Page 92 of Bourbon Truths
My fucking head spun with the realization that Marshall Duncan wasn’t the perfect father figure I’d pictured in my mind. The man I’d built up in my head was the complete opposite of who I thought he was.
Linda gripped my hand and forced me to look at her. “Kace, you saved us. You’re our protector, our provider. I can’t tell you the kind of freedom you have given both of us.”
I shook my head and tried to scoot away, but she held on to my hand tightly.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, confused.
“Because I see the way you walk around here, lifeless, not really experiencing this beautiful world you have in front of you. I wanted you to stop punishing yourself. You didn’t commit a sin, Kace. You relieved us of a lifetime of pain.”
“But… you enrolled Madeline into self-defense classes.”
“Yes.” Linda squeezed my hand. “So she can learn to protect herself from men like her father. I don’t want her to end up in a relationship like mine. I want her to know that she can fight back, that she should fight back. I want her to be a strong, confident woman, and I knew you would be the perfect one to teach her.”
I continued to shake my head as my hands ran through my hair. Confused and dazed, I stood up.
“No, this is too much. I can’t handle this.”
“Kace….” Linda called out as I walked away from her. “Please, don’t leave. I want to thank you….”
“Don’t!” I shouted, practically running out of the Haze Room.
She chased me down. “Take this at least.” She handed me the cards from Madeline, as well as an envelope. Reluctantly, I accepted the items and took off.
I ran out of the center, not bothering to lock up. I sent a quick text to Jett to let him know. He would need an explanation later, but right now, I had a mission and it was to get as far away from Justice and Linda as fast as I could.
As a human, there were situations you conjured up in your head, ideas you thought were so set in stone, nothing could ever change your mind about them. But the minute those ideas were changed, it was hard to comprehend, hard to switch gears. You formed a sort of denial. That’s where I was right now. I’d spent the last few years of my life punishing myself, living for someone else, providing for someone else, remembering the strong words of my father, that I would never amount to anything. I’d set out on a mission to find repentance for my sins. Finding out I was seen as a hero rather than a fucking murderer was almost impossible to comprehend.
I needed to get away. I needed to forget.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
My Past…
“You dumb whore, I did not suck him off. You have lost your fucking mind!” Babs shouted as she ran down the hallway past Lyla’s bedroom in the Lafayette Club.
“You did too. He told me,” Francy called. They must have stopped in front of Lyla’s room because their conversation was easy to hear.
“He told you. Well, then, let’s believe the little fucker. There is no way I would have sucked him off. He had some creepy yellow shit down there.”
I cringed at the thought.
“Oh, that’s nasty,” Francy replied. “What did it look like?”
“I’m not reliving that,” Babs said, moving away from Lyla’s door.
Francy’s voice trailed off as she said, “Was it chunky?”
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Lyla said into my chest, her hair tickling my skin and her soft body pressed against mine.
I had just had sex with Lyla in her bedroom at the Lafayette Club, where anyone could have heard us. What the fuck had I been thinking?
I rubbed her back, my eyes closed, wishing I would have been smarter about my choices, but after the day we’d had together, I couldn’t help it. I’d had to be inside her. She was a breath of fresh air, a short intermission in this cold, dark world I’d been living in.
“You shouldn’t be shocked. You’ve been here for a while. You should know the conversations that go on in this house.”
“True.” She nuzzled me, making all violent thoughts fade from my mind and warming me to my toes.
It was the anniversary of my dad’s death. It seemed like yesterday when I talked to him for the last time on the phone, listening to the bitterness in his voice when he’d spoken of my boxing career, of my accomplishments. I could still feel the blow to the gut of my father not believing me, not listening to my side of the story, telling me he wished I wasn’t his son.
