Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy) Page 8

  “Shit. Okay, this was a bad idea.” I hear Mac mutter.

  “Ehh…probably.” I mentally shrug.

  As soon as Roman enters the room a war is waged. The battlegrounds are within my rib cage, the opposing sides are me against myself, and the winner walks away with whatever is left of my wrecked heart and soul.

  I hate this man.

  I love this man.

  He breaks me apart.

  Only to merge the pieces back together, forging Mace with Mac into his Heather.

  “Mouse? What is it? Do you need something?” I shake my head keeping it down like a guilty child awaiting her punishment.

  “Heather has requested your presence for this therapy session, Dr. Payne. Would you like to join us?”

  I cast a sideways glance at Roman as he unbuttons his suit jacket before sitting next to me on the love seat and resting his left hand on my knee. “Absolutely, whatever I can do to help.”

  Dr. Sharp looks down at her legal pad before looking back at us, “Heather, would you like to include your husband in the conversation we were just having or is there something else you had in mind? Anything you wanted to discuss with me now that he’s joined us?”

  “I-well, we, I mean, Dr. Sharp asked about my first and last memory’s on and after September 21st, 2009.” When I glance up at Roman I am immediately aware of my mistake. I should have steered clear of eye contact with the man sitting beside me. After he converges ‘us’, he gracefully claims proprietorship of…me. All of me. Like he has time and time again throughout my life.

  I love this man, but goddamn it I don’t want to.

  Chapter 16

  There are a thousand different thoughts and emotions racing around in my mouse’s head and every one of them are like revolving masks, a carousel of expressions on her beautiful, flawless face.

  “And what do you remember?”

  At this point, I’m more than ready to lay my cards out on the table. Confess my sins, serve my time, live my life behind bars. Because for Christ’s sake, we all know I am not fit to be a father, and if I have to be the one to sacrifice and pay my penance for Heather to come to terms with herself and heal mentally and emotionally, then I will. If it helps the story end with Heather and Ivy together, happily ever after, then nothing else matters to me.

  Not my pride, not my freedom, nothing matters more than my wife and daughter’s happiness.

  “I told Dr. Sharp the last thing I remember was coming downstairs after nursing Ivy, drinking a glass of milk, and then on my way to my room I remember being startled by you, standing by the fireplace. You hadn’t, well, we hadn’t seen you since—“ Her dark brown eyes look up at mine as tears spill down her cheeks.

  “I know, mouse. I hadn’t been around. I shouldn’t have barged in here, drunk and belligerent, but I did. If I could turn back time, if I could go back and change what happened that night, Mouse I would do anything to right my wrongs, take back every word I screamed at you, stop myself from shoving picture after picture in your face of my—“

  Heather’s hand flies through the air before her palm connects, slapping me across my face where she leaves it covering my mouth. Her teary, mascara smudged eyes look back and forth between mine as she whispers, “I made a vow to you in front of God, Roman, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in happiness and healthiness, in sadness and sickness, for that day and every day that follows until death do us part. Married couples fight, Rome, it’s a part of it. And no, it’s not going to be easy, it’s going to suck, hard. Every day will feel like a different battle, and you’ll hold the weapons and I’ll hold the ammunition. We will fight, we’ll fight each other, we’ll fight for each other, we’ll fight the whole damn world, and we’ll fight every single fucking day. But we aren’t walking away, we aren’t turning our backs on one another. We are not walking away from us, Roman, is that understood?”

  Just like that. There she is. There’s my mouse, my Heather, damn I have missed her.

  My hands cup her face and as my smiling lips meet hers I whisper against them, “Yes, baby. Understood. Perfectly.”

  Dr. Sharp coughs, interrupting the long awaited reunion with my wife, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I want to make sure we’re all on the same page. Roman, do you understand what Heather is asking of you, both as a husband and partner?”

  Okay, either this woman hasn’t read over my psych therapy and evaluation documentation the family psychologist faxed over and she thinks I’m slow, or she is the embodiment of why obtaining a college degree in the science of any medical field should be abolished immediately.

  “Yes, Ms. Sharp, I believe my wife explained everything clearly.”

  “Alright,” She looks over at Heather, “Would you like to discuss the topic of what you remembered next? After the argument between you and Roman?”

  Heather’s entire body goes stiff in my hands, with one arm wrapped around her, my hand rubbing her from shoulder to elbow and the other alternating between resting on her knee and caressing her from knee to thigh.

  “What? There isn’t anything to say, none of it helps anything.” Heather’s head falls back against the pillow of the couch and she squeezes her eyes shut before covering her face with her hands.

  After tucking her closer against me and resting her head on my shoulder with her face nuzzled into the crook of my neck, I look over at Ms. Sharp, “Whatever it is, whatever her next cognizant memory was, it’s of no concern to me. I already know who was behind my wife’s supposed death as well as her disappearance.

  “Your priorities are seriously off kilter, Ms. Sharp. It seems to me you would benefit from considering taking a step back, regrouping your patient therapy care plan, and focus on what your job as a dissociative and identity disorder specialist entails. The social worker who met with Heather during her hospitalization in Albany said there were signs of Heather possibly having an alter personality or identity disorder. Now, I’ll ask you once, and only once, is your course of treatment where Heather’s mental health is concerned directed, or not, in correlation with the direction of your questioning?”

  The blush revealing itself on Ms. Kylie Sharp’s face, neck, and chest tells me everything I need to know.

  “If not, then what exactly is your motivation behind your current line of questioning?”

  It takes her too long to answer, so I know whatever she’s about to say is either a lie, or not the entire truth. “Well, of course if I’m able to jog her memory or unlock certain things her unconscious mind has hidden from her, helping her remember when the police question her so whomever is behind her disappearance for the last two years is found and brought to justice is ultimately the goal, is it not?”

  “No, Ms. Sharp, it is not. My wife’s mental and physical well-being is our main goal, hers, mine, and yours. Do I make myself clear?”

  She nods while writing something then looks up and smiles, “Absolutely, Mr. Payne. Crystal clear.” She looks over to Heather still cradled against me, “Heather, can you recall the first situation or occurrence in which you became aware a part of your conscious mind was retreating or dissociating with your physical surroundings?”

  I feel Heather nod against my shoulder but my eyes remain pinned on Ms. Sharp’s.

  “Yes. It was over two years ago, in France. Roman and I had an argument, I was intoxicated and got hurt. I think that was the first time I can remember a distinct presence. But she didn’t talk to me, she just sort of took over.”

  After scribbling down more notes she looks back to Heather with her brows furrowed, “So she has spoken or communicated with you?”

  Heather clears her throat and nods again. “Yes.”

  “And when was the first time she communicated with you?”

  “When I woke up, the first time I remember being conscious after the night Roman told me he remembered meeting me at the park when we were kids.”

  “When was this?”

  “That night, September,
21st, 2009.”

  “You didn’t say anything about meeting him at a park when I first questioned you about that night.”

  “I just remembered,” she sighs and sits up straight, “Dr. Sharp, I was in and out of consciousness that night, my entire recollection of it is riddled with holes and uncertainty, so whatever I answer about it can’t be trusted as it may be an actual memory, or something I dreamed up. Period.”

  “Very well, we’ll come back to it later, so, your next memory after blacking out in your home and regaining consciousness is when she communicated with you, do you recall what she said?”

  Heather’s voice is so low it’s barely audible, “She introduced herself as Mace, I saw her as clearly as I see you now. She told me her name and confirmed my suspicion that she’d taken over in France, and that she would be taking over again. Bars flew up around me in my mind. I-I don’t know if she put them there or not, but they weren’t needed, I wasn’t going to fight her. She took over, and for two years I watched in a sort of drunken horror while she endured a brand of torture no one should live through. But she never backed down, she never tapped out, she just kept taking brutal hit after brutal blow and laughed, mocking his every move.”

  Dr. Sharp’s eyes narrow on my mouse’s, “His? His, who?”

  “Sebastian’s. Sebastian Gorman.”

  Chapter 17

  As soon as Mac was found I gathered all the physical evidence I had on Roman, packed a bag, and left the states. I haven’t really decided where I’ll end up, but I have come up with a plan to ensure my funds remain at a frequency to allow me to vacation or travel to my hearts content. I will be able to come and go as I please.

  While I chauffeured Roman from country to country after he married Mac, I fed his demons with the blood of his sexual partners, and after watching him drunkenly ram himself into them while fumbling with his knife, cutting them up and carving their flesh from the bone, I cleaned my own release from my hands and clothes, and I collected things.

  Hair samples, body fluids, clearer pictures with appropriate lighting, swatches of torn and tattered clothes, then I labeled them with dates, locations, and names before zipping them closed in appropriate ziplock baggies.

  After taking pictures of my evidence and making copies of the original pictures, I began mailing them one by one from number thirteen to twenty…to my father.

  At first he was defiant, refusing to send any money to the person blackmailing him and his son. But around number fourteen or fifteen, he started coming around.

  This new game I’d began was very amusing in the beginning, however my amusement soon ran out.

  It isn’t about the money, or gaining the knowledge of knowing I am making my father squirm. I need more than just their annoyance. I want vengeance, I want fucking retribution. I want my father to know who I am and soon, I want Roman to see that I’m bigger and better than him.

  I may have lost Mac, and the thought of her, of having her, and then losing her is too hard to bear. So instead I use my time orchestrating the perfect plan to topple Roman’s life or empire.

  I know the grand finale will devastate my mothers’ reputation with the Payne family and in the end will be the reason behind her demise. I know every decision she’s made since the day I was born has been based on her adamancy to take the secret of who my father is to the grave. I also know if my mother actually ever cared about me more than that goddamn secret of hers, I could have had a semi normal upbringing that wouldn’t have consisted of me being shuffled from family member to family member throughout my childhood.

  Does she really expect me to allow her sins and secrets to keep me from not only retaliating in my search for the retribution owed to me, but also from my own birth given rights?

  After snorting three rails of coke off Candy’s tits, I shove her off me and delve my fingers into Calypso’s hair shoving as much of my semi flaccid cock as I can down the back of her throat.

  It’s the undeniable fact that my dick fucking softens like melting butter that causes my hands in her hair to jerk, snapping her neck in two.

  Chapter 18

  I can’t explain my apprehension to build and cultivate a relationship with my daughter. I also can’t explain why I continue withdrawing from making any futile attempts to secure my daughter’s trust in me.

  It’s when I realize how much of her life I’ve missed when I start avoiding and ignoring the milestones she conquered on her own. And then, I have to acknowledge that without me Roman obviously has everything under control where our daughter is concerned. As wrong as it is to say this, it still breaks my heart.

  It seems like every time I reach out to her I fumble a Hail Mary attempt to maintain my rights and role as my child’s mother.

  My daughter was just that- mine. Before all this shit happened, before Sebastian tore my world apart stealing everything, she was the only thing I ever held dear to me. And no matter what I do, or how hard I try, I can’t get her back. She’s only two years old. What kind of mother can’t get her two-year-old daughter back?

  “A broken mother. And no, it’s not your fault, and she isn’t to blame either, life isn’t fair. If you want fair, head southeast and don’t stop until you get to Cheyenne, Wyoming. They have a fair…with funnel cakes, turkey legs, horseshoe tossing contests, and bumper cars. If you want your daughter back? Then you’re going to have to work for it. Remember what you said to Rome? About shit being hard? That it was going to be a battle every day? Repeat it to yourself with Ivy’s name where Rome’s was, ya hear me, Mac?”

  I nod as I think about what Mace is saying and I realize she’s right, then I give myself a little mental pep talk and go in search of my daughter. I’m on my way to Ivy’s room, but once I’m at the top of the stairs I hear voices coming from Roman’s office and change the direction of my path.

  The door is slightly ajar so I tiptoe, turning my head to see who Roman’s talking to.

  “…is your mommy with her daddy, and I believe your uncle Rick at Disney Land.”

  “What is wong wit her hair? Daddy, it looks wike she put her finga in a light sogit.”

  “A light socket?” Roman chuckles and my eyes flood with tears when I realize what Ivy is referring to and the memories of that day roll against me in waves.

  “Yeah, the thing I was puttin’ you keys in da utta day and you yelled at me, a light sogit.”

  When I step across the threshold, what I see is enough to make kingdoms fall to their knees. Roman is sitting behind his desk in a black v-neck t-shirt and dark gray flannel pj bottoms with his bare feet crossed over each other and resting on top of his desk. He’s reclined back in his office chair laughing so hard his head is thrown back and as he pulls Ivy closer to him to lift her above his head, her tiny hands cup both sides of his face and she nuzzles her nose against his.

  After his laughing subsides he whispers, “Angel, it’s called an electrical outlet, and your mommy’s hair was crimped. And for Pete’s sake, don’t let her hear you say anything about you, keys, and or electrical outlets.”

  “It’s okay, I mean I heard, but it’s okay, what are you—I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I’ll just—“ Before I can turn around Roman is rounding his desk holding Ivy.

  “No, no, mouse, you’re not interrupting anything. We were just looking at some photo albums Jen brought over for Ivy of you and your brothers when you were kids. How are you feeling?”

  He stops when he’s standing before me and when I see Ivy snuggling closer to him my heart breaks and my eyes water as my lip quivers. The tone of my voice sounds even more pathetic when it cracks, “Fine. I’m fine.” I pull my sleeves down covering my hands before using the soft material to wipe away the tears threatening to fall. “I’ll just, I was just coming to find Ivy, to see if she wanted to spend some time with me, or I don’t know, talk, or play a board game. I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.”

  I quickly turn to retreat to the safety of my room before the sobs
I’m barely holding in escape, but then I hear my daughters’ sweet voice, “Don’t go mommy, pwetty pwease. Daddy likes to play chessckers, I like Candy Land, but if you wanna pay your bard game, we can. But ya gotta tell us how to play, doe.”

  I can’t breathe. I can’t turn around. I can’t speak. All I can do is just stand, frozen in place two feet from Roman’s office door.

  When I feel her soft little warm hand slide into mine before she tugs me further back into the room and closer to where Roman stands, I look down into my daughter’s navy blue eyes, “Or if you juss wanna talk, we can do dat too, mommy. Otay?”

  Her smile lights up her whole face and before I know what’s happening I’m on my knees and my sweet baby’s arms are wrapped around my neck and her legs are circling my waist while I whisper against her ear, “Baby girl, the only thing I have or will ever want is to hold you just like this, for as long as you’ll let me.”

  I don’t know, nor do I care what happened to change Ivy’s reaction to me, I’ll eagerly take whatever I can get in order to strengthen the bond between me and my daughter.

  The shrill ringing of Roman’s office phone pops the bubble of our little family reunion.

  “Hello?” Roman asks the caller.

  I look down at Ivy and in an effort to continue the seemingly progress we’re making and say, “Do you know Candy Land was my favorite game when I was your age? My brother, Rick, the one in the picture—“

  She nods, smiling, “Yeah, mommy, I know who untle Wicky is.”

  “Well, out of all my brothers, he was the only one who would play it with me.” Without thought, without questioning my actions, I scoop my baby girl up and smile at Roman before heading towards the exit, “Is your Candy Land game in your room?”

  She nods again, “Yup, at da top of my cwasit.” I feel her fingers twirling the ends of my hair as she rests her head on my shoulder and yawns.