Page 100 of Brutal

He amends, “Not a relief. The way they died wasn’t a relief. But I hated them, and they hated me, and I got to cut ties with everyone. I was like… twenty when it happened. Still in school, busting my ass in a dead-end job just to try to keep myself afloat. Then the fire happened.”

I wonder if I should be feeling something. But his story is reminding me of my own, and I push down all the emotions so I can stay calm. “They weren’t good people?”

Drake shakes his head. “No. Standard story, I guess. They were abusive pieces of shit, both of them. If one wasn’t yelling, the other was slamming their fist into the wall or something.” His smile is brittle. “Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

“Behaviors can have explanations, but they aren’t excuses,” I say, parroting one of my textbooks. Drake winces and tries to pull his hand away, but I hold tight. “Did it make you happy? To act like that?”

He stares at me, and I have no idea what’s going on behind his eyes. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Not really. It didn’t accomplish anything.” He holds up his hand, and I can see where he must have punched the wall himself.

“Yeah.” I run my fingers over his knuckles. “Do you want me to tell you what I think is going on with you? Or do you want to just go lie down?”

His eyes darken, but he looks away. “I wanted you to tell me… that night. I want to know, all right? I don’t fucking like this. At least if there was a reason, or a name, and maybe medication would help, I don’t fucking know—” It’s not really like him to ramble like that, and he cuts himself off.

“I’m not an expert,” I say quickly. “Just a student. I can’t diagnose you properly. But you have a lot of behaviors that are classic ADHD and BPD in men.” I hunch my shoulders.

His expression is blank. “I don’t know what BPD is.”

“Borderline Personality Disorder,” I explain. “It can get confused pretty easily with Bipolar Disorder, which is why I don’t want to tell you it’s a firm diagnosis — that’s a psychiatrist’s job. One’s a personality disorder; one’s a mood disorder. They…”

His eyes are starting to glaze over as I explain.

I shake my head. “Anger, aggression, substance abuse, poor impulse control,” I list off.

Drake grimaces, but he doesn’t argue with me. “Okay. So what do you do about it?”

I pin him with a hard look. “Therapy.” He opens his mouth to argue, but I go on, “There are medications that can help with the ADHD. Not so much with personality disorders.”

He falls silent, and I watch him, my expression softening as he goes through the expected reactions of being hit with a reason — not an excuse, which he’ll have to fucking learn — for his more problematic behaviors.

“It’s probably good you didn’t tell me that on the yacht,” he says reluctantly after a few minutes have passed.

I nod and gently stroke his palm. “If it makes you feel better, I bet your friends have mental health issues too. Especially Hunter.”

Drake snorts. “Do they still consider ‘psychopath’ a mental disorder?”

I stifle a smile. “No, but for Hunter I’m sure they’d make an exception.”

Chuckling, he stands up, clutching my hand tight. “C’mon. Let’s go try for that nap. I feel like I ran a fucking marathon.”

I follow, and we walk to the bedroom.

My eyes are drawn to the dog crate in the corner, and I tense. “Drake…”

Drake follows my gaze and grimaces. “I’ll get rid of it. Right now, even.” He slowly lets go of my hand, hanging on to me as long as he can before going to the crate.

I watch him as he starts to fumble with it.

“Do you like me for who I am?” I ask. My voice is uneven, and I hate myself for the uncertainty I feel. “If you never got to fuck me ever again, would you still want me here?”

He startles, looking up at me. He’s silent for too long, long enough to where I hate myself even more for asking a question I think I already know the answer to.

But I don’t want it to be that way.

“I like you enough to give up sex,” Drake finally says. “But if you try to cut me off from masturbation and porn, I will riot.” He half-smiles at me, but his expression looks just as wary as mine feels.

I laugh and shake my head. “I wouldn’t do that. I don’t even want to never have sex again. But I just want it to be clear that I’m my own person. That I exist outside of you too.”

He finishes breaking down the crate with a clatter, then props it up against the wall. “I know you are. I…” He averts his gaze, staring at the floor. “I hate that you aren’t adventurous. I won’t lie. I know it makes me a terrible person and whatever, but I like new things. A lot.”

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