Page 9 of Arranged Control
He wipes a hand down his face. “Listen to me, Alina. Your former boyfriend was a piece of fucking shit. I didn’t kill him out of respect for you, but trust me, I wanted to. Even when he begged at the end.”
“Bullshit. You’re lying. You’ll say anything?—”
He raises his phone and turns it to face the peephole. The screen shows the first frame of a video. It’s Alex, his eye swollen, tears streaming down his face.
Seamus presses play.
“Please, just don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. I’ll give you anything, just please?—”
“Shut the fuck up. God, you’re so fucking pathetic. I’m going to have to get my car steam cleaned after you’re gone.” Seamus sounds exhausted and frustrated. The camera shakes slightly. “Say it again. And say it slowly. And for fuck’s sake, stop crying.”
Alex wipes his eyes, sniffling like a child. “I was getting high, okay? I had it under control, but this time I was running with some guys I didn’t know that well, and shit got out of hand. I keep it away from her, I swear.”
“Show me the arm.”
The camera pans down. Alex’s arm is dotted with visible, fresh needle marks.
I pull in a breath, my head spinning. I feel dizzy as I grip the frame of the door and yank it open. I’m afraid I might be sick, but I have to see the rest. I have to see it all.
Seamus stares at me. There’s no pity in his eyes. Only a steely intensity.
“Keep going,” I say, yanking the phone toward me.
He hits play again, and the video picks back up.
Alex whimpers as a fist slams into his gut. He leans against the door of the car, groaning. Seamus sounds annoyed.
“And the girl? Who was she?”
“I don’t know. Some fucking girl.”
“You cheat on Alina often?”
“What’s it even matter? Alina doesn’t know. She doesn’t care.” Alex stares back at the camera, his eyes completely dead and empty. “Alina means nothing to me, okay? I’ll leave town. I’ll never speak to her again. You don’t have to kill me because of some meaningless sex.”
“Pathetic fucking prick, I’m going to?—”
The video cuts off. Seamus gently takes his phone back and shoves it into his pocket.
I stare at the space where I just watched my boyfriend admit to being a drug addict, a cheater, and a fucking bastard.
How didn’t I see it earlier?
I feel so pathetic and stupid.
Now I can see a clear pattern of behavior stretching back to the beginning of our relationship.
The disappearances. The long-sleeve shirts, probably worn to cover up his needle marks. The constant excuses, most of which were flimsy and obviously lies.
I just didn’t care enough. And I didn’t want to know the truth.
The door slowly opens wider as I step back away from my future husband. He’s still watching me carefully with this curious frown, like he’s trying to read my reaction.
I feel like my world’s opening up and swallowing me.
I’ve been living a lie. This whole time, I’ve been telling myself I’m one thing—smart, in control, powerful—when really I’ve just been the pathetic other girl for some drug addict loser.
Papa’s right about me.
