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“Who gave you that photo?” Thierry’s voice is ragged and weak, broken by harsh breaths.
Tears trickle down my temples, and I can’t bring myself to look down at my body that’s so ravaged and magnificently destroyed by this man. “Why?”
Pressure at my stomach draws my attention to where he’s rested his head there, breathing against me. “Because the boy in the picture is me.”
More tears fill my eyes, and I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re lying.”
“My name is Thierry James. Bergeron is my mother’s name. My father is Russ James.”
31
Thierry
Nine years ago …
“Dat you, Thierry?” My mother calls out for me from the kitchen, where the smell of gumbo has my stomach rumbling.
“Yeah. Just grabbing a quick shower, and I’ll be right down.” I dump my gear onto the floor just inside the door, and hang up my keys beside the others. Muscles still burning with the extra hour’s-worth of practice, I climb the stairs, groaning with the ache.
Homecoming is this weekend, and the pressure is on, weighing me down like a fucking anchor. This town and its football. Thankfully, it’s my last year, and then I’m off to bigger and better things.
I managed to snag an internship for next year, working as a Summer Analyst for Richmond and Associates, one of the largest investment management companies out of Dallas. A position typically reserved for second year undergrads, but that’s the beauty of being captain of the football team, I suppose. Make the right connections, and doors just seem to open.
Next fall kicks off my freshman year at A&M, where I netted a full-ride, courtesy of the athletic department. The scout hounded me relentlessly, but it wasn’t until Mom and I actually toured the campus that I made my decision to become an official Aggie. Four Star quarterback with thirty-eight touchdowns my junior year and only three interceptions, I’d say it was in the bag, if not for my massive slip in grades at the start of this semester. Thankfully, there’s still time to fix it, but it’ll mean busting my ass to undo all the damage my father left in his wake.
Entering my small bedroom, I groan on finding evidence of my snooping mother: a usually messy bed neatly made up, pillows fluffed to perfection. If she looked hard enough, she’d probably find the collection of Jessica Rodier’s panties, which I make a point to keep as a souvenir every time we fuck. Luckily, she hasn’t snooped to that level, yet.
From my dresser, I open the drawer for a pair of boxers, pushing aside the overturned picture of my father and me crawfishing. It’s been three months since the piece of shit up and skipped town with one of the cheap whores he always had hanging around his house. My parents divorced when I was fourteen years old, and though there was a time I was devastated by it, I’ve since come to appreciate my mother’s decision to sever ties with him. As a drunk and a gambler, the man has always been an albatross around our family’s neck. A fate my mother didn’t deserve.
Born on Chevalier Isle, she had a long-standing history, was respected by the locals, who warned her to keep away from the mysterious outsider who showed up one day out of nowhere. Nearly twice my mother’s age when they met, my father certainly wasn’t my grandparents’ first choice to marry my mother. Story goes, they even tried paying him to stay away from her. But the two claimed to be in love.
I scoff at that, making my way into the bathroom halfway down the hall from my bedroom. What the hell is love, anyway? Fleeting moments of adoration smothered in pain and disappointment.
Love is a curse. Nothing but a sick reminder of how weak the heart is. How poisonous its desires.
I flip on the shower, letting the water heat up, and peel off the sweat-drenched T-shirt clinging to my body. In the mirror’s reflection, I examine the minor loss of muscle mass I’ve been able to hide beneath all the gear, and the dark circles under my eyes. The toll my father’s disappearance has taken in the last couple of months. Not that we were all that close, but I always thought he was a slightly better man than the kind who’d up and leave without a word. Must’ve been one hell of a piece of ass to make him skip town like that.
No pussy I’ve ever had was that good.
I step inside the shower, letting the heat pummel my aching muscles, and rest my forehead against the tiles. Eyes closed, I try to visualize every play for this weekend, a method my coach encourages--actualization to manifestation.
The sound of a scream snaps me out of those thoughts, and I lift my head from the tiles, frowning. Wondering if the sound was all in my head.
Another scream, this one louder than before.
Urgency riding my muscles, I flip off the shower and nab the towel hanging on the door’s hook, wrapping it around me as I race out of the bathroom, down the hall and staircase. At the foot of the steps, I slow my pace on noticing the front door wide open, and eyes trailing over my surroundings, I round the bannister and head down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Sitting at the table, with her arms bound behind her back, my mother stares back at me with a bruised eye and blood trickling from her lip.
Panic pounds through my blood as I lurch toward her. Something grabs my arm. I blindly swing my fist, connecting with the jaw of a stranger standing behind me. Blood sprays from his nose as I hammer him with a second punch.
My mother screams
More arms reach out for me, capturing my wrists behind my back. I wriggle to break free and kick out at one of the men binding me, managing to free my arm. A third takes hold of it before I can swing again. With both my arms bound, the man whose nose I probably broke slams his fist into my stomach, knocking the air out of my lungs. Another punch cracks against my cheek in an explosion of light behind my eyes, and my jaw feels as if it’s come unhinged. Another punch follows the second, in the same trajectory, sending a zap of pressure shooting up into my sinuses. My mother’s sobbing grows distant beneath the ringing in my ears, and a dizziness claims my balance. At the fourth punch, I’m seeing dots floating before my eyes, and this is when the men wrangle me to the floor.
Cold tiles crash against my cheek, as a knee presses hard against the back of my neck and holds me in place.
Boots step into my periphery and I follow them to see one of the men, wearing a black tank, striding toward my mother. Only the heavier-set of the three holds me down now, but with my hands twisted behind my back, and my inability to move my neck without snapping it beneath his knee, it’ll be impossible to fight him off.
