Page 7 of The Obsession
When my parents blindsided me with their divorce that same year, everything changed. Dad took a job in Hong Kong, and Mum packed us up and moved to the Gold Coast to live closer to her sister.
I had to leave everything behind, my friends, my school, my whole damn life. Saying goodbye to Michael was the hardest part. He swore we would make it work, that distance didn’t mean goodbye, but promises like that don’t survive twelve hundred kilometres, especially when you’re a teenager.
And as I feared, we only lasted a few months before we started drifting apart.
Fast forward six years, and here I am, back home and living with him. When he showed up out of the blue at the club where I was working, surrounded by his bikie mates, it felt like kismet. Like fate had brought us back together again.
In the week that followed, he love-bombed me hard, doing everything he could to convince me to leave Queensland and return to Griffith with him. He told me he’d lost me once and wasn’t about to let it happen for a second time.
It was good to see him again, and there were definitely feelings still there, but to be honest, I was hesitant. Part of me wanted to see where this would go, and I was also keen to get away from my mother’s handsy new husband, but I also knew what kind of life Michael was now involved in.
The mischievous boy who once stole my heart had become a full-blown career criminal, and I had to ask myself if I really wanted to get pulled into that world.
I used to be drawn to his wild side, but that was when we were kids. There’s a big difference between getting into fist fights in the playground, smoking, ditching school, and mouthing off at teachers, compared to whatever he’s mixed up in now.
That shady side of his life isn’t even the worst part. It only took a few weeks of living with him for the cracks to show. Sober Mick is funny, charismatic, and can light up a room, but drunk or high Mick is selfish, mean, and downright scary.
I push all those thoughts from my mind and grab a clean glass from under the counter, add some ice and a slice of lemon, then fill it with cold water.
I straighten my spine and pull back my shoulders as I hesitantly take the drink over to the growly man giant. Deepdown, I’d like nothing more than to pour this cold liquid right into his rude lap, but I already know I’d never do that.
I might look soft and bubbly on the outside, but inside, not so much. Sometimes my thoughts skate more to the dark side, but I was unfortunately born without a backbone, so until I grow one of those, I’ll continue to fake it until I make it. It’s what I do best.
My smile is stretched tight enough to crack as I approach, unlike him. He now seems to be scowling deeper than he did when he arrived, if that’s even possible.
He’s already watching me by the time I reach the table, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. It’s the kind of look that makes you feel like he’s taking inventory of everything you are and everything you’re trying to hide. It’s unnerving, but I’ve become a practised faker.
I fake it when my stepfather hugs me tightly, and way longer than what most would call appropriate. Or when his hands always seem to find a way to reach out and touch me.
I fake it when my father apologises for forgetting my birthday year after year, because apparently, work and his new family are the only things he knows how to love these days.
I fake it when my co-workers talk about their loved ones, and I nod like I understand what it means to feel safe at home. Or when Mick asks if I’m happy, and I say ‘of course’ because the truth would unravel too much and make him fly off the handle if I said otherwise.
I even fake it when I look in the mirror each morning, telling myself I’m fine, that this is normal—that this is what life is supposed to feel like. Complicated, messy, and hollow around the edges.
I’ve become so practised at lying to myself that some days I even start to believe my own bullshit.
“Here’s your water, Mr Rizzo,” I say, in the most sugary sweet voice I can muster.
When I reach forward to set the glass down in front of him, the cuff of the long-sleeved white blouse I’m wearing rides up enough for the bruise on my wrist to show.
To my horror, his gaze flickers straight to it, and I feel the heat rise in my neck. The instinct to yank my hand back and make some lame excuse about how I got it is strong, but I don’t. I straighten, smooth down the fabric, and pretend he didn’t notice.
He doesn’t say a word, but when his narrowed eyes move back to my face, I catch something flickering behind them. It’s sharp and knowing, and for a second, I forget to breathe.
Has he ever left a mark like that on a woman before?
The scars on his knuckles and the long, thin one running down the side of his face tell me he’s no stranger to violence. For some reason, that thought makes me want to flee.
The bruise that’s currently circling my wrist is the first Mick has left on me. He’d grabbed my hand and yanked me to him when I said something he didn’t like. He squeezed my wrist so tight I was actually concerned he might break it.
He was apologetic after the fact, swore it would never happen again, and spent the next few days trying to make up for what he’d done, but I’m wary now.
There’s no excuse for how he acted, but I could tell he was under the influence of something. His dilated pupils, rapid speech, and sudden aggressiveness told me that. His behaviour wasn’t uncharacteristic, but if it happens again, I won’t forgive him so easily.
Mr Rizzo’s scrutinising gaze doesn’t waver, and it has me biting down on the corner of my lip to hide the quiver as he leans back in his chair so slow and deliberate it unnerves me. He takes a sip of his water without breaking eye contact. It feels like he’s deciding whether to call me out or let it go.
When he finally gives me a small, dismissive nod, I don’t wait. I turn and walk away as calmly as I can, even though every part of me wants to break into a run.
