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"Where is your father?" Kassam asks. "Can your mother not lean on him?"
I flinch. It's an automatic reaction to anytime my father is brought up. He's been dead fifteen years, but the scars still run deep. "He's gone, and even if he was here, my mom couldn't count on him for anything. He was a horrible person."
He gives my hand a squeeze. "I find it difficult to believe that anyone that helped to create you is horrible. You are so charming and fierce."
Charming? I'm thinking he's blinded by sex, but the compliment makes me smile. I lean against his shoulder. "My dad was a junkie." I realize a moment later he probably doesn't know what that means, so I go on. "My father always had issues. When he met my mom, he was addicted to cigarettes and weed. Said he had anger problems and they helped him chill. My mom is sweet and somewhat gullible, so she looked the other way when he used."
"Gullible like believing in crystals and cards?" Kassam asks.
"I would have agreed with that statement a week ago, but given the fact that the only reason I'm not crawling all over your dick right now is because I'm dripping in quartz? I'm not laughing anymore." When he grunts acceptance, I continue. "My mom views the world with rose-colored glasses, though. She likes to believe the best in everyone. She figures if she does the right thing and someone lies to her, the shame is on them, not her. That good intentions trump everything. I think it's one reason why she didn't kick my dad out when she found out he was using harder stuff. He always promised to do better, and she believed him."
"Harder stuff?"
"Crack. Meth. Heroin. LSD. Pills. Anything my dad could get his hands on to try out, he'd do it. He'd smoke up. He'd toke. He'd inject. He'd snort. Whatever made him space out and made him high. I think he was just miserable and constantly looking to escape. He didn't want to be a responsible, working man, and he didn't want to be married with a young child, either. So he'd constantly get drunk, get lit, whatever he could do to alter his brain. And then he'd usually hit my mom." My mouth clenches in memory of that. "He never hit me. My mom always protected me. But when he was on something—which was all the time after a while—he was mean and nasty. He said awful things to me. If I drew something, he mocked it. If I played a sport, he'd tell me I was the worst kid out there. It got to the point that I was afraid to do anything because I'd hear my father's comments in my head."
"Mmm. So it is safer for you to give up than to try things." His gaze goes to an unfinished scarf hanging out of the bottom dresser drawer, knitting needles still in it.
"Bingo."
"And this is why you did not like it when they offered me drugs at the bar."
I nod. "Funny enough, alcohol doesn't bother me. I guess because when Dad drank, he just fell asleep. But the moment I smell weed or see someone shooting up, I get upset." My stomach clenches at the thought. "So yeah. You can drink what you like, but the moment you snort something, you're dead to me." I glance up at him. "It's another rule I think I'm going to enforce, as your wife. Sorry."
He grins down at me, his thumb caressing my hand. "I do not seek the pleasures because of the pleasures themselves. I simply chase hedonism because it is my curse. As long as I have you to sate my urges, I need nothing else."
"Not even butter?" I tease, feeling a little better. Talking about this helps a little. Not much, but a little.
Kassam shakes his head. "Just you."
I absorb his words, basking in the unspoken compliment. I know he's using me, but it's nice to hear that I'm appreciated, even if it's just for my willingness to have sex. The fact that he lets me put conditions on our relationship—knowing that he's a god—makes me feel valued as a partner. It makes me feel like my opinion matters, like I matter, and after the last few days, it feels more precious than gold. I pat his hand, still entwined with mine. "Thanks, Kassam. I know I'm being silly."
"You are not being silly. I have met many, many mortals and experienced many silly situations, and this is not one. You are putting your trust in me and yet your fear is not for yourself, but for your parent."
"I'm just afraid of leaving her alone," I say again, biting my lip. "At least I have you to look out for me. She won't have anyone."
