Chapter 19

Wes

The problems with drinking in excess are obvious.

Balance struggles.

Slurred speech.

Blurry vision.

Nausea.

However, the problems that occur when the pendulum swings the other direction aren’t exactly much better.

Shakes and tremors.

Racing pulse and colds sweats.

Hallucinations.

Vomiting.

Gordonknows, the human body isn’t meant to endure expelling this much fucking bile.

I use the back of my hand to wipe away the bit of spit that was left behind from my latest round of heaving as Lauren finishes covering the bed in the estate medical suite I’ve been occupying for the past three days. “ Thank you. ”

“Of course,” she sweetly hums while smoothing out the wrinkles. “It’s my job.”

“It is not your job.” Reaching for the cool washcloth lingering on the bedside table is accompanied by clarification. “Your job is budgeting. Scheduling. Disciplining. Managing.” A gentle dab is delivered across my forehead. “Not changing sheets.”

“Changing sheets is part of the managing process better known as mothering. ” At that, she shoots me a scolding stare. “Now, you let me do my job while you focus on doing yours.”

“Which I’ll be doing as soon as J.T. brings me a tablet.”

“ Detoxing, Weston. ” One hand lands disapprovingly on her hip. “ That is your primary focus.”

Not by choice.

Withdrawal doesn’t exactly allow room for much else.

Interestingly, it behaves quite similarly to the substance I am distancing myself from.

It slinks in.

It overthrows your senses.

It captures your sanity and stability.

It’s ruthless.

And unforgiving.

And painful.

It’s everything I fucking deserve.

Every penance I need to pay.

“ Bed. ” Lauren tips her head towards the piece of furniture. “Hamilton should be back from lunch to check your vitals shortly.”

Just the thought of food conjures a deep groan of disgust.

“Still no appetite?”

Shaking my head precedes putting the small towel down and sliding back onto the mattress.

“I’ll inform Lucky to maintain the smaller portions.” Her fingers wind around the end of the blanket to pull it up. “How do eggs sound for lunch?”

“Like a punishment.”

“Perfect!”

The sassy retort doesn’t fail to make me smirk.

It’s no mystery where Bryn’s sass stems from.

Although, having Lauren’s does remind me that I don’t have hers.

That I haven’t had hers.

That I don’t deserve to have hers for what I’ve put her through.

“How’s Bryn?” meekly leaves me as I reach for the washcloth a second time. “Our baby?”

“Alive,” she announces in such a way I know that’s the best answer I’m going to get, which is honestly more than I deserve.

Instinct to pry for more rears its ugly head, unfortunately for me, detoxing is uglier.

Ruder.

More relentless.

Puke abruptly propels itself upward forcing me to curl sideways in hopes of spewing into the nearby trashcan rather than my freshly changed sheets. One round easily becomes two that transitions to three and four and five, further purging any nutrients that had somehow managed to take hold in my system. Cramps from the endless stomach tensing cause guttural groans to grow in numbers yet the added vibrations amplify the pain ultimately prompting more grumbles to appear and continue an agony filled cycle.

I should’ve never picked up that first glass.

I should’ve never downed that first shot.

That first sip.

Heaving after a short period transforms into dry heaving, an action I hate more than vomiting itself.

When you actually throw up, there’s action.

Purpose.

An accomplishment.

When you dry heave, there’s all the suffering, but none of the relief.

None of the reprieve.

Again.

Not that I deserve any.

“How about some tea?” Lauren politely suggests, prompting my lids to lift, revealing my tear-ridden gaze. “Maybe some hibiscus? Get your electrolytes back up?” She lifts the laundry basket upward at the same time she teases, “Don’t worry. I’ll hold the poison.”

The playful remark regarding what had her in this bed over a year ago has me trying to smile. “I appreciate that.”

She lovingly winks, turns, and exits, leaving me alone once more to brush away the spit from my lips.

Wipe down my face with the cool rag.

My neck.

Press the cloth firmly against my eyes in hopes of relieving the throbbing that seems incapable of ending.

Having to work through this shit episode the first time was miserable.

Why did I think a sequel wouldn’t be worse?

“You look like that scene in The Dark Knight Rises where Bruce is recovering in the pit,” my best friend unexpectedly states causing me to lower the towel to lock stares. “Post Bane breaking his back and taunting him but pre that old dude beating him like a pi?ata and using his ancient chiropractic degree.”

I grunt in agreement. “Feel like it too.”

He winces and adjusts the sky-blue collar to his dress shirt. “Progress?”

“I’m no longer vomiting every other hour.”

“Sweats?”

“Still soaking the bed.”

“Sleep?”

“Nightmares.”

“Mood?”

“Dour.”

“But less hostile?”

“Yeah.” Tossing the rag back into the bowl it’s being kept in precedes bracing my back against the pillows. “I’m past the need for a sedative to prevent me from irrationally screaming at everyone.”

A half-hearted grin is given. “And that my injured cape-crusader is my least favorite phase of this shit.”

“At least I didn’t throw anything this time.”

“Only because you were handcuffed.”

“And who am I to thank for sparing me their hot pink fuzzy handcuffs?”

“That would be the future Mrs. Wilcox.”

It’s impossible to keep hope out of my expression.

“They were a bridal brunch gift from Vanessa. Along with cupcake flavored lube and a fox mask I was afraid to ask questions about.”

Despite the desire to dive deeper into those details, I soar around them to investigate something much more pressing. “When was that?”

“Couple days after she asked her to be a bridesmaid.”

When did that happen?

When did she make that decision?

Did she tell me?

Did she mention it and I simply can’t remember?

“I’ve requested to walk down the aisle with her versus Calen,” J.T. playfully adds. “Assuming there’s still going to be a wedding.”

“ Fuck, I hope so. ” Watching him slowly stroll inside is done in tandem with me asking, “Has she mentioned not wanting one?”

“Not to me.” His positioning in the room is at the foot of my bed. “But I haven’t exactly spoken to her much.”

“Why?”

“You mean aside from reporting to the other board members about the possibility of your shares decreasing , dealing with app development issues, delays in distribution, juggling multiple press events – alone – and Nightwinging my ass here to assist in your recovery?” J.T. shoves his tablet free hand into his pocket. “She hasn’t been answering me.” He doesn’t wait for me to counter with the obvious. “And I don’t mean normal Bryn not replying to a text because her cell has magically found a new home in a box of tampons or whatever. I mean phone turned completely off level of not speaking.”

It's impossible to ignore the tightness in my chest increasing.

“She’s also distanced herself from Hill after informing him his services for her wellbeing were no longer required.”

Shit.

Is there going to be a wedding?

Do I even still have a fiancée?

The other half of my heart?

My soul?

“Hill, however, has been maintaining a casual visual on her whereabouts at all times to ensure her safety continues per Park’s orders. Given that Hill is employed by the personal security department of the Wilcox Estate, the only people who can ‘relieve him of his duty’ are the head of security – Park – the ‘face’ of the company – me – and those that legally bear the last name Wilcox, which she technically doesn’t yet.”

“ A technicality? ” Another grin threatens my face. “You think a bullshit technicality is going to save you from The Wrath of Khan ?”

“I think she’ll appreciate the effort.”

“She won’t.”

“ I know ,” my right hand instantly caves, entire body sulking forward, “but I need to know she’s okay. I need to know our Uhura is okay.”

Silence momentarily slithers itself along my spine stirring up vomit in the process. “… is she? ” I force myself to swallow the expanding lump back down. “ Is she okay? ”

“Physically?” He tosses the tablet on the bed beside my thigh. “From what Hill’s mentioned she seems fine. No lingering cognitive issues. No developing pregnancy problems. And her single overnight trip for work, did not have her on or near the water.”

That’s gotta be driving my little prey insane.

“Emotionally?” An uncomfortable cringe is shot. “All Calen says is that she’s moody.” J.T. leans his side against the furniture. “He doesn’t know if it’s from lack of beer or lack of pizza or lack of the Batarang.”

“ Do not call my dick the Batarang. ”

“Come on, dude, that’s like a perfect nickname!”

Whether it’s hearing his mirth or simply hearing news on the woman I love that gets me smiling is unknown.

It also doesn’t matter.

Feeling something other than disgust and spite is welcomed.

“He planned them a beach date to see if it would help.”

The word choice sparks outrage in spite of me doing my best to hold it back. “ They’re dating? ”

No.

That’s impossible.

She belongs to me.

And only me.

It’s my last name that’s to become hers.

My cape she borrows.

My family jewels she loves to keep her hands on.

That has not changed.

That is not going to fucking change.

Not now.

Not ever.

“According to Monica – your half-sister maybe – ‘Calen and Bryn’s relationship is developing’. Between the dinners – mostly to Mo Mo’s – the outings – like the beach – and her sleeping at his apartment – instead of the penthouse – proving her inference isn’t difficult.”

“She’s not even staying at our place anymore?”

“Not according to Hill. Or Monica for that matter.”

“How the fuck does she know that?!” New waves of rage ripple throughout my voice. “How the fuck does she know anything?! Everything?! ”

“You’re probably not looking for the answer that she’s a real-life comic book villain, are you?”

“ No. ”

“Fine.” His voice lowers to needlessly mumble, “Although, she has a lot in common with that creepy flower power zombie thing.”

“Mister Bloom.”

“Was not a fan of those comics.”

Neither was Bryn.

However, it’s not because of the villains or storylines or artists.

It’s just that she prefers the simpler, more familiar arcs.

Claims to be a “basic bat cannon bitch”, which is almost impressively articulate in a strange way.

In what I can only classify to be the Bryn way.

“Pham and Evie believe we have a leak,” J.T. unenthusiastically announces. “ Again. ”

Low rumbles rattle my raw throat, effortlessly amplifying the lingering aches.

“Park’s looked and been looking and there are no red flags. His team hasn’t found any bank accounts with suspicious activity. No questionable visitors, meetings, or phone calls for those with direct access to the two of you. He has no idea how Monica is getting her information.”

“He sweep the building for bugs?”

“ Weekly. ”

“Our vehicles?”

“ Daily. ”

Groans of frustration precede me slamming my head backwards.

I momentarily squeeze my eyes shut, instantly wincing over the pain it ignites.

“His plan is to extend his search parameters outward a bit, but hey,” a small nudge at my leg forces my attention back to the man that’s always been at my side, “let him worry about security.” My dry mouth twitches to argue only to be met by an all-knowing headshake. “And Hawthorne legal. He’s been diligently searching for technicalities and strategies to minimize the amount of financial as well as public damage this Monica stunt is causing the company. He’ll be by tomorrow to touch base.”

Good.

Because I’ve come to a very important conclusion.

I want Monica to have what she rightfully deserves.

In spite of the Joker worthy circus she’s turned my life into, she deserves a portion of our company.

Perhaps our father didn’t want the masses to know that; however, that was his choice.

It doesn’t have to be mine.

I refuse to not acknowledge a portion of my family, of my bloodline, simply because he chose not to.

Simply because rather than publicly acknowledge his mistakes or imperfections, he went to extreme lengths to hide and erase them.

Monica mostly likely is this…bitter…and vengeful because of the rejection she’s lived with her entire existence.

I can’t fault her for that.

And I don’t have to.

I will give her what she’s requesting – both in word and financial compensation – and then offer to buy out her portion.

I don’t wanna work with her.

I don’t want her anywhere near our branding or what I’ve built.

I want her to have what she’s entitled to and the opportunity to create or build what it is that fills her with passion exactly like I have.

While I followed in the footsteps of my father and grandfather and all the Wilcoxes that came before me, I’ve found my own calling within our legacy. A love for whiskey above all else, and it’s that devotion, that dedication I think Monica needs in her own life.

It’ll help her heal.

Move forward.

Realize what it took cases of aged booze for me to understand.

We do not have to bear the weight of other’s mistakes.

Only our own.

J.T. offers me a small grin, “You just worry about getting better, okay?”

“I concur,” Lauren sweetly interjects at the same time she reenters the room with a mug in hand. “And you can continue that process by drinking this cup of tea before Dr. Sawyer arrives for your session.”

“And how is Dr. Feelings enjoying his time back in Gotham?” my best friend mirthfully teases.

“He’s not complaining.” I transfer the hot beverage from her possession to mine. “And neither is his bank account.”

Having your therapist – that is technically a psychiatrist – move into one of the guesthouses on your property in order to provide steady round the clock sessions isn’t cheap, especially when you have to fly him in on your private jet from where he’s vacationing with his girlfriend in Italy as well as her back to Mistletoe, Montana, the place she’s trying to convince him to move to.

Expensive doesn’t even begin to cover it.

However, getting the help I know I need is worth it.

Getting the help, I know others need me to have is worth it.

I want to get things back on track and in order.

I want to be there for my brand.

My company.

My family.

I understand I can’t do this shit alone.

And thanks to Clark, Lauren, Hamilton, and J.T. I know I don’t have to.

“Homework yet?” investigates the other male in the room prior to Lauren offering him a lemon shortbread cookie.

“Just the amends list.”

“That’s where you write the person you wronged on the left, what aspect of your relationship was damaged in the middle, and actions you can take to begin to repair it on the right?”

Finding myself impressed by the fact that he remembers the activity from my first rehabilitation stretch is what prompts me to simply nod and use the back of my free hand to wipe away the building perspiration on my forehead.

“Tell me Bryn’s at the top of that list.”

There’s no hesitation to nod again.

“ Good. ” Firmness in his expression isn’t surprising nor unwarranted. “ It’s definitely time you put ‘The Cat’ first, Mr. Wayne. ”