Page 102 of Whiskey Throttle
His eye is rimmed in black and purple, looking painful, and I visibly flinch. There’s a cut in his brow that could use stitches, but he leaves it open to heal. It will scar if unattended to.
Dominic’s stare finally lands on me. It’s sharp, assessing. Not with pure, unadulterated hatred like before, but with something harder to describe. He has a cut on his lip, angry and swollen. His cheek is ruby red and puffy with a cut in the center. It also needs stitches, yet I know he won’t allow me to get the family doctor over here to take care of both of them.
“Just working out some shit.”
I take a step forward, throat tight, my fingers still wrapped around my pearls. Both eyes remain on me. Watching and waiting.
It’s obvious this is because of their fight the other night. Or maybe they fought again.
“I can call the doctor to?—"
“Not important.”
He crosses the room and collapses into one of my Fauteuil chairs flanking the fireplace. The delicate wood groans from the action. Hollister takes a more gingerly approach, sitting on the edge as if he knows how much it costs or cares not to destroy it.
Dominic has always been hard on things. Furniture, décor, mothers, and feelings. I should expect this, and yet his roughness still takes me back.
“Do you want some tea or . . .” My gaze sweeps over both, knowing they could use something stronger. “A whiskey? Beer?”
Hollister looks at Dom, taking his lead from him. I remember him preferring whiskey over beer. When my son shakes his head, Hollister leans back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other knee. Settling in.
“I didn’t come to hang out. I came to understand what the fuc—” he stops himself with a heavy breath.
A look is exchanged between the two of them. I’m unsure what it means. I move to sit opposite him. My fingers grip the edge of the carved wood armchair.
“My friend is badly hurt. And another guy, Diego, said some things that made sense, so I’m here. With this asshole.”
Hollister doesn’t react, only looks away. Guilt. I know. I feel it too.
“I’ve been praying for your friend.”
I recognize the man in front of me, but he’s not the little boy I once knew. The one I used to read bedtime stories to. The one who would ask impossible questions about the universe before he even lost all his baby teeth. The one that used to curl into my lap, asking me to hold him tighter because the world made too much noise.
That was before we knew. Before the experts warned me that I won’t keep pace with his intelligence. I need to get him into an environment for learning. One that catered to him better than I could. Far better than his absent father was willing to do.
“Emilio,” he says, low with a cloud of emotion.
I nod. A breath leaves my chest as I recite a short prayer for healing and recovery in my mind. He leans forward, arms braced on his thighs, head bowed for a second before lifting again.
“I’m not here to make you feel bad,” he says, the same dark eyes as mine, locking on me. ”Or maybe I am. I don’t fu . . . I don’t know anymore. But Sunday was a fu . . . shit this not cussing is hard.”
I tilt my head, wondering where that’s coming from. He’s cursed even in his young teenage years. I have always hated it, but some therapist along the way said to allow him to use it. It helped him articulate his feelings when his brain was whirling faster than he could keep up with.
I thought it was a habit he would outgrow, but it only got worse. Eventually, I grew numb to his frequent use, giving up any hope that it would ever change.
“I didn’t say anything about your use of profanity.”
“Marlowe did. See bitched me out good for how I talked to you.”
I inhale slowly, not knowing what to do with that information. Naturally, I appreciate her curbing his terrible language, especially when aimed at me. Yet, I don’t dare side with her. This situation is far too unstable for that.
“It’s bullshit how you talk to her. So disrespectful, man,” Hollister adds in my place. Dom glares at him over the tip of his shoulder. The tension builds between them.
“It’s very hurtful, I will say that.”
My comment draws his attention back to me. A grumble of something under his breath before he shifts, moving his chair away from his friend. It’s childish, and I refrain from showing any emotion, but Hollister smirks.
“Yeah, well.”
