Page 35 of The Dark Before Light

My complicated response to him notwithstanding, he’s my client. He’s high and drunk—even if he does have a Herculean constitution—and teetering on a cliff of emotional and professional disaster. He also uses sex as a weapon to avoid real intimacy.

He doesn’t want me.

Maybe in another life… but not in this one.

“No, Kieran. For many reasons, not the least of which being I’m your therapist.”

The intensity melts away. He watches me another moment, then shrugs in indifference. “Worth a shot.”

I release a slow breath, my heart convulsing as it accepts its newest bruise. “Why don’t you come back in the water? You’re shivering.”

He slips in without protest, dunking and surfacing before slouching against the opposite wall, head canted against the edge. I don’t push him, instead staring into the darkness beyond the bluff, visualizing the waves whose muted roar rides the breeze.

“I should have been there.”

My mind kicks into focus. I remember what I asked him for—the truth. “When?”

His eyes are closed, voice thready. “In the car that day. Liz didn’t want to go to the store. She felt nauseous from the pregnancy and was craving peanut butter. It was a Saturday, but I’d stayed up all night working. She hated it—the fact I couldn’t switch off my brain on command, just go to the office then come home like a normal husband. Anyway, I blew her off when she asked me to go, told her to order a delivery.”

His throat bobs, brow furrowing slightly. “I think she wanted to spend some time together, you know? Maybe get breakfast or something. She was never good at asking for what she wanted. I had to guess a lot. I think… sometimes I think she was afraid of me. Not physically. Just, dunno, emotionally maybe.”

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugs. “We didn’t date long before we married, and I worked all the time after. Could be she was starting to figure out she’d made a mistake. I’m a bit of a moody bastard, if you hadn’t noticed. A hothead.”

“Moody—maybe. But you’re not a hothead. That would imply you’re easily swayed to violence.”

He lifts his head and offers a humorless smirk. “Pretty sure you saw what I’m capable of in that warehouse.”

I hold his stare, letting him see how serious I am. “There’s a definitive line between passion and uncontrolled rage. Intensity and cruelty.”

“I’ve been cruel to you, haven’t I?”

It’s obvious he wants to direct the conversation away from his wife, and I let him. While I’m glad he shared what he did, he’s not in the right headspace to delve deeper.

Neither am I.

“No, Kieran. You’ve been an asshole a few times, sure, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before and nothing I can’t handle. I was poking emotional sore spots—you were protecting your secrets.”

A bit of lightness returns to his face. “Like a child who doesn’t want to give up the dirty blankie for a wash.”

I smile. “You said it, not me.”

His answering chuckle fades quickly. “You’re letting me off too easy. Men shouldn’t speak to women like?—”

“Your inner misogynist is showing,” I interject. “You’re hung up on the fact I’m the so-called weaker, fairer sex. But I’m not. I’m your equal, and some part of you knows it because when you’re not being a brat, you treat me like one.”

He makes a pained face. “Bloody hell.”

“Am I wrong?”

“I’m starting to think you rarely are,” he mutters, then huffs a laugh. “My mam would’ve loved you.”

My focus narrows at the past tense—she’s still alive as far as I know—but I file it and ask, “Why’s that?”

Humor creases the corners of his eyes, but their depths hold a sudden edge that puts me on alert. “She was a straight-talker, like you. Never held back an opinion. Always made sure my dad knew when he displeased her.” His voice lowers to a throaty purr. “Can’t lie, I’m starting to see the appeal of displeasing a woman. One in particular.”

I’m defenseless. Summarily defeated. All I can do is lower my head as my body revolts: tingling, tight nipples, throbbing clit, and a mental slideshow of a hundred different ways I could prove to him that displeasing me is mutually beneficial.

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