The Man Who Has No Soul (Soulless Book 1) Page 7

  “Motherfucker!” I threw the phone against the wall, cracking the screen, breaking it just like last time because I threw it harder than a pitcher on the mound of the MLB. My hands went to my face, and I paced, sweat on my chest like I’d just run a marathon. The physiological reaction of my body was intense, the hard breathing, the palpitations, the blinding rage that would give me the strength to lift a car.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  I didn’t react, still panting, my eyes still wet from the angry tears.

  The door unlocked, and Cleo poked her head inside. “I have Mary here to fit you for your suit…” Her voice trailed away when she saw me standing by the window, just in my sweatpants, breathing heavily as if I’d just finished an intense workout. But she must have figured out exactly what happened because she stopped Mary from coming into my home and seeing me like this. “Mary, can you come back tomorrow morning before Mr. Hamilton leaves for work?” She shut the door, and they continued their conversation.

  I’d completely forgotten about this appointment. I had a charity event on Friday, and I needed something to wear. Cleo had sent me an email, but I’d forgotten about it the second I read it, my mind occupied with other things.

  I dragged my hands down my face, wiping away the sweat that dripped from my hairline.

  Cleo opened the door again, this time alone. She closed the door gently behind her and looked at me.

  I didn’t tell her to leave even though I didn’t want to see anyone right now. I lifted my chin and looked at her, seeing the concern in her eyes, the same concern my mother had shown me growing up. My eyes were wet, and she probably saw that, so I turned back to the window.

  She kept her distance for a while, and when I didn’t yell at her, her heels tapped against my hardwood floor as she made her way closer to me. She stood there for a while, saying nothing, and then she walked into the hallway.

  I had no idea what she was doing.

  She came back and set something on the table. “I put this on your desk. It might help.”

  I turned around and looked down at the paperback. How to Deal with Difficult People. I stared at it for a few seconds before I looked at her.

  “There’s a pretty long chapter about your situation, dealing with a difficult spouse when a child is involved. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t. At least it’ll make you feel less alone.” She straightened, her hands coming together at her waist, holding herself with perfect poise, wearing high heels like they were flats.

  I moved to the chair and took a seat, too exhausted to stand.

  She looked at the phone on the floor and grabbed it. Her quick inspection yielded the same assumption I’d already made. “I’ll replace it. I’ll leave it on your coffee table, so it’ll be ready for you in the morning, all your contacts, emails, and messages transferred.”

  I stared straight ahead, my blood still pounding.

  When I didn’t say anything, she pulled out the chair and took a seat beside me. “I should have reminded you about the appointment. I’ll text you next time.”

  It wasn’t her fault, but I didn’t have the energy to say that.

  She stared at the side of my face, her blue eyes narrowed in concern, her lips pressed tightly together like my features made her wince in pain. Her expressions made her easy to read, even when she didn’t speak. “I’m here…if you want to talk about it. Or I can make you an appointment with a therapist—”

  “I don’t need a therapist.”

  She didn’t flinch at my outburst.

  “I just…” I dropped my hands to the table, my breathing slowly returning to normal. “I don’t know what to do. When a problem doesn’t change, you change your attitude about the problem…but I can’t just let this go.” My thoughts flowed out of me like words on a page, which was miraculous because sometimes it was difficult for me to put even a few words together. “I can’t just stop caring and abandon my son.”

  “There’s no rational excuse for her to be acting this way.”

  Exactly. Which was why this was so difficult for me. I didn’t understand emotion. I only understood facts and logic, and as far as I could tell, I didn’t deserve this at all. “She’s punishing me because I left her…”

  “But she cheated—”

  “Because I don’t love her. She wants me to love her, but I don’t. I can’t.” I had no idea why I was telling Cleo this. She’d been in my home, looked through my clothes, had seen the porn I jerked off to, but I really didn’t know her that well. There was just something about her that made me open up. “So, she wants to take away the one thing I do love…”

  “That’s not right.”

  I stared at my hands.

  “There has to be something we can do—legally.”

  I shook my head. “Judges always side with the mothers. That’s a fact.”

  “There’s no such thing as absolutes—and that’s a fact.”

  My eyes shifted to her, surprised by the unequivocal statement she’d just made.

  “Let me help you.”

  “I’ve got skeletons in my closet…” It would be public record, and something that should be kept private would be widespread news. Everyone would know about my lowest point, and I might lose the respect of my colleagues, of the younger generations that looked up to me as a role model.

  “We all do, Deacon.”

  “I can’t do this in a court battle,” I said quietly. “I’d be willing to live with the shame if I got Derek, but it’s the reason I won’t get him.” The judge would never grant me custody. I’d be lucky to get 50%, but more than likely, I would get none. There was no outcome where it worked in my favor.

  She didn’t pester me about it. “Then we need to be diplomatic about it.”

  “I’ve tried talking to her—”

  “Give it time, Deacon. How long have you been divorced?”

  “Two months.”

  “Wound is still fresh. Think about it that way.”

  Broken bones took four to six weeks. What about a broken heart—and broken pride?

  “We’ll get it figured out. We won’t give up.”

  “Why do you keep saying ‘we’?” I stared at her, seeing the way her brown hair fell down her shoulders in wavy curls that looked soft. She was a petite woman, probably a foot shorter than me if she didn’t wear those heels all the time. And her face was perfectly symmetrical, her fair skin unblemished, making her eyes stand out further. She had full lips, a slender shape to her face, and eyes that could brighten up the darkest night. It was easy to stare at her, and I wondered if that was why I looked at her so often, held my silence without saying a word.

  A soft smile entered her lips. “Because we’re in this together.”

  “I don’t think your salary covers this—”

  “I care about my clients, Deacon. I will do anything and everything for them.”

  “But I’ve done nothing for you.” I treated her like I did everyone else, as if she was invisible.

  “And you don’t need to. That’s not the kind of person I am. I have lots of clients who don’t trust me when they meet me, who don’t think I can be an asset to them, but then I become an essential part of their lives. That’s not because of the paycheck. It’s because I genuinely like to help people—like you do.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I continued to stare at her, study her like my next experimental obsession.

  She held my gaze, reflecting the same look back at me, as if she understood what I was thinking when I didn’t say anything.

  “I always knew I didn’t want kids.”

  She moved her hands to the table, her fingers interlocked as she sat with straight posture, like a therapist who was being paid to listen to every word I spoke.

  “I’m not good with people. I don’t have the time to raise a kid. Not interested in it. So, when Valerie told me she was pregnant, I said I wanted an abortion.” I broke eye contact because I was sick to my stomach, saying that out loud. I’d n
ever told anyone that before, the single thing I was most ashamed of, the thing that made it hard to look at my son sometimes. “She didn’t…obviously. But I didn’t want him. I didn’t want to be a father. Didn’t want to deal with all that shit. But then he was born…and everything changed. I don’t know how to talk to people. I don’t know how to care about things besides my work. I’ve never had a strong emotional connection with anyone, not even my family. But he…makes me feel so much. He makes me feel love, an emotion I didn’t think I could feel.”

  Her eyes started to water.

  “He’s the only person I’ll ever love… And it kills me that I can’t even talk to him.” Tears spilled from my eyes and down my cheeks, and this time, they weren’t from anger. They were from the hole inside my heart.

  Her hand moved to mine, her warm fingers resting on my knuckles.

  I didn’t pull away from the touch. There a connection there, a vulnerability from my own emotions. I didn’t like to touch people unless it was sexual, but I let our touch linger for a few seconds before I pulled away.

  She didn’t seem offended when I became withdrawn. “We’ll figure it out, Deacon. I promise.” Her eyes were watery, like she could mirror every single emotion I felt, feel the same distress just from watching another person feel it.

  There was nothing else in this world that could break me down like this, could make me shed a tear. At my own father’s funeral, I didn’t cry. It wasn’t because I wasn’t devastated. I just didn’t feel that urge to react that way. But I loved my son in a way only another parent could understand…

  And that love killed me.

  Eight

  Deacon

  I stood in the center of my living room, my hands hanging at my sides as Mary sat up on her knees, pinching the fabric with pins and taking the measurements she needed to make this suit fit me like all my others.

  Cleo sat on the couch, typing on her phone as if she was taking care of emails as she waited.

  I stared at her, seeing the way she crossed her ankles and kept her knees tightly together. She was in a pencil skirt again, and that seemed to be her signature attire. It was pink with a white blouse tucked into the waistband. Today, her hair was pulled back, out of her face. A gold bracelet was on her wrist.

  I’d never see her look anything less than perfect.

  It didn’t matter if it was first thing in the morning on my way to work or late at night. She still had a fresh look, her makeup flawless as if she perfected it several times throughout the day. Her clothes were always neatly pressed, and without checking the labels, it seemed like she wore designer clothing.

  Mary kept working.

  I kept staring.

  When Mary finished her measurements, she stepped back. “With these arms and that chest, this suit will look amazing on you. And the color of this fabric.” She grabbed my sleeve. “It suits you perfectly.”

  It was charcoal gray—my favorite color.

  The personal shopper never asked what I liked—so Cleo must have informed her.

  Mary looked at me, as if she expected a reaction to her compliment.

  I was quiet.

  Cleo stood up. “Deacon, you can change out of that now.” She interceded before the silence continued too long. “Mary, I’ll have this dropped off for you with the other items I have.”

  “Alright. Goodbye, Mr. Hamilton.”

  She headed to the door.

  I turned around and headed into my bedroom to change. Once I was back in my sweatpants and shirt, I returned, holding the suit in a pile in my arms.

  Cleo had a hanger ready, and she hung up the pieces of the suit. “I’ll have it dry-cleaned and pressed as well. You’ll look like a million bucks. Or, in your case, a billion.”

  My hands rested in my pockets, my fingertips touching the phone she’d replaced for me.

  She finished hanging up the clothes, not expecting a reaction like everyone else did. “Have you written your speech?”

  I was surprised she knew I had to make one. “Yes.”

  “Can I hear it?”

  “Why?”

  She held the hanger to her side, so she wouldn’t touch the delicate fabric. “I have a feeling it could use some improvements.”

  I never said much when I got an award. Just a quick thank you and I stepped offstage. I’d never been a long-winded person, especially when the spotlight was on me. But if I gave a presentation about my research, I couldn’t shut up.

  “Can I come back in a few hours so we can work on it?”

  I didn’t have plans.

  “I can bring you dinner, if you want a night off from cooking. One of my chefs is dropping off salmon to another client, and it’s amazing. I can ask him to make a serving for you as well.”

  When I lived in California, Jeremiah followed orders and retrieved whatever I asked for, but Cleo was more proactive, catering to her clients as if I was staying at a hotel instead of my own home. “Yes.”

  “Alright. I’ll see you soon.” She was professional, like our conversation last night never happened.

  I watched her shut the door behind herself before I headed back to the dining table.

  She came back hours later, holding a container of food along with her notebook. She walked into my kitchen, plated it for me, and then placed it in front of me at the dining table.

  I stared at her blankly then looked at the food. Tender salmon, fresh broccoli, and rice pilaf. It was what I usually made for dinner.

  She took the seat beside me and got her notebook ready. “Can I read your speech off your computer?”

  I didn’t let anyone look at my computer because I had important research and classified information on the device. I used to lock it with code, but since I was on it all the time, that became a hindrance. But after the way Cleo saw my porn and exited out of it, it made me reconsider.

  I entered the password and closed out of everything except the speech on the Word document.

  Without looking at me, she said, “I’m glad you put a passcode on your computer. You should put one on your phone too.”

  I turned the laptop toward her.

  She grabbed it and pulled it a little closer. “It’s just this paragraph?” she asked, squinting as if the font was too small for her to read.

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes scanned back and forth, reading the words quickly. “Well…I think we should start over.”

  “What’s wrong with my speech?”

  “It’s so sterile. A roomful of people are going to listen to you speak. It’ll be in magazines and newspapers. People will record it and put it on YouTube. It needs to be more than a simple thank you.”

  “People hate long speeches.”

  “Not if they’re good speeches. Give me a second.” She adjusted the laptop and started to type, taking breaks to read what she’d just written because she continued to add more words.

  I watched her, unsure what she had to offer. She wasn’t a speech writer. She didn’t know anything about my work.

  She propped her chin on her fingers as she looked at the screen, her mind thinking of the next thing to write.

  I grabbed my fork and took a bite, surprised by the tenderness of the fish. It was splashed with lemon zest, rosemary, and a hint of sugar. I ate as I stared at her, noticing the way her thick eyelashes shifted and moved when her eyeballs focused on something else. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she concentrated.

  “How about this?” She turned the laptop back to me.

  I’d just finished the last bite of my food. I wiped my fingers on the napkin and looked at the screen, seeing that she’d written two full pages of words. I started to read. It was better than what I had, but it also wasn’t me. “It doesn’t sound like something I would say.”

  “Which is a good thing in this case.”

  My eyes shifted back to hers.

  She was smiling like she was trying to soften the blow. “I know you aren’t a man of many words, but words are what
we use to communicate. You can’t put up a data sheet and expect everyone to understand the significance the way you do. You can change anything you want to make it more you, but your goal is to inspire people, to motivate people to strive to win the same award. You won’t live forever, and there will come a generation of scientists after you. This is your chance to encourage them.”

  I turned back to the computer and read it again, knowing it was a good speech, just not my style. People had told me before how abrupt I was, how difficult I was to get along with. Some people understood it was a direct result of my intellect, but others didn’t. To them, I was just an asshole. “I’ll use it.”

  “Great.” She closed her notebook. “How was the salmon?”

  “Good.”

  She rose to her feet and pushed in her chair. “Well, let me know if you need anything.”

  I watched her walk away, and she was almost to the door before I could transfer my thoughts from my brain to words on my lips. “My brother is moving in with me.”

  She turned back around. “When?”

  “Next week.”

  “I’m assuming this isn’t permanent.”

  “He just needs a place to stay for a few weeks.”

  “Alright. Let me know what I can do to help. I’ll get a spare set of keys ready, make sure housekeeping knows how to change his sheets weekly, and if you can get me a grocery list, I can make sure he has what he needs in the kitchen.”

  I nodded.

  She turned back to the door. “Goodnight, Deacon.”

  I watched her leave. “Goodnight.”

  I sat on the couch in front of the TV, my ankle resting on the opposite knee as I read through my papers. The TV was on, the evening news playing over the speakers. My phone was beside me on the couch, and it started to vibrate.

  It was Tucker.

  I answered without saying a word.

  He knew I was there. “So, Mom wasn’t happy…”

  “No surprise there.”

  “She said both of her sons are running away from her.”

  “That’s not inaccurate.”