Page 8 of Worship
“What the fuck does that mean? I haven’t taken anything from you.” She replies indignantly.
“You took my kindness. My money. My trust. And my belief that not everything is a lie. But I should thank you for that one. You did me a favor.” My voice is as deadly as I am.
“Jesus, how did this all become so twisted and fucked-up?” she says to herself, but I can’t help but answer.
“Well, if I had to pinpoint one moment, I would say calling the lawyers while I was on my deathbed…or then there’s my personal favorite: sucking off the mechanic in my garage.”
“Luca. Please.”
Not so fast, Shelby.“Save your begging, wife. We’re just getting started.”
The line dies because she’s hung up on me. But I don’t care. This is her ‘just desserts’. Shelby’s a liar and an opportunist. And I fucking hate that combination. She’ll pay for this, for as long as I choose.
“Is it retribution or justice?”Gretchen’s words roll around in my mind. If I were to answer her now, I would say that I won’t feel any justice until I have retribution.
Shelby isn’t the first person to cross me; she’s just the one to make me feel the most foolish. My entire life has been a series of lies.
As a child I believed my parents were invincible, and then they were killed. As a teenager I believed my uncle would protect us; instead he used me and Dom, creating a killer out of my brother and showing me the evils behind the curtain. As an adult I lie to myself and pretend that my fucked-up life isn’t the sum of all my mistakes, that life isn’t some meaningless place where people just take.
I’d hoped.
But the world is the same. People are liars. Ella is my only gift.
I feel undone, unsettled. The jabs taken at Shelby haven’t helped to alleviate my anger. I need a distraction, something to take the damn edge off. If I can’t beat my problem to death, then I’ll hit a punching bag until I can’t stand.
I set my phone on the nightstand and grab the gray sweats lying on a chair. Pulling them on, I sit down on the edge of the bed to lace up my sneakers, foregoing a shirt because it’s just going to get sweaty anyway. I head out of my room and down the hallway to the stairs, descending two at a time, taking me down to the main floor of my home.
This house was the first gift I gave Ella. I bought it because I could picture her growing up in this idyllic bricked townhouse, with a backyard garden that would be perfect for tea parties, fairy wings, and childhood dreams. I want magic for her life. I’d hoped to give her something better than I had; I’d hoped to give her a family.
The empty wish fills me with sorrow, and that sorrow fills me with rage. Rage is a dangerous place to exist when you’re at constant war with good and evil.
I burst through the gym doors and practically sprint toward the heavy bag, not bothering with gloves or tape. I throw my first punch, launching the bag backward.
I fucking hate Shelby.
I punch and punch, groaning and cursing at the sack of sand, voicing my hatred and fears. My muscles strain and ripple from use as the sweat builds on my forehead.
I hate that I fell into a one-night distraction.
The sound from the bag echoes through the empty gym space. My fists collide with the bag again, harder and more vicious. I’m swinging at a fevered pace, connecting with more force each time. My lungs burn from my small breaths between the shots I take.
I fucking hate that she was able to get the better of me.To exploit my weakness.
My arms falter, and I grab the bag, my legs weak under me. I’m exhausted, and my breaths are now coming out heavy and weary. The taste of salt meets my lips from the sweat running down from my brow.
All my emotions mix with the fatigue I feel, and I slump into the bag. My sweaty forehead falls against the leather bag. I don’t regret Ella, but I would give anything if she weren’t a part of Shelby. It would all be so easy if I could just… My thought ignites my rage again. Pushing the bag away, I start again until I begin to tire once more.
My body is the only piece of me that wants to stop, because the war inside my head is going strong. So I force myself to keep going, again and again, for hours until my arms won’t move, but even then, I still try and swing, unable to rid myself of my hatred and regret, letting out a roar and dropping to my knees.
My head bows down between my shoulders, and I stay like that, sweaty and defeated.
“Luca.” George’s voice is quiet, cautious. I didn’t hear him come in, but then how would I through the rage ringing in my ears.
“Leave,” I growl out.
“Luca, I’m not leaving you. What are you doing to yourself?” His voice is compassionate.
He’s watched over me and my brother ever since he started working for the company; he’s my driver and head of security. He understands the open-mindedness and moral flexibility needed to work with people like us. He’s always been there as a kind of father figure, but right now I don’t want him here.
