Tony dropped back into the chair, his gaze once again transfixed beyond his counselor’s eyes as his jaws clenched pulsating the muscles in his neck. Finally, he replied, “We’ve been through that shit. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to fuck’n read anymore of the damn book. Let’s talk about something else.”
“No. I want to talk about this.”
Tony’s hands clenched in an attempt to rein in the red. Glaring with what Tony was sure was what Claire referred to as his dark gaze, he stared at Jim.
“How often do you hear that word?”
“I hear it too often.”
“Now you do. What about before? What about during the time of this book? Did anyone tell you no?”
“No,” Tony replied.
“How did you feel back then?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have someone who stared at me three times a week asking me about my damn feelings. I just did. I just was. I didn’t think about it.”
“Did you think about what Claire was feeling?”
“I told you I want to talk about something else. I wrote the letter that you said I should.”
Jim’s words slowed dramatically. “Anthony, did you think about Claire’s feelings?”
“Sometimes.”
Jim’s brows rose questioningly.
“Like during the proposal. I wondered what she was thinking and feeling.”
“So now you have an idea. What do you think?”
“I don’t want to think about it. All right?” Tony replied. “I don’t want to think about how she felt like a whore. I hate even saying that word. She wasn’t!”
“Is that you talking now, or how you felt back then?”
“I never thought of her as a whore.”
“How did you think of her?”
The moisture burnt Tony’s eyes. He stood and walked back to the window. Snow had begun to fall. It was almost the fourth anniversary of his first wedding, almost Nichol’s first birthday, and almost Christmas, and he was stuck in a freak’n hellhole.
“Anthony?” Jim didn’t repeat the question.
“I thought of her as an acquisition. She’s used that word in the book because I told her that—later.”
“What did you tell her in the beginning?”
The red threatened again. Tony had said this before. What was the damn point of repeating it?
Jim cleared his throat, as he stood and began walking around the desk. “I believe you told me that you didn’t like to repeat yourself.” Stepping next to Tony, looking out the window, he added, “Neither do I.”
“I told her that I owned her. She belonged to me. I made her repeat it.” Tony turned on his heels. “That didn’t mean she was a whore!”
“If you would’ve known the way she felt, what would you have done?”
He closed his eyes. “Today, I’d take her in my arms and convince her that she was wrong, that she deserved all the love and respect, and to keep her chin held high because she had nothing to ever be ashamed of. She was never a whore. She’s always been my queen. In our fuck’n wasted game of chess, the king can survive without the queen, but he doesn’t want to—he needs her.”
“That’s today. What would you have done and said on that morning after you proposed?”
Tony sighed. “How the fuck should I know? I don’t remember.”
“Anthony, we have few rules in this office. You’re allowed more liberties with your speech, demeanor, and even your movement than anywhere else. That’s because I want you to be comfortable enough to talk. But do not lie. If I ask you a question, I want the truth.”
“Even though I demanded that same thing of her back then, I don’t think she would have told me.”
“But if she had?”
Tony shook his head. “I’m not lying. I don’t know what I would have done. I probably would have told her she was wrong and chastised her for not behaving like a future Rawlings. A Rawlings would never be self-deprecating.”
Jim glanced at his watch. “One more thing before our time’s up: Claire said something else in that passage that I’d like you to think about between now and our next session.”
Tony didn’t want to think about any of it. “What?” he asked.
Jim smirked. “Is it just me, or is it Yankton that has taken away your predilection for using complete sentences?”
“What do you want me to think about?” he corrected.
“How long have you been here?”
“Twenty-six weeks and four days,” Tony answered matter-of-factly.
“So, about six and a half months. What did Claire say, in what you just read, that had happened to her in only eight months?”
Tony contemplated. “Something about not having her own thoughts and conforming to what I wanted.”
“How would it feel to be forced to do that? Forced to conform your previous way of life to someone else’s rules and direction?”
It didn’t take a genius to know where Jim was going. “I don’t need to think about it,” Tony replied. “It sucks.”
“I’d like you to think about it. Think about the guards and the corrections officers. Think about their roles and yours. Then think about how Claire was feeling. When you come back, tell me exactly why she didn’t knock on that door. Then, without the aid of continuing your reading, I want you to tell me what happened when you went to the suite.”