The Traitor ✓ (Book Six)

Chapter Twenty Eight

  Being there when they announced the verdict, and her client having Kylie's last name gave me a flashback I couldn't handle. Now, I stare at my ceiling, trying to fall asleep.

  I know I can't change the past. I know that. All I can do is try not to fuck this second chance up, though it feels impossible.

  Putting the past behind me means I'll have to face it. I'll have to talk through it, talk to somebody and be honest.  Because even now, there are some things the government doesn't know about how we operated. Things they never will, things I never got a chance to say out loud because they didn't ask.

  I swear, I thought Ethan was going to chop my head off at first. The anger he held was astronomical in comparison to anybody else, even Lauren. Aileen was like a sister to him. He would've died for her, gone in her place if he knew what she was going to go tell Kyle what I told her. She too, would be alive if I'd just refused.

  The First Lady's mother.... the prime minister's son....Lauren's first daughter.... Emily.... Aileen.... The list is never ending.

  A part of me thinks that if I do my current job properly without somehow ending up in a terrorist organization, my karma will even out. The other, more realistic part knows this is something that can never be forgiven- something that be on my soul forever as is evident by the scars.

  They've healed but they have not faded. When I'm getting dressed, I do my best to avoid looking at or touching them. I'd rather die, in fact.

  Slowly, I force myself to get up. On my dresser, the bag still sits- halfway unpacked. I don't like to get too comfortable anywhere. They moved me to different cells so often- I can't help it, just how I still remember secret service training from twenty years ago.

  The room itself is exactly how it was when I came here.

  Maybe there's still mashed potatoes-

  Food is my motivator. I make my way to the kitchen, where- sure enough, I find a few servings. This time, I don't bother to heat it up and grab a spoon out of the sink. The housekeeper comes tomorrow and neither of us like cleaning. Her dad's hired somebody to do that for us.

  I stand at the counter as I eat. It tastes like glue cold- potatoey glue though, so I'm okay with the texture.

  Then about ten minutes into eating, I hear grumbling from Maria's room. Great.

  Ten seconds later, she emerges in a robe. Without saying a word she reaches over for the second serving and takes another dirty spoon. Emily and I did shit like this allll the time. But with us, we didn't have a housekeeper we were waiting on. We were just extremely lazy when we had the chance to be.

And for a single second, I see Emily's eyes in hers. I've just not realized they have the same shape- like the universe is playing some cruel joke on me. It knows all of my triggers, all of my weaknesses- and yet it lets me be employed to-

No.

I will not let myself lose it again. I will not let myself blame anything but myself for what happened, I decide, and I will not take it out on anybody.
"Damon?" Maria stops chewing for a second. "You good?"

No. No I am not fucking good.

"I'm.... I've never been better."

That is true. In the secret service, I wanted to quit every single day. Before that, I didn't think I had a purpose in life. In prison- I wracked my brain for any way to die.

I was so close once. I was going to attack a guard and hope I got shot in the head, but then I came to my senses. I thought "What if they miss and I get paralyzed? What if they aim for my legs or arms? What if they let me kill him? Then another death'll be on my conscious."

I didn't really want to die. I wanted a way out.

"You sure? Damon, you don't have to lie to me. I won't...." She sighs. "My... dad and I have never fired employees over mental health. If you're struggling we can get you to the literal top ranking therapist in the county....or you can talk to me. I'm a great listener."

"What?" At some point, her words morphed together and I spaced out.

  "I said we can get you professional help if you need it."

  "Maria...." I try to find the right words. There are none, so I just say it. "There are some things you just don't need to know about me. Things I've been forced to do because of my job.... things I never want to talk about."

  "We've all done things we regret-"

  "No, Maria. I'm not talking about things that can be apologized for. I mean there is some serious shit I've done I can never take back. It's... started consuming every second of sleep I get because I keep thinking.... I didn't deserve the second chance I got."

  She purses her lips together.

  I want to punch myself for telling her that. She didn't need to know any of it.

Then, she places a hand over mine, resting on the counter. A part of me panics. I'm not ready for this- but it doesn't go where I thought it would.

  Instead, she pulls me over to the couch and forces me to look her in the eyes.

  "Tell me whatever you feel comfortable with then." Instead of the disgust from Guantanamo bay's therapist, whom I actively avoided- there's genuine concern in her eyes.

She searches mine for any emotion, any sigh of what I'll do next.

  So I do something I haven't done willingly in years.

  I stare down at the hem of my t-shirt and wrap my fingers around it.