin at me.

"What now? Going to take me to see my mother living all happily with her new family?" I grumbled childishly which only managed to make his lips twitch.

"No, now you're gonna put your big girl panties on and handle this shit while it's fresh."

"What are you..." I started to ask as I followed him out toward the elevator.

"Taking you down to my office where Aaron is bringing your father. Talk it out. Get him into a treatment facility. I have a list of in-treatment places. You two hash it out, but, babe, let me tell you," he said, turning to face me fully in the elevator and it took everything in me to not shrink away, "you two aren't coming out until you do."

"Jesus, what is with this God complex of yours?" I snapped, more to cover the swirling feeling in my belly at the idea of confronting my father, of spilling my heart, my disappointments, my resentments, my fears, than actual anger toward him for pushing me to do so.

"Let's put it this way," he said as the elevator slid open. He didn't finish until he led us down a hall and stopped in front of a door where Aaron was keeping guard from a few discreet feet away. "Get your father into in-treatment. Because you don't get your freedom until his ass gets back out again, all repentant and steering the fuck clear of my tables."

With that, he turned and stormed away, leaving me to watch after him for a minute.

I turned to Aaron who was watching me, his eyes kind, his lips tipped up in a humorless smile.

I knew his job was to make sure I handled what I was told to.

There was no getting away with it.

So with my belly clenching painfully, I turned, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Because, fact of the matter was, Byron was right. Damn him.

It was time.

No matter how much it hurt, how hard it was to peel back the bandage and show my bleeding, open wounds, I knew they would never do anything but fester if I didn't air them out and let them heal.

And somehow, I was indebted to Byron freaking St. James for that.NINEByronI had barely made it into the break room before Aaron was hot on my heels.

"Was that really fucking necessary?" he asked, his tone a little dead.

"Yes," I said, going to the coffee pot and pouring two cups.

"She was crying."

"Yep," I agreed, putting cream into his, then turning and handing him one of the cups.