Abuse: The Complete Trilogy Read Online Free PDF Page A

trained counselor, he knows how to get his
clients to talk.
    I’m glad I’m
going to be spending more time with him.
    “Do you know
you’re the first person I’ve actually discussed Army life with?” I ask.
    André gives me a
half bow. “ Merci beaucoup . I am honored. This has been a delightful
evening. You are a most interesting companion with stories par excellence .
I thank you.”
    “Tell me,” I ask.
“What sport do you play?”
    His thick dark
eyebrows lift in query.
    “I mean, you’ve
got to be doing something. You’re fit. Those aren’t gym muscles.”
    “Ah! But I do use
the gym,” he says. “And also I train in Brazilian jiu jitsu. But my favorite
sport? It is polo.”
    When I smile, the
hardened scars on my face pull tight. I’m grinning so broadly, I feel as if my
skin might tear. I must look like a freak, but I don’t give a shit.
    André doesn’t
care either. He sees past my scars.
    I shake my head.
Polo. The sport of Kings. Of course, I should have guessed. André’s a Prince.
The guy gallops back and forth trying to hit a little white ball. It’s pretty
funny.
    “You any good at
it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
    It’s his turn to
grin. “I am a champion,” he says, without the slightest trace of modesty.
    Why is this so
funny? I laugh so hard it hurts. Somehow, that was exactly what I
expected him to say. What am I? Psychic? Maybe drinking and talking together
like this is a form of male bonding. For some strange reason, I really get this
offbeat Frenchman.
    I’ve no idea how
long I’ve been here, but we’ve finished the bottle.
    More
specifically, I’ve finished the bottle. But I’m not even drunk. I can
hold my liquor. Alcohol is like food to my body now—I don’t get drunk anymore.
    When we stand to
leave, André picks up the tab.
    “Aren’t I
supposed to be paying you?”
    “You are not. Not
yet.”
    “Why not?” I ask
as we walk out toward the elevator. No one is around.
    “ Mon ami,” he says. “When one goes to the top floor of a building, they must first enter
from the ground floor.” He shrugs. “Unless of course, one has wings and is able
to fly. They then may enter the building on any floor they choose, comprenez-vous ? ”
    Nope. That sailed
right over my head.
    At my blank look,
he explains.
    “Grant, je regrette, but I fear you are an alcoholic. Rehabilitation from alcohol abuse is a
specialized area and not my field of expertise.”
    He hands me a
business card. “I recommend you attend this facility. For you, rehabis
the ground floor. This must be your first step. Once you are in control
of this small problem, then you will come to me to address the larger ones.”
    Fuck.
    My mind goes into
instant overdrive.
    I don’t know if I can quit drinking. How will I cope? More importantly, how will I sleep? I remember my father’s ongoing issues with alcohol, not to mention my sister’s.
    Thinking of my
father sends my mood even lower. The last thing I want is to have anything
in common with him!
    Now, I’m in a
total tailspin. What the hell was I thinking? I can’t possibly talk about my
problems to anyone.
    My whole
family’s fucked up. I’m fucked up too.
    Everything’s
fucked.
    I go from a rare,
relaxed, euphoric high, right down to Hell in the gutter with one fell swoop.
    André’s
expression softens to unbearable kindness at my obvious dismay. I meet those
dark knowing eyes of his and quickly look away. His awareness of my unspeakable
inner pain, simultaneously soothes something inside of me, yet burns like fire.
    I see one
possible future and it frightens me. Why did I start this? Didn’t I realize I’d
lose it? This man is way too insightful—he knows too much already. If I somehow
manage to stop drinking, will André get me to expose my secrets?
    I gasp in a ragged,
tearless sob as my courage breaks. Curbing a near overwhelming desire to
scream, I tense into a wall of unmoving energy. I want to run as fast and as
far as I can,