The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb
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Название: The Last Time I Was Me

Автор: Cathy Lamb

Издательство: Ingram

Жанр: Эротическая литература

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isbn: 9780758253682

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СКАЧАТЬ Roy,” I said, trying to rein in the sudden but not unexpected fury that surged through my voice like burning brandy. “I. Will. Not. Give. A. Dime. To Slick Dick. Ever. I would sooner set up a trust fund for female beetles battling sexist cultures in the backwoods of Alabama than give any to him. I’ll try again for another analogy: I would rather give my money away quarter by quarter to support the ongoing search for ghosts. One more example: I would rather rip all of my money into tiny shreds and eat it.”

      I could hear Roy chuckling. He has a short ponytail, a weathered face, and kind eyes that harden up to something scary when he’s in court. He is at least six foot six with shoulders like an overgrown ox. He’s been a massively successful lawyer for four decades. In his spare time, he runs a dog rescue operation on his farm. People bring him strays or he rescues them from the pound and finds them new homes. He is partial to beagles, mutts, golden retrievers, black labs-and did I mention mutts?

      “Roy, did you get my check for twenty thousand?”

      “I did, honey.”

      “Good.”

      There was a silence. “You didn’t cash it, did you?”

      “Of course not, honey.”

      I rolled my eyes. “This is business, Roy. I want to pay you.”

      “It is never business with you, honey, it never was, it never will be. I’m doing this for you for free because I love you, and every moment of every bit of work I do for you I’ll be thinking of your mom. I couldn’t help her, but I can help her daughter and damned if I won’t do everything to make this right.”

      “Roy, I-” I can’t hear the word “mom” without getting choked up.

      Losing my mother was like losing light. And warmth. And joy. I put a pillow over my face.

      “Don’t ‘Roy’ me, sweetie. This is final. Now, what do you want me to do to Jared?”

      I pulled my wet face from the pillow. “I want you to make his balls rot.”

      “I’ll see what I can do, dear,” he said. “You know, your mother would enjoy knowing his balls were rotting.”

      Yes, she would.

      She hated the man.

      “We meet Thursday nights from six to nine. You are to be on time. You are to control your anger and temper. You are to come ready to spill your guts and prepared to hear what your co-anger management classmates tell you. You are to take responsibility for the problems that got you here in the first place. You are not to whine or feel sorry for yourself, because I have no pity for you and neither does anyone else. I don’t give a shit if you had a lousy childhood and that’s why you’re angry or you have a rabid ex-husband or psycho-freak wife. I don’t give another shit if you’re mad at the system, the police, the judge, the exterminator, your dentist, or the local pet shop owner.”

      “I’m not mad at the pet shop owner,” I told Emmaline Hallwyler, my new anger management counselor with a voice like a drill sergeant. “Not at all. I will have to admit to some lingering, simmering anger with my dentist, though. Every time I see him, he tells me I have bad gums. Bad gums!”

      She ignored that part. “You are to dance when I say dance and to fly when I say fly. You are to sing when I say sing and to scream when I say scream. You are to create when I say to create. You are to be, above all, honest with yourself and with others. No prayers, no religious talk allowed here, no telling other people that they have to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior or they’re going to hell.”

      “It is highly unlikely that I would suggest that anyone was going to hell. Even if there’s a wait line into hell, I can assure you I will be shuttled to a place quite near the front. Do you have a religion problem in anger management class?”

      I could feel her animosity surging over the wire. “I had a man who proclaimed himself to be a religious person in my last session. I let him preach to everyone in the room about God and forgiveness and hell for exactly forty-seven seconds and then I informed the others that he was here because he had beat up his three previous wives and all three had restraining orders against him. That shut him up damn quick. There’s nowhere in the Bible, I reminded the sanctimonious prick, that says you can beat the shit out of your wife-so cut it with the religion.”

      Her voice rose and fell like a drill sergeant preacher.

      “He muttered something about only the Lord being able to change him. I told him the Lord helps those who help themselves, and that currently the Lord was undoubtedly wondering exactly which fiery compartment in hell he should be assigned to for beating to shreds three of God’s children. I asked him if he thought the Lord approved of the way his fist managed to bust open his third wife’s jaw?”

      “Ahh. A real charmer.”

      “He said he didn’t think that God was happy about that, but that we all sinned and that Jesus died on the cross for our sins, so his sins are covered and he’s forgiven. I told him that his sins are covered in the blood of his ex-wives and that he was going to go straight back to jail and to hell which is where God puts all wife-beaters, if he couldn’t get a grip on his God-given fists.”

      “What did he do?”

      “What they all do,” she said. “I stared at him until he squirmed like a worm. The other people in the class tore into him like you might tear into a lobster tail and he cried until he slobbered. I told him to shape up, quit being such a religious hypocrite, admit that he was a wife-beater, and fix himself. I tell people how it is, Ms. Stewart. They don’t like it, they shouldn’t have been shits and landed in my class. After that I told him to sing.”

      “Did he sing?”

      “It took some prompting, but yes, he did. It was awful. Sounded like a dying rat. So, Jeanne, I have your record. Lemme take a look at it, though. Haven’t read it. Hang on a sec.”

      I waited. I knew what was coming.

      There it was.

      A chuckle.

      A snort.

      A giggle.

      A quickly inhaled breath.

      The phone became muffled and I knew Emmaline Hallwyler had put her hand over it so I couldn’t hear her, but I knew what she was doing.

      Laughing. She was laughing.

      Emmaline Hallwyler eventually got back on the line with a little hiccup. “Seems like you had a little incident with an ex-boyfriend.” I heard that muffled sound again. She sounded like a hyperventilating chicken. She coughed. “Also looks like this is your first offense. Is that right?”

      “Yes, it is my first recorded offense, although if I had the opportunity I might try to commit another offense against Slick Dick.”

      I heard her snort. “Ran out of time?”

      “Yes. The police arrived at my door. The police kept laughing as they read me my rights.”

      There was the hyperventilating chicken again. “Those damn police.” The chicken harnessed her laughter with a cough. “Now, back to the requirements-don’t СКАЧАТЬ