There was a very special place in hell for people like Paul O’Connor. There had to be. If I thought that he wouldn’t burn for what he did to me, from the abuse to making me believe I was the monster that killed his son, I’d lose my mind.
I woke up drenched in sweat for a solid month since getting back from making the most significant mistake of my adult life—going to my mother’s funeral. Not only attending it but also bringing a woman I felt I loved around that family.
Now, my mind was fucked into a million pieces. I’d been recalling the goddamn nightmarish memories of my past. I couldn’t help but wonder if my recollections were all the things Paul had put into my head since my brother died, or if they were what actually happened when I was a little boy?
Who the hell knew? If all of this shit were true, that would mean that when I was six years old, I murdered my brother. The nightmares that I couldn’t discuss with anyone told me I was the one who killed my twin brother on that fishing trip.
Fuck me to hell. Why would I be allowed to live another day on this earth if that were the case? The dreams revealed the sickening visual of seeing Albert drown in that massive lake, and I was the one to tell him to jump in the water while Paul wasn’t around. My latest night terror showed a dock, and in the dream, I convinced Albert to go to the edge before I pushed him off of it and watched him go under. The other dreams revealed that I insisted Albert get in a boat with me, and then I pushed him over the side and watched him go under. In every instance, I watched him drowning, and it was because I’d done something sinister.
Jesus Christ, I couldn’t do this anymore. I hated myself more each day. These night terrors made me wake up like this every morning, and today was the worst morning yet. These dreams seemed to chip away at my psyche slowly, and it crushed my soul to realize that maybe I had done this wretched thing. It didn’t seem possible, but the memories were there, and I didn’t know how to explain it away.
I felt tears streaming down my cheeks. I hated my fucking life, and that going to my mother’s funeral had caused these memories to come back. The real problem was that I’d allowed myself to feel something more with Breanne, and that was what opened me up to this in the first place.
How could I live another day not knowing the truth? Why couldn’t I just fucking remember what happened instead of having these dreams? The only reason I hadn’t checked myself into some mental institution was that I was a man known for fixing shit. Now, I needed to fix myself.
By the time I showered, I’d shaken off these terrible feelings. I may not have remembered the day my brother died, but I did remember one fact about myself growing up: Paul O’Connor was a lying, abusive drunk who hated me. He’d always blamed me for something I felt he was responsible for. Those were solid feelings.
I also knew for a fact that my grandfather hated my father. More than once, my grandfather said he was thankful he got me out of there. He only wished he could’ve saved my mom and younger sister too. He was helpless to save them from my dad, but he thanked God that Paul hated me enough for my grandfather to take me away and work relentlessly to heal my trauma from Paul’s abuse—what trauma he could help to heal, it would seem.
My grandfather eventually resented my mother for ignoring his help and choosing Paul O’Connor over the ones who loved her. When he signed nearly everything over to me before he died, he remarked that his daughter wasn’t to receive anything from his estate. Still, he set aside enough to give her a proper burial—the preparations to be handled by me—because he knew that Paul would spend all of the money. Hell, Paul probably would’ve thrown my mother in a shallow grave after he pulled the gold out of her fillings if he thought he could’ve bought more booze.
I eventually became the son my grandfather had always wanted, and my mother became an estranged daughter. My grandfather was an exceedingly wealthy man, and he wasn’t a fool. He was strict and inflexible with my upbringing, and that structure was what I craved, whether or not I knew it at the time. All I could think of now were the many times my grandfather had expressed how proud he was of me, so how could I believe these dreams were true? My grandfather would’ve had nothing to do with me if I was some psychopath who killed my brother.
All I wanted to do now was erase the dream, forget the fact I’d pushed Bree away for the sake of being able to fucking breathe normally since this shit started happening, and start my day. Fuck my feelings.
I still don’t know how she hadn’t chewed my ass out for dropping her as if being together for almost a year didn’t mean anything to me. I even gave her my fucking cat—of all the stupid goddamn things a heartless bastard would do. I knew I’d cracked and was fucked in the head, but I needed space from everything, and the only place I could function was at work after I made sure Bree wasn’t around. Thank God she was busier than hell. She had four projects that kept her out of my life and allowed me to work, go home, and fall asleep, only to wake up like this every damn day since that funeral.
Imagining Bree’s smile from yesterday when she walked up to me when I was talking to an HR rep was enough to torment me and add to my miserable life. This day had to have been the worst of them all because I longed to hold her again, and it was painful knowing that may never happen again.
My chest was heavier than fuck, my respirations shallow, and I knew if I didn’t calm the fuck down, I’d probably end up in the emergency room. I was so all over the place emotionally that I didn’t know which way was up or down anymore. Usually, this shit would’ve passed by now, especially after taking a hot shower to snap me out of this guilty-as-hell mind-fuck.
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe it all out—the pain that stabbed like a fucking knife in my chest, the fact that after all these years, the hell hounds had finally ripped the flesh from my skin and left me in this state, and that opened me up to finally become Paul O’Connor’s victim. There. I admitted it. I was a goddamn victim even though all my life I’d been told I was the victimizer who’d ruined my family.
“Son of a bitch!” I wailed, unable to suck in a breath and pissed as fuck that I was stuck in some madhouse of emotions.
It felt like my chest was being crushed, and I knew something was wrong. I needed to get help. I slipped on a hoodie and sweats and called for my neighbor to drive my ass to the hospital.
My eyes were closed the entire ride, and I couldn’t tolerate Shirley’s voice for another second. I should’ve just fucking collapsed at home and let my father finally have his day in the sun where he was able to spit on my grave. At long last, the son he hated would be off the face of the earth like he intended with every punch to my face, kick to my stomach, and the rest of the torture he subjected me to when I was a kid.
“We’re here, honey,” she said, running her hand over my sweaty forehead. “I’m running in ahead of you. I’ll kill you if you die on me, Alexander.”
After being rushed into the ER and having to call in Jim as my next of kin, I was given a heavy dose of medication for a panic attack, and I knew I was a solid case of fucked-up now.
“I’ve got him,” I heard Jake. “What time did he come in, and what did his EKG’s show?”
“He suffered a pretty severe panic attack,” Dr. Sanchez told him. “And don’t give him hell for this, either.”
“Oh, don’t worry. My brother will be more than happy to give him hell. I don’t need to do a thing,” Jake said with a laugh.
I felt calmer than I had in months, and I could probably catch up on ten or eleven months of sleep about now. The last thing I needed was my chief cardiothoracic surgeon friend walking in and grilling my ass. Jake wouldn’t allow me to get up and leave this place as if nothing happened. Jake would go on a mission to uncover what’d caused my sorry ass to end up at Saint John’s ER if I didn’t start talking.
“Hey, handsome,” he said, walking in with his white doctor’s lab coat over his suit. “I was just making my evening rounds when my boyfriend, who stopped talking to me a month ago, had a panic attack because he knew losing me was the stupidest fucking thing to ever happen to him.”
“You’re lucky I’m loaded up on drugs,” I said, half-smiling.
“What happened, man? Is Jim putting you and Bree under so much pressure at that firm that you stopped sleeping with her, making you—the last person on this earth I’d ever expect this from—have a panic attack? What will everyone say?”
“You think I give a fuck?”
Jake grinned. “I need to run more tests on you.” He sat on the side of my bed. “It would take you having a heart attack for you not to give a damn about what we’d say about all of this bullshit.”
I frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Bree and her friends happen to be pretty tight with Ash and the girls.” His eyes rose in humor. “Chicks talk, man, and especially when they feel that one of their own is getting shit from a dickbag of a boyfriend…” he paused. “Or was it fiancé? What the fuck are you, or were you two, anyway?”
“I’m not talking about relationships with you,” I said.
“I knew I waited too long to get down to you. Now, all the meds have worn off, and you’re an asshole again.”
“Seriously, Jacob,” I said. “It’s all a goddamn nightmare. I’m not taking more drugs. I want to get the fuck out of here, and I’m not talking about any of this.”
“The hell you’re not, fucker,” Collin said, entering the room. “Jake hit up the group text saying you were in for a heart attack?”
“It’s what it fucking felt like,” I added, my brain foggy from the medication, not knowing how to shut the hell up. “It doesn’t matter. I had a panic attack. Big damn deal. Dr. Sanchez was supposedly sending me home, but apparently, he decided to let dipshit here know he helped me.”
Jake eyed his neurosurgeon best friend. “That’s because I was paged that a friend of mine was coming in with heart attack read-outs. Do you remember insisting only Dr. Mitchell cut you open?” Jake asked me.
“I remember I was scared as fuck,” I raised my eyebrows at the two men who were trying to remain stern with me. “Then I still didn’t believe Sanchez knew what he was talking about when he said it was merely a panic attack and not a heart attack.”
“Next time, I’ll ensure that medical science separates the two that can mirror each other,” Jake said. “Perhaps a brain aneurism is occurring as well because something caused this, and I know you’re not under pressure at work.”
“I could peel his skull open and check for any damage,” Collin smirked and patted my leg. “Listen, I just got paged. Scans aren’t looking good for this trauma patient, so get some rest, and get back in the game, buddy.”
“I don’t want Breanne knowing about this,” I told Jake.
“Then you probably shouldn’t have gotten on the hospital intercom and called for her and me while vocalizing your last will and testament for all to hear.” He sighed while I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re giving her Zeus? We all know that Collin got first dibs on your cat. That’s straight-up fucked.”
“Jake, is he okay?” I heard Jim say.
“Panic attack,” Jake said. I wasn’t daring to open my eyes at this point. “He’ll be fine.”
“Sign him out of here,” Jim said. “Alex, your ass is coming home with me.”
That’s when my eyes reopened. “I have a panic attack, and now I’m being treated like a helpless child?” I said. “No thanks. I’m heading home and thankful I’m alive.” I swung my legs over the side of my bed. “How about that? People in business have panic attacks all the damn time. This is nothing new. I’m leaving.”
“In what car?” Jim asked.
“I’ll hitchhike before I sit here and have to listen to anyone tell me where I’m going. I’m not talking shit out. I’m not doing therapy, and I swear to God that if Bree finds out I was here and not on some job site, I’ll lose my shit.”
“Too late. You’ve already lost your shit,” Jim said as he eyed my hospital gown. “I’m not just talking about the hospital either. All of it. I thought you and Bree broke up, so why would I tell her you came to the hospital?”
“Ah,” I grinned. “It looks like Av doesn’t like to talk as much as Ash does.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Jim flashed Jake and me his dick-head look.
Jake pointed his thumb back toward me. “Ash mentioned something about this one acting out of character since getting back from the funeral he didn’t tell us about.”
“It’s just child psychology coming full circle,” I looked at Jim. “Nothing I can’t deal with on my own.”
“All while you’re losing the only girl you’ve ever loved and checking yourself into a hospital? Your full-circle idea sounds like a circle of bullshit to me.”
“No kidding. When did we ever imagine Alex would come in here, begging me to cut him open and fix his ticker?” Jake added.
“Yeah, that’s enough to make me believe something else is up,” Jim said. “Now, grab your shit. I’ll take you home,” he turned back to me as he and Jake went to leave the room, “and you’re going to come clean on whatever caused you to think you were having a coronary, Mr. O’Connor. I fucking knew you were Irish.”
As Jim and Jake talked in softer voices, leaving me to grab my stuff and get the hell out of this ER room, I pulled on my clothes and tried my best to figure out how I’d deal with Jim. This wasn’t going to be an easy blow-off, but Jesus, I didn’t even know what the truth of my past was.
“Start talking,” Jim ordered when we reached my house, and he followed me in. “I allowed you plenty of time to think in silence on the ride here, and now it’s time to talk. What is going on with you?”
“You know what’s going on,” I said, walking to my fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. “I opened myself up to feeling all these emotions, and it all backfired on my ass. Now I’m a walking, talking, emotional horror-show.”
“Bullshit,” Jim said, sitting in the chair next to the couch I slumped onto. “I’m not buying it, Alex. Try again.”
“What do you want to know?” I looked over at him. “That my dad got to me? That falling in fucking love opened me up to emotions that are responsible for me having a goddamn panic attack?”
“Start at the top,” Jim crossed an ankle over his knee. “You’re my best friend. We both have fucked-up pasts that we never liked to talk about. I know that fucker beat the hell out of you. I also know that it was fucked-up that your grandfather didn’t report that abusive asshole too. I just have one stupid question.” He knit his eyebrows together. “Why was it all covered up?”
“You know that answer.” I tipped back the water to moisten my parched lips. “The Grayson name was to remain untarnished. I was groomed in that manner, and I was also removed from the other fucking family so things would end there, and mom would be safe?” I posed that mainly as a question to myself I’d never asked before. I’d never talked about any of this to anyone, even Jim.
“Your mom would be safe?” Jim instantly caught on to what I’d said. “What the fuck was going on that your grandfather would bury this? He had the money to pay off your father and get him completely out of all your lives if he needed to. Still, your mom just let him take you out of there and remained behind?”
“I don’t fucking know why anything went down the way it did, Jim. I seriously can’t remember anything but that son of a bitch hating me and me being pulled out of the family to save the rest of them.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.
“What prompted the panic attack? I’m your best friend, and you will talk. We’re practically brothers, Alex, and you have to know I’m here for you in any way I can be. You cut Breanne off, and you won’t talk to her, but I’ll be damned if I let you take the easy way out and not talk out whatever it is you’re dealing with. Something is up, and it’s not just that your father hated you.”
“Fine. Since coming back from that funeral, I’ve had dreams that scare the shit out of me, all right?” I looked at him. “I’ve had night terrors since I was a kid, but they’ve intensified since I started to loosen up emotionally with Breanne.”
“Night terrors?” Jim questioned.
“You heard me. When I got home from that goddamn funeral—something I was too stupid to insist Bree not attend—that’s the first time I was able to recall the dreams that went along with them after I woke up. Who am I kidding? They’re not just dreams. They’re fucking terrorizing nightmares. They point to me murdering my twin brother.”
Jim stared at me in disbelief, which was the way I suspected he would—the way he probably should. I’d just admitted what I was always told as a child—I was a murderer.
“Night terrors, dreams, visions, or whatever you claim this to be, I don’t buy what you just told me,” Jim said firmly. “Last I checked, Alex Grayson didn’t pop up in the databases as a murderer, and I know for a fact Oxford wouldn’t have admitted you if that shit were true. Let’s back up just a fucking second, though. You had a twin brother who died?” Jim’s eyes were filled with shock and sadness after hearing about Albert for the first time.
“Yes, and that fucker of a dad always told me I killed him. Now, these dreams are so vivid, and they’re making me think that he could be right.”
“There’s no fucking way you killed your brother. How old were you both when this happened?”
“We were six. The date on Albert’s grave confirms that much, anyway.”
“And do you remember him? I mean, do you remember anything about his death?”
I shook my head. “No. I only remember being told I killed my brother and ruined my family. My dad tortured me any way he could—beat the hell out of me, choked me, burned me, and starved me, whatever he could get away with—but it wasn’t until I caught him beating the shit out of mom that I nearly killed the mother fucker myself,” I sighed. “That’s when my grandfather took me away.”
“If you murdered your brother, the law would know. Court and custody battles with the State would have ensued, Alex. There’s no way in hell you can cover something like that up, not even your wealthy grandfather with all the money he had.”
“What if my grandfather paid everyone off? Judges or congress members or senators? You know the influence he had. What if I killed Albert?”
“You believe that shit?” Jim questioned. “There’s more to this, and I know that without question. If your old man put something into your brain to make you believe that you murdered your brother, well, goddamn. That’s the worst thing I think I’ve ever heard in my life. That’s fucked-up beyond all else.”
“Why would Paul let me stay in that house with my sisters until I was a teenager? Or with his wife?” I pulled my feet off the coffee table and rested my elbows on my knees. “If this is true, this makes me the monster he’s always said I am.”
“Fuck that,” Jim’s voice was lethal. “I’m serious. You’re going to lose these irrational thoughts. Get some goddamn counseling and fix yourself. I’m not even falling for your line of bullshit, saying that this is all started because you were finally in a relationship where you opened yourself up. I don’t believe that’s the reason you’re having a full-blown emotional breakdown.”
“Regardless of your opinion, I was a shallow asshole before her. I’d been raised to believe that I was incapable of giving or receiving love. I believed that until I met Breanne. Once I allowed myself to open up, that’s when the night terrors began coming on more frequently, and now they’re unbearable. I can’t live like this. If it means shutting it down and moving on without her, then I’ll do that. I have to, or I’ll go insane.”
“That’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Jim said. “With Summer, at least you had a good reason to break things off. This reasoning you’re giving me about Breanne sounds as if you’re blaming her for finding something good in life.”
“Finding something good?” I said with disgust. “Tell me how anything could be good when all I have is night terrors? I’m haunted for life because my twin brother is six feet underground, and it’s my fault? I don’t deserve it. Knowing my fucking father and how much he hated me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he put some blood-magic curse on me to make sure this would happen if I ever found happiness.”
“You need to speak to a professional, and I’m serious as fuck about that.”
“I’m not sharing this with Elena or anyone. I can’t. It could ruin a lot of lives if it were true.”
“How the fuck did you murder your brother at six years old?” Jim asked. “Seriously, I want to know why my best friend’s dark, cursed past is now coming to light, and I’m learning Alex is a fucking murderer.”
“Million-fucking-dollar question.” I stood up. “I’ll look into some form of therapy because I want answers myself. I want to know if what these night terrors are revealing is true and if I did it all intently. If it’s true, the authorities need to know. They need to—”
“Slow the fuck down,” Jim rose to meet me. “Let’s get you some good therapy, and we’ll deal with the rest as it comes. I’ll have Bree and your new VP cover for you, and you go wherever the best therapy is for people in your condition.” He exhaled and walked over to grip my shoulder and look me in the eyes. “You’ve got to fix yourself before you can think about anything else. Bree will understand.” He stopped when I went to speak but halted me with his sympathetic grin. “She doesn’t need to know anything if that will keep you from self-sabotaging.”
I frowned. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. Part of me thinks I need to call up a witch or something.”
“You and Breanne relate the Wizard of Oz to yourselves too fucking much.” He smirked. “She probably feels like Dorothy on some yellow brick road, trying to find answers for you.”
“Oh, God,” I finally laughed. “Let her know I’m out for the month. She’ll know if I’m not in London, so that’s exactly where I need to go to get the fucking treatment that might help. I’ll call Elena and see if she can recommend someone who deals with adults who have issues like mine.”
“It’s called childhood trauma and abuse,” Jim said. “And yes, it haunts more people than just you. My bet is on the fact that your old man had a lot to do with this, and there was a reason your mother allowed her father to raise you. You might want to think about hypnosis therapy or something to tap into your subconscious.”
“I just wish I could block it all again, be fucking happy, and move on.”
“Well, it’s obvious that you can’t. I mean, you gave away your goddamn cat, for Christ’s sake. We should’ve known something was fucking with you after Bree said you felt like you were developing allergies.” He rolled his eyes. “We were all stuck in a fucking world of our own, ignoring all the red flags that you needed some help.”
“But isn’t that how I prefer things to be? Even now, Jimmy,” I pleaded. “I don’t want anyone knowing this shit. Just hearing Bree question whether or not I murdered my brother after my brainwashed sister told her—”
Jim eyed me. “Hold up. Jane told her this?”
“Jennifer,” I said. “Sorry, she’s one I never told you about. She’s the youngest. She was hardly a year old when it happened. She grew up hearing my father call me a monster, seeing him locking me in closets or beating the shit out of me whenever the wind blew the wrong way. After I moved, Jen was given a little more insight into her murderous brother.”
“This sounds like a fucking horror film,” Jim said. “All right. Get this shit out of your mind. Get your ass to London. Find a reason to be there since Bree’s best friend is your London VP and will mention you’re in town.” He stopped and sighed. “Do you really think it’s wise to lie to her? Why not just come fucking clean, and if she bails, she bails?”
“Because I don’t want rumors flying. I shut it down as best I could after Jen decided to make me out to be a murderer to her, and she’s not brought up that trip since. Let’s not get her involved on this topic again. If it turns out that I did this—”
“Then we deal with those issues properly, and I’m quite confident your therapist, or whoever you seek help from, will guide you in the right direction. Though,” Jim’s eyebrow arched at me, “I would probably warn Paul he might have cops on his doorstep soon. And fuck the Grayson name too. Your grandfather is gone, and it’s only you who is left. If the name goes to hell, so be it. I’m here for you, and I think you’re going to find a different truth. Now, pack your shit, and I’ll handle things on my end.”
