Dust Page 2

  2

  Killian

  "Are you painting death again?" the psychologist asked. I looked at him, knowing I wasn't going to answer, but unsure how to do it tactfully.

  "You know I don't like to talk about my art before it's finished."

  Mr. Noble leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "You've come a long way, Killian. You only have four more university-ordered sessions. You need to make the best of them."

  This was such bullshit. I felt my temper rise, but I immediately stamped it down. It would not do to blow up on this man. It was my short fuse that got me in this position to begin with. I took a deep breath. "Fine. Honestly, I'm not sure what I'm painting. It's abstract right now." And that was the truth.

  Mr. Noble seemed to ponder that and write something judgmental in his notebook.

  "Have you gotten angry about anything since we met last week?"

  "Nope."

  "That was a quick response." He paused to write something down, and I forced myself not to fill the silence. I hated the quiet. It was hard for me not to talk, and when I needed to focus on something, I listened to my iPod. Unless I was in class. Otherwise, the silence was deafening, and I couldn't think.

  "It's the truth," I said as easily as I could manage.

  He nodded.

  And didn't say anything.

  Fuck.

  I was not going to speak. If I had to, I'd hum to myself until he asked me something else.

  "Are you still taking your medication?"

  Great, a question that only required a one-word answer. Was he doing this on purpose? Of course he was, the bastard. "Yes. If I don't take it, I get sick." Hopefully, he wouldn't think I added to the required response just because I wanted to fill the silence. But his raised eyebrow told me better. I glanced at my watch. Only five more minutes of torture to go.

  "How's your grandfather doing?"

  I swallowed. I hated when he brought up my family, but I also understood it was unavoidable. I'd learned that lesson a long time ago. "Not good." I was okay not saying more than that. Unfortunately, Mr. Noble jotted something down, which made me think he'd expected me to say more, and I hadn't. I'd never mastered the song and dance that happened between therapist and patient. I hoped whoever created the study of psychology was burning in hell.

  "Your knee is bouncing," he said casually.

  I looked down and forced my leg to still.

  "Are you dating?"

  I frowned at him. He'd never asked about that before. Family? Yes. My anger issues? Definitely. I was diagnosed with ADHD and Antisocial Personality Disorder several years ago, so I was used to talking about sudden aggressive feelings. But women? "No."

  "Why?"

  I licked my lips and wondered what was the best way to answer that question without getting thrown out of school. Of course, if attacking a classmate hadn't gotten me kicked to the curb, a little honesty wouldn't either. But I figured saying, "Pussy is pussy..." wouldn't work. Nor would bringing up the fact I didn't date. I fucked. And the two had nothing to do with each other. Maybe if I appealed to his male side, he'd get it.

  "Mr. Noble, women are high maintenance, and I spend too much time taking care of my grandfather anyway."

  He half-smiled. Good. It seemed my answer was acceptable.

  "Can't argue with you there. But, Killian, by dating, I meant being involved with women. At all. No matter how short your, um, encounters are."

  Jesus. I ran a hand through my hair and shifted in my seat. "Yeah. I have encounters with women."

  "Do you have repeat encounters with them?"

  As in, did I see any one woman regularly? No, not usually, because that constituted a relationship, which I didn't form with any chick. On the rare occasion I did bang the same girl, I was either drunk, or she'd contacted me to get laid. The expectation was either clouded in alcohol or blatantly clear. "No."

  "Do you become angry easily? Ever hurt one of them?"

  I snapped my jaw shut and took a deep breath. Just because I threw a desk at Gabriel in class didn't mean I beat chicks. "No," I gritted.

  "Things never get too rough and you hurt one accidentally?"

  He was baiting me, trying to make me angry. Usually, I kept things under control. With the help of my medication and breathing techniques, I’d lived an almost healthy life. Only during stressful situations did I get agitated and struggle staying still, and only when provoked did I become aggressive. He was doing that now. "No, sir," I said slowly. "You know I'm peaceful. Generally speaking."

  "Except the day you assaulted a classmate," he answered quickly, glaring at me. Oh yeah, he was definitely trying to irk me. Mr. Noble was a calculating man. I wasn't going to fall for it.

  "Gabriel insulted my grandparents. I told you that. He made fun of the fact that my granddad has Alzheimer's and asked if he ever forgot my grandma was dead."

  "But that's not what pissed you off," he spat.

  I shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and then leveled my gaze on my tormentor. "No," I said deadly soft. "He asked what it was like to vacuum up her ashes after Granddad tried fucking his dead wife." Not that he'd ever tried to do that, but the ashes were an issue more than I'd like for them to be.

  Mr. Noble smiled and eased back into his chair. "Very good, Killian. I thought you were going to throw something at me for a moment." He chuckled, but I detected a little nervousness behind it.

  "You tried to make me." I was still tense, but breathing through my anger. The man was maddening.

  "Of course I did. That's what therapy's all about. No matter what Gabriel or anybody else says or does to provoke you, you have to learn to work through the rage like you just did."

  I sighed and rubbed my hands over my face before looking at him again. "I can count on one hand how many times I've lost my temper since I've been going to this school. That's once a year on average, and only once did someone get hurt. Everybody's entitled to have a bad day."

  He looked at me for the longest time before speaking. This time, I didn't have a desire to fill the silence.

  "The difference, Killian, is you might not lose your temper very often, but you struggle with it regularly. You're good at keeping it at bay, but that's because you take precautions to mitigate possible damages. Unfortunately, you never know when something will set you off. You have to be prepared to deal with those situations, too."

  My phone beeped, signaling my time was up. I nodded at him as I grabbed my backpack and stood. "I'll see you next week."

  He walked around his desk and put his hand on my back. "Don't ever forget what you told me in that first session. I don't believe it. You are not him. But it's because you believe it that I want to help you."

  I hooked my bag over my shoulder. "Yeah."

  He sighed, obviously understanding this wasn't an argument he'd win. "We'll keep working on it."

  I nodded and left. I wished I hadn't said those words to him during that first visit, but that didn't make them untrue. Besides, Mr. Noble was hell-bent on discussing my family. Oh well, I'd spent enough time dealing with my problems for the day. It was time to go home and help my granddad with his.

  I tossed my bag across the cab of my truck, and it landed on the passenger side as I climbed in. It wasn't zipped, because I'd grabbed Liv's sketchbook after she ran off, and it was too big to fully fit in my backpack. It slid to the side, so I pushed it back into the bag and propped it up a little against the seat so it'd stay put. Then I started the truck and pulled out.

  But as I drove home, I kept glancing at her sketchpad as it peeked out of my bag. What had I said to make her run off? She'd told me not to say something, but I hadn't really said anything. It did surprise me that I couldn't fight my urge to talk to her when she was near. Normally, when I was in class focusing on my art, I was able to tune out the world and quiet the almost constant need to do something, whether it was talk, fidget, or whatever. Art was the only therapy I needed. It worked better than my meds. But my curiosity p
ushed through my otherwise meditative state. When I asked her about her clothes, the question had drifted out without conscious effort. I didn't know why I'd verbalized the thought, but for some reason, I wanted to know. She'd definitely gotten spooked by something though. Then again, I did imply she was a freak. Not cool. I knew that, but she was quiet one minute and mouthy the next.

  Not that I had any room to judge. I was the one with major issues. If either of us was a freak, it was me.

  Granddad was on the porch swing when I pulled in. I killed the engine and hopped out.

  "That you, Eddie?" he asked, blocking the sun from his eyes as he stared right at me. God, I hated it when he confused me with that man.

  "No, sir. It's me, Killian," I said as I walked up slowly to him, not sure if he'd freak once he realized exactly who I was.

  He frowned and tilted to his head to the side, and I almost smiled when I saw the recognition in his eyes. "Oh, right. How was school, Killian?"

  "Good, Granddad. Good." I clapped his shoulder as I reached him, and he stood. I opened the screen door, and he followed me inside. "What did you do today?"

  "Oh, I, er, rearranged some things."

  Great. What did he move this time? I dropped my bag on the couch and turned to him. I shoved my hands in pockets and smiled—a lie to my true feelings. "Really? What did you move? I hope it wasn't too heavy. You should let me help you with bigger stuff."

  "Don't be silly. It was just some knickknacks."

  Not good. I schooled my expression and watched him while he looked to the side. He almost always gave himself away when this happened. He looked right to the hall closet, and I made a mental note to check it once he left the room. I was sure to find things in there that didn't belong. One thing in particular was a given.

  I'd moved in with my grandfather after my grandmother died suddenly. Thankfully, I'd been going to LSU, so it hadn't been hard to make the switch from the dorms to his house. Not only had he needed someone to keep him company, but he'd needed help to live. Unfortunately, he was getting worse. I wasn't sure how much longer I'd be able to watch out for him before I'd have to hire somebody to help. Money wasn't the problem.

  Trust was.

  My grandfather was a very private man. He'd started his own boating business in his late teens, and it grew to be pretty successful. He'd worked his ass off to make a nice living, and he'd succeeded in doing so. He never really retired, but he'd earned enough and invested smartly which afforded him the lifestyle to work when he wanted and hire other people to run his business day-to-day. He'd always been strong physically, but mentally it was different story. He'd started showing signs of his disease several years ago, and it didn't take long for doctors to figure out what was wrong with him. After my grandmother had her heart attack, part of me believed he welcomed the forgetful spells.

  Lord knew I'd love to forget a few things myself.

  "You hungry?" I asked.

  "I was just going to make some sandwiches. Sound good, son?"

  I nodded without correcting him on his slip and watched him leave the room. Since he was now safely tucked away in the kitchen, I darted to the hall closet and opened the door. I pushed the coats to the side and some shoes over that were on the floor. I found a spatula and pulled it out. It didn't belong in here, but it wasn't what I was searching for, either. I pushed aside a box of old movies and found an apron. I sighed as I grabbed it. Just another sign of what I really was going to find. I stood up and looked on the shelf above the coats. Behind some caps, I saw a sliver of metal. It was the top of it.

  My grandmother's urn.

  I pushed the hats aside and pulled the urn to me until I could grab hold without tipping it. I quickly secured it and dashed into the living room to put it back on the mantel. I wished he'd let me spread her ashes out in the flower garden where she'd loved to spend her time, but he was adamant that we wait until after he died. I wasn't sure if it was because he wanted his ashes to be spread with hers, or if he didn't want to know where we were going to release them. Either way, it was his decision, so I'd just wait and keep going on these scavenger hunts whenever he'd get depressed about a memory of her and hide her remains—and whatever else it was that triggered the sad memory—in some obscure place. Well, obscure unless he ratted himself out with just a glance. But I wasn't always that lucky.

  "Ham or turkey, Eddie?"

  I felt the goose bumps invade my arms. "Ham," I called out. I really couldn't stand it when he confused me with my father. The man was dead, which was a blessing to me and the taxpayers of Louisiana. If he'd survived, he would've been tried, convicted, and sentenced to death anyway. At least Fate had intervened and saved everybody time and heartache. He was never a real father to me when he was alive. The only thing he ever gave me was grief. He wasn't capable of compassion, much less love. He'd radiated evil and darkened everything he touched. I hated knowing his blood coursed through my veins. Money wasn't the root of all evil. Oh no. Immortality was. I knew that man's legacy lived on through me, and I couldn't stand it. At times I felt like the spawn of Satan, and those were on my good days.

  He wasn't someone I talked about because as cheesy as it sounded, ignorance was bliss, so people were better off unaware of the truth—which also helped me pretend everything was okay. Mr. Noble had gotten it out of me on my first ordered session though. He knew how I really felt, so I couldn't deny it with him. He knew my father was a monster and that he created one with me. I had to believe that. If I didn't, it'd rear its ugly head. What I failed to tell Mr. Noble was that if I acknowledged the beast within me, I could control it. It was my way to keep my own identity and not live in the shadow of my father. But even manacled with zero slack, if the beast ever got out there'd be no stopping me and the destruction I could cause. I knew it.

  I could feel it.

  And that scared the shit out of me.

  3

  "It's okay, darlin'..."

  I gasped, bolting up in the bed. My skin was crawling. I wouldn't think that was physically possible, but my body obviously knew better. It was that, or creepy crawlies were actually roving around on me.

  I'd welcome the bugs over the alternative.

  "You okay, Liv?"

  I started, jerking my head in the direction of the voice. Barbie. Right, I was in my dorm. I took a deep breath and forced my muscles to relax and ignore the fight-or-flight instinct that was ingrained within me. "Oh, um, yeah. Bad dream." It had been an even worse reality, but I wasn't going there with her.

  "Ah. I hate it when I have a nightmare. Sometimes, I dream I'm cheering without any clothes on..."

  I totally checked out on her then. She was the Charlie Brown teacher in my head as I stood and grabbed my clothes. "I'm gonna hop in the shower before class."

  "...I'd wake up—oh, okay. Don't forget about the fundraiser tomorrow. I probably won't see you again until then, and you said you'd try to make it."

  Crap. I didn't remember saying that, but it was possible. "I'll see." Yeah, I probably wasn't going. I didn't do social events, no matter how noble the cause, but it was easier to say that than give an outright rejection. If I said no, she'd probably hound me. Too much drama. I had enough of that already.

  I walked down the hall to the showers and quickly cleaned and got ready for class. At least Jewel had been M.I.A. most of the time since we became roommates. I hoped she found another cause to support that'd keep her busy and away from the room as much as this hurricane relief thing had been doing. I liked seeking the solitude of my room after classes. Not that my classes had sucked.

  Okay, art had sucked, and if that weren't bad enough, I'd made a fool of myself by running out of there the first day. It was too much to hope that they were used to seeing a lunatic run out without taking all her stuff. Good thing I didn't really care what they thought about me. I was used to being fodder for jokes. At least my writing classes had gone well.

  But it wasn't a writing class I had this morning.

  Art.
Those three little letters would be the bane of my existence. I'd put off taking it for as long as I could. I did have a few extra classes to take since I'd transferred schools, but after mapping out my course load with my advisor on the remaining classes I had to have to graduate, this semester was the only time it'd fit into my schedule. I had to suck it up and do it. It wasn't for me anyway.

  It was for her.

  As I walked to class several minutes earlier than necessary, I acknowledged the campus was laid out fairly well for me. My classes were all close together, and my routes felt short, safe. As the days passed, I started to feel less closed in. If I didn't think about the parishes and towns that lurked beyond where I now lived, I could pretend I wasn't actually in Louisiana. It was insane. I knew that, but it helped.

  The door to the art room was propped open to allow a comfortable breeze to filter through. That, or to keep the kids from getting high on paint fumes. I walked in and was going to go right to the teacher to get my stuff—surely she'd have taken it up after I fled—but noticed she wasn't at her desk. I frowned and looked around. A few students where already here, but that was it. No teacher. I glanced to the back of the room and saw the dark hair poking out from behind the canvas. Motor Mouth was here. Great. If anybody was going to ask what happened to me the other day, it would be him. I could take a different seat, but quickly dismissed that idea. First, it was a sign of weakness.

  I didn't like to show weakness.

  And second, Dr. Sutherland might have assigned seats. Since I wasn't here for the very beginning of class last time, I wasn't sure if she'd said to keep the seat we'd initially picked or not. If I gambled on that and lost, it'd draw unneeded attention to me. No thanks.

  But really, I just didn't like to show weakness.

  Steeling myself for the oncoming questions, I marched to the back of the room without a second thought as to how I'd do my work if my things were not somewhere in here. When I got to my spot, I didn't even look at Mystery Man. I dropped my bag and sat on the stoolthen gaped at my artwork and textbook displayed just how I'd left them. But that wasn't all. There was a torn piece of paper with a hand drawn on it with notes. The sketching had extra lines and shading for emphasis, which some of the notes pointed to, but otherwise, it was perfect. I looked up again to see if Dr. Sutherland had dropped it off and maybe put her personal effects on her desk before stepping out for a minute, but her desk was too messy to tell. I plucked the drawing she'd rendered as a guide and started reading it. I glared at it after seeing the first note and then looked at my nosey neighbor.