Page 98 of Thug

“What did you need to think about?”

“I killed a guy in Phoenix,” he deadpanned. “I needed to process it.”

I waited for him to continue or laugh but nothing came. I tore my eyes away from the scenery and gave him a look. “Seriously?” I asked, my tone a little more sarcastic than I intended it to be.

“Actually, I am,” he said, seeming almost embarrassed by what he’d revealed. “It was right before I started the club. I’d ridden up there to a bar with Brisco and Chin. We were just fucking around, having fun. I got in an argument with a guy when we were leaving. He said I bumped him. I was drunk. I might have, but I didn’t mean to. I gave him a half-assed apology, but he wouldn’t let it go. The argument turned into a fight. He pulled out a knife, and I took it from him. The next thing I knew, he was dead. I didn’t really remember anything that happened after I took the knife. Still don’t, now. I was arrested, but the district attorney declared it self-defense after interviewing everyone who witnessed it.”

My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. “Oh my God,” I said, my tone soft and forgiving. “So, you came here to make peace with it?”

“I tried, but it didn’t really work,” He said, shifting his gaze from me to the horizon. “Out here, I figured out what the underlying issue was, though. The bottom line? I was angry as fuck about my parent’s death.”

I reached for his hand. “Did coming here help you find a way to accept it? Eventually?”

“Not really. I hadn’t talked to anyone about it or how I felt about it since it happened. My aunt and I touched base on it when I was a kid, but the subject was taboo. After I killed that guy, I felt like I needed to talk to someone. So, I talked to my aunt.” He released my hand and peered over the edge of the cliff. “She demanded I see a psychiatrist. I was sick and tired of being angry all the time, so I figured what the hell. After a battery of tests and a few weeks of honest discussions, he diagnosed me as having severe PTSD.”

I knew what PTSD was, but I had no idea how to treat it. I was relieved that he’d been diagnosed but wanted some reassurance he was better. “Is there medicine you can take, or anything?”

“No, not really.” He faced me. “I do exercises.”

“Like what? Do you go to the gym?”

“No,” he laughed. “There’s a bunch of things my psychiatrist recommended. The ones I use are Relaxation, Self-Soothing, and Distraction. I call it RSD for my PTSD. It’s how I remember them. I listen to music to relax, eat donuts for the self-soothing, and ride my motorcycle to be distracted. It’s worked out pretty well. There’s a breathing exercise, too.”

“How often do you get angry?” I asked. “Like, angry enough to have to rely on exercises?”

“Before we met? Maybe five or six times a day. At least once. Now? Maybe not at all. I think you’re the relaxation, self-soothing, and distraction all rolled into one.”

I could see the first two, but not the third. “How am I a distraction?”

“Look in the mirror and ask yourself that question.” He gave me a quick once-over. “You’re a gorgeous little bitch.”

Being called a bitch was reason enough to scratch a guy’s eyes out. Having Price say it—at least in that context—was different.

I liked being a gorgeous little bitch. I stood and kissed him. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” he said. “It’s true.” He raked his hair away from his face and peered toward the mountains in the distance. “I’ve got an idea.”

“What is it?”

“I’m going to set an alarm for 15 minutes. We’re going to sit here without talking until the alarm goes off and then we’re going to talk about whatever came to mind.”

I grinned. “Sounds fun.”

He messed with his watch. “Alright.” He sat down. “Go.”

I gazed at the horizon. There were no signs of civilization no matter where I looked. Just over the top of the highest distant mountain, a few clouds lingered. Beyond that, the sky was as blue as I’d ever seen. Lost in the beauty—and the silence—I stared, hoping to file to picturesque view to memory.

At that moment I didn’t feel there was anything I wanted or needed. I’d hired a waitress and was interviewing cooks. I’d mentally committed to cut my workday to ten hours or so, leaving me time to live a somewhat normal life. I looked forward to having a relationship with Price. I couldn’t help but wonder what our future may hold.

I’d always done my best thinking with my eyes closed, so I closed my eyes.

Did I take the laundry out of the washer? Yes. No. Shit. Yes. I started the dryer. Damn it. They’re going to be wrinkled.

I didn’t lock my car.

No, wait. I did.

The hostages are going to be starving. I really want a cat. A Bengal. I want a family. For now, a cat would suffice.