Strong hands gripped me around the neck and dragged me out of bed. The veins in his arms protruded outward like strings inside a spider’s web. He squeezed my throat so hard I couldn’t breathe. When I tried to take a breath, I choked instead.
“You did this.” He kept one arm around my throat before he slugged me in the face. My nose broke and blood oozed into my mouth. The metallic taste flooded my mouth and burned my tongue.
“You.” He punched me.
“Worthless.” He punched me again, hitting me in the eye.
“Piece.” Hit. “Of.” Knuckles to my cheekbone. “Shit.”
I jolted upright and gripped the bed beside me for balance. My eyes snapped open, and I looked around the bedroom for the man I knew to be long gone. The shadows were dark in the corners, and only the light from the bathroom could be seen in the dimness. I breathed hard through my mouth and noticed the sweat soaked around my neck. On instinct, I touched my nose to see if it was broken.
It was just a nightmare.
It was the first one I’d had since Vanilla started sleeping with me. Stupidly, I thought they were long gone, like she was some kind of dream catcher that could chase away my nightmares.
It was a stupid thought.
I got out of bed without stirring her and made my way down to the kitchen. I had a cabinet dedicated to the good stuff—scotch, gin, brandy, and bourbon. Bourbon was my poison for the night, so I poured a glass with massive ice cubes.
I sat at the kitchen table and stared out the back door that led to the yard. There was grass, flowers, and a few trees. The moon was unnaturally bright that evening, especially in the city, and I could see it shine through the clouds.
I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. The images didn’t fade from my mind even after I woke up. Now they were branded on my eyes, visible whether my lids were closed or not.
I drank more bourbon than I should have and let my mind slip away. When there was enough liquor in my veins, I stopped feeling the pain from my memories. I could think about them without the aftershocks. I remembered telling my mom the truth about my father. I remembered when her mind began to fry from whatever illness she was cursed with. I remembered the way my father blamed me, called me a traitor and wished I were dead. I remembered all of it—without feeling a thing.
No matter how much time had passed, I couldn’t escape what happened years ago. Jackson didn’t know anything because I refused to involve him. He thought I was the favorite son, but little did he know he was the one most fortunate. I protected him like a big brother should, and as a result, I got my ass kicked too many times.
I still hated my father.
He was dead. Buried in the ground. But I still possessed the rage.
Would that ever go away?
Was that why I was the way I was? I spent so much time trying not to be like him that I turned into a younger version of him. I needed control just the way he did. I needed others to submit just the way he did. There wasn’t enough booze in the world to deny what was right in front of me.
I was my father.
“Calloway?” Vanilla’s sweet voice came from behind me, her concern genuine and strangely beautiful.
I didn’t want her to see me like this. I was in a dark place, a place much darker than she’d ever seen. “You should get to bed, Vanilla. It’s late.” I drank my bourbon and continued to stare out the window. I didn’t turn around to look at her.
“Are you alright?” She came closer to me until she stood right behind my chair. Her hand moved to my shoulder.
I forced myself not to flinch. “I’m okay. But I want to be alone.” I kept my voice steady even though the rage was about to break through. “Go to bed. Now.” I gripped the glass and felt the condensation against my palm.
She remained put, her hand still on my shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it? I get bad nightmares too.”
The alcohol was fire in my veins, and I wasn’t the same man she knew so well. “If I wanted to talk about it, I would. But I don’t.” My tone was clipped, full of anger that burned the ears. “Leave me alone.”
She finally pulled her hand away. “You want me to let you take care of me. Well, this is a two-way street, Calloway. Let me take care of you, and I’ll consider letting you do the same for me.”
All day at work, I was hungover.