him?"
"Brian?” What the hell was going through his head? “He's my best friend. We've been—"
"No. Not Brian. I know that. I know how long you've known him. I know...” He wove through traffic, chewed on his lip, glanced at my reflection, and came to some decision that eased a bit of the tension out of his grip on the wheel. “I know about you. Your mother died when you were twelve, your father turned mean. Brian protected you. Both of you swam on the varsity team in high school and won a lot. You went to college with him, and now you coach inner-city kids swimming. You have one kid on the team who could be Olympic if he can get funding. Two years ago, you started culinary school and dropped out when Carl came along, and what the fuck do you see in that jackass?"
I blinked. “You a cop or a stalker?"
He sighed, and his eyes drifted back to the road and the red light he'd stopped at. For a few minutes, he didn't say anything. His hands on the wheel, ten and two, were stiff again, like holding it kept him grounded.
"Too fucking close,” he muttered.
"What?” I leaned forward, shifting to find a clear view through the mesh separating us.
His lips tightened into a pinched line. The light turned green. Seconds ticked by. A horn sounded impatiently, and he jerked, a miniscule quirk of his entire body. The car rolled forward, and his fingers loosened. He glanced over his shoulder, searching out my face, rather than settling for my reflection in the rearview mirror. “People want to protect you,” was all he said before swiveling back around and concentrating on the road again.
My back began to ache with the strain of leaning forward. I sank back into the seat and glared out the window. “Carl used to say that. Never knew what he thought I needed protecting from."
Maybe himself.
"Maybe himself?” Vic voiced my thought.
My heart flipped over, and I shot a look into the mirror. Vic was watching me again.
"He's a dangerous man, Paul."
"You think?"
Vic drew in a deep breath. There was something just under the surface. Something he wasn't saying. Something he wanted to say, but wouldn't let himself. “Do you know anything about his past?"
I shook my head. I'd told him a few things about my own dad once, and he'd shut me up about it. “We didn't talk about our childhoods. He didn't...” I shivered. ‘Didn't like to’ was an understatement. He'd about gone ballistic when I'd told him some of the out-of-control things my father did when he drank.
"He had an ugly childhood."
"Huh.” I'd figured that much out on my own. After that first violently aborted conversation, I didn't ask for details. That wasn't the kind of thing a person like Carl relived with impunity, and his pain never translated to something I could bear much of.
"Do you love him?” Vic's question caught me off-guard. His voice had changed; gone from cop to something else.
"What the fuck business is that of yours?” I should have been more angry, more violated he'd ask something like that. I was sitting in cuffs, on my way to who the hell knew what, and we were talking about goddamn fucking Carl. That indignation eclipsed a bit of my fear.
"It isn't,” he admitted. Yet he met my eye in the mirror, and I had the feeling he was still waiting for an answer.
And I didn't have one. Carl had beaten me, and, I had to admit, Lil was right. For all I hadn't resisted him, I hadn't wanted that last round. It hadn't been sex; just a form of violence that hurt less than fists or his belt. And he'd left me helpless and in danger. How could you love a man who did that? I broke the eye contact first. “He didn't start out that way..."
"They never do."
"Guess you hear this shit a lot, huh?"
Vic snorted. “You think hearing it over and over makes it any easier to listen to?"
"Probably just makes you wonder what all the saps are thinking, getting caught in it. You'd have to be an idiot to let it go that far."
"No one thinks you're an idiot,
"Brian?” What the hell was going through his head? “He's my best friend. We've been—"
"No. Not Brian. I know that. I know how long you've known him. I know...” He wove through traffic, chewed on his lip, glanced at my reflection, and came to some decision that eased a bit of the tension out of his grip on the wheel. “I know about you. Your mother died when you were twelve, your father turned mean. Brian protected you. Both of you swam on the varsity team in high school and won a lot. You went to college with him, and now you coach inner-city kids swimming. You have one kid on the team who could be Olympic if he can get funding. Two years ago, you started culinary school and dropped out when Carl came along, and what the fuck do you see in that jackass?"
I blinked. “You a cop or a stalker?"
He sighed, and his eyes drifted back to the road and the red light he'd stopped at. For a few minutes, he didn't say anything. His hands on the wheel, ten and two, were stiff again, like holding it kept him grounded.
"Too fucking close,” he muttered.
"What?” I leaned forward, shifting to find a clear view through the mesh separating us.
His lips tightened into a pinched line. The light turned green. Seconds ticked by. A horn sounded impatiently, and he jerked, a miniscule quirk of his entire body. The car rolled forward, and his fingers loosened. He glanced over his shoulder, searching out my face, rather than settling for my reflection in the rearview mirror. “People want to protect you,” was all he said before swiveling back around and concentrating on the road again.
My back began to ache with the strain of leaning forward. I sank back into the seat and glared out the window. “Carl used to say that. Never knew what he thought I needed protecting from."
Maybe himself.
"Maybe himself?” Vic voiced my thought.
My heart flipped over, and I shot a look into the mirror. Vic was watching me again.
"He's a dangerous man, Paul."
"You think?"
Vic drew in a deep breath. There was something just under the surface. Something he wasn't saying. Something he wanted to say, but wouldn't let himself. “Do you know anything about his past?"
I shook my head. I'd told him a few things about my own dad once, and he'd shut me up about it. “We didn't talk about our childhoods. He didn't...” I shivered. ‘Didn't like to’ was an understatement. He'd about gone ballistic when I'd told him some of the out-of-control things my father did when he drank.
"He had an ugly childhood."
"Huh.” I'd figured that much out on my own. After that first violently aborted conversation, I didn't ask for details. That wasn't the kind of thing a person like Carl relived with impunity, and his pain never translated to something I could bear much of.
"Do you love him?” Vic's question caught me off-guard. His voice had changed; gone from cop to something else.
"What the fuck business is that of yours?” I should have been more angry, more violated he'd ask something like that. I was sitting in cuffs, on my way to who the hell knew what, and we were talking about goddamn fucking Carl. That indignation eclipsed a bit of my fear.
"It isn't,” he admitted. Yet he met my eye in the mirror, and I had the feeling he was still waiting for an answer.
And I didn't have one. Carl had beaten me, and, I had to admit, Lil was right. For all I hadn't resisted him, I hadn't wanted that last round. It hadn't been sex; just a form of violence that hurt less than fists or his belt. And he'd left me helpless and in danger. How could you love a man who did that? I broke the eye contact first. “He didn't start out that way..."
"They never do."
"Guess you hear this shit a lot, huh?"
Vic snorted. “You think hearing it over and over makes it any easier to listen to?"
"Probably just makes you wonder what all the saps are thinking, getting caught in it. You'd have to be an idiot to let it go that far."
"No one thinks you're an idiot,
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