“Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,” thought Alice;
“but a grin without a cat!
It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in all my life!”
It was just a one-night stand. It wasn’t even a full night, for heavens sake. Just two stolen hours of anonymous pleasure with no strings attached.
What a fucking nightmare.
That evening, after Vegas has parked his car in the garage and turned off the motor, he stays seated, staring straight ahead for the longest time, before slowly leaning forward until his forehead touches the steering wheel, and closing his eyes in utter defeat.
What a fucking nightmare.
He simply cannot catch a break, it seems. What sort of horrors has he committed in his past life that karma lashes out at him like this? He feels stunned disbelief at the fact that his life is turning into such a shit show and it feels as if there is nothing he can do about it. Why is this happening to him?
It was just a freaking one-night stand!
What on earth has he done to deserve this? What is the point of living like this? He has a family that he cannot be part of, a little brother he has to stay away from. He has no friends. Porsche doesn’t count because he has a boyfriend who hates Vegas with a passion, so they can’t hang out together often. He has no romantic relationships either, thank you very much & a big fuck you to his father for that.
Every time he gets close to someone they conveniently disappear, courtesy of Khun Gun. Vegas’ father is so damn concerned about appearances that he nips every romantic opportunity Vegas has in the bud—ruthlessly. There are only so many times you can watch your crush suddenly relocate to another country, end up in the ICU after a mysterious car accident or simply disappear from the face of the earth before you get the message.
Vegas got it. Loud and clear. No men allowed.
And even if it weren’t for his father, he would still have to consider the fact that he is a police officer, theirs is still a rather conservative society and there is simply no such thing as an openly gay detective in the police force as far as he knows. So the only option left to him are brief anonymous sexual encounters, which deep down he just hates because this is neither safe nor entirely satisfying at all. And now this has been taken away from him as well.
What a fucking nightmare.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath and wishes he could scream his frustration out into the void. Give me a fucking break!
…Think, Vegas, think…
First things first: Chances are pretty good this isn’t connected to his father, Vegas figures. Way too messy and bloody. This murder is a glitch, an unfortunate mishap. And of course it happens to Vegas, because shit like this always happens to Vegas. Story of his life. Anyway, no one must ever find out about his connection to the victim. They’re going to suspend him for sure if they find out, and Vegas cannot allow this to happen. If he loses this job he might as well jump from the nearest building and put an end to it.
So damage control it is.
He met the guy—he doesn’t even know his name—at a nightclub where Porsche used to be a bartender. He knows that they have CCTV, so Vegas simply needs to go there, wave his badge and get his hands on the tape that shows them together. While he is at it he might as well check the other tapes for any further clues about the murder. Perhaps if he catches the killer, then he will be safe … if… when… they find out he has a connection to the victim that he has conveniently forgotten to tell them about.
Because he is not going to tell anyone voluntarily, oh no. Over his cold dead body. Arm and Pol think he had a case of heat exhaustion at the crime scene. No one must ever find out.
Damage control it is.
He has a plan.
This is good.
He can do this.
----------------------------------------
We’re all confounded by a lack of time. No shit Sherlock! Vegas is stressed.
No matter how many long hours he pulls, the work keeps piling up, and Vegas is getting increasingly more frustrated. He has old cases to wrap up and that means a lot of paperwork, so in order to catch up he pulls an all-nighter to get it over with and somehow survives the next day by drinking an unhealthy amount of coffee that makes him feels as if his whole body is buzzing like a swarm of bees. It’s unpleasant, to say the least.
Simultaneously he has to collect information about the new murder victim, which is good because now he has a name—Beam Parama Jetatikarn. As a rule, he never asks for a name when it comes to his sexual encounters. Why bother—he is not going to see them again anyway.
Vegas feels deeply uncomfortable learning more details about Beam’s life. He would rather forget about him altogether. And yet he dutifully collects more and more information. 24 years old. Born in a small village in the countryside. Moved to Bangkok 3 years ago. Parents deceased. No siblings. No other immediate relatives. Not in a steady relationship either. Worked in a supermarket. Diligent worker. No close friends. What a lonely life. Depressing, really. What is even more depressing is that Vegas can relate.
Beam had his whole life before him, and someone saw it fit to turn him into a bloody, mangled mess. No one deserves this. It’s goddamn awful. Vegas makes a mental note to make sure Beam gets at least a decent burial.
There’s a lot of hushed talk about this murder case in the department. Everyone is glad they didn’t have to process the scene. No one wants to deal with this mess; they are more than happy to leave it to Vegas. Every cop here knows that gruesome murders like this are a nightmare to handle, especially if leaked to the media. So far journalists haven’t noticed, and this is good.
That the victim is a nobody with no immediate relatives is also good because there are no bereaved ones making a fuss, so maybe the case canquietly fade into obscurity should they not manage to find the murderer.
One morning Vegas finds a large, brown envelope on his desk when he arrives at work. Inside there are an abundance of self-assessment forms to fill out, and on the front page someone has stuck a bright pink Post-it note: “Please fill out and return before our first meeting,” followed by a date, 2 days from now in the afternoon, an office number and a smiley. A smiley! Who even does that nowadays, are they still in primary school?! Ridiculous!
Unenthusiastically Vegas spends a precious hour filling out everything. He would rather throw the forms away than answer all these very intrusive questions about himself, but in the back of his head he can hear the promise he made to Porsche—“Promise me?”… “I suppose.”—and so he refrains from dumping everything in the trash can beside his desk.
“Describe the event that triggered your anger.”—The mere existence of this human scumbag.
“Rate your anger level.”—Then or now? Just reading this is making me angry.
“What were the first symptoms of your anger?”—Does beating him up in an alleyway count?
“What physical cues did you notice as you got angry?”—Physical clues? What does this even mean? Does seeing red count?
What a waste of time! As soon as it’s done he sends the forms back and does more meaningful work.
Efficient as usual, Arm delivers his autopsy report within 48 hours. Vegas takes his time to read through it painstakingly. The victim had been dead no more than 12 hours—that will help Vegas narrow down the time frame when it comes to checking CCTV footage from nearby streets (and of course the security tape from the nightclub). They have not been able to lift any fingerprints from the crime scene other than the victim’s and that cop who was first on the scene. Someone has been very careful indeed. It also shows that Beam has not had any visitors in a long time and isn’t that a sad fact too? So he does not take his lovers home? Why then did he invite his murderer into his apartment?
As for shoe prints, the scene is a mess. That bucket with the mop in the bedroom? Yup, someone used it to wipe the floor of the whole apartment with some sort of cleaning detergent. Not bleach though, they would have smelled that. Arm suspects a second mop that the murderer took away with him after cleaning up the floor on his way to the exit. The audacity of it is striking. He must have calmly mopped the floor of the whole 3rd floor hallway up to the stairs. And on the stairs there is such an explosion of footprints that is it impossible to say which ones might belong to the murder suspect.
Ingenious. Vegas makes a note to look for the mop in the immediate area around the apartment building.
In fact, no trace evidence of value has so far been discovered at the crime scene at all, which in itself is rather impressive. Arm seems impressed, at least. (Arm always sends two copies of the autopsy report; one official one and one with annotations about things he theories about. It makes for an interesting read.)
During the autopsy they also found several needle puncture wounds on the left side of the neck. The toxicology report shows traces of a ketamine mixture in the blood; they are lucky they found the body within the 24-hour detection window. Well, now they know why the victim had no defense wounds.
Cause of death has been noted down as exsanguination. Massive blood loss from the throat wound and from being disembowelled.
What creeps out Vegas the most are the final conclusions Arm has drawn.
There’s evidence of recent sexual intercourse (and condom use), and Arm deems it likely that the victim was engaged in having sex when he was drugged repeatedly with a syringe to the neck. Based on the approximate dosage from the toxicology report, the effects of the ketamine mixture would have occurred within seconds, one minute at the most.
The medical examiner further speculates that the sexual activities continued after this and then culminated in the murderer biting through the sedated victim’s Adam’s apple, causing a substantial throat injury.
Sick.
Obviously Arm has taken swaps from the area and they are being processed for saliva and DNA, but it will take a while.
As if all this isn’t horrific enough, Arm concludes that the victim— Beam, he was a human being and his name was Beam—would have still been alive while being disembowelled, at least during the opening stages of the procedure. Thankfully not for long. Death would have occurred quickly once the abdominal cavity was opened and the removal of the bowels and other organs started in earnest.
What kind of sick person does something like this to another human being?
…Something wicked this way comes…
Hopefully they will catch this madman soon.
----------------------------------------
It’s D-day and exactly 10 minutes before his appointed time, Vegas arrives. The administrative section of the police department, including the psychotherapist’s office, are located on the top floor of the building, the furthest away from the noisy chaos he is usually surrounded with on the ground floor. It’s unnervingly quiet up here; it grates on his nerves. He finds the designated office easily enough and knocks on the door straight away. Why bother to wait? No answer, so he knocks again. Still no answer, so he simply tries the door handle, and guess what, the door is not even locked. Sloppy.
Since he resents the idea of waiting outside, he simply opens the door to enter. Might as well wait inside.
He expects to find yet another dull office: white, grey, dull, boring, with an equally dull and boring, slightly overweight man in his mid-50s as his therapist—and so he’s more than a little surprised by what awaits him inside.
The first thing that strikes Vegas is the colour scheme. He blinks. The room is a rectangular shape, like most offices in this building, with a window directly opposite from the door. That wall is quite something… how to describe this colour… maybe ‘Aqua’ would be most fitting? It reminds Vegas of the ocean surrounding a pacific lagoon. The other three walls positively glow in a very light pastel yellow—like a freaking beach!
What the heck?
The whole room is airy and light and bright. Shockingly so. Sunshine streams through the window, the yellow curtains—curtains!—match the walls. Whatever happened to functional blinders?!
Arranged before the window are three armchairs, dark green, made of some kind of soft fabric that looks very comfortable. There’s a plain white, round coffee table in the middle. There’s even a little bookshelf in the corner to the right, full of books.
And right next to the door to the left stands a desk with office supplies cluttering its surface. Drawers too. Out of principle, Vegas checks if they are locked, which they are. Good. At least his therapist has some sense, even if he has gone over to the wild side by decorating his office like this.
Vegas strolls further into the room, gently closes the door behind him and spends the next minutes wandering around, taking it all in, trying to adjust to this distasteful cheerfulness. Checking out the books (boring). Poking the flowers on the windowsill to see if they are real (they are). Touching the fabric of the armchairs to see if it really is as soft as it looks (it is).
The sound of the door opening interrupts his snooping. He turns towards it expectantly—here we go—and then time just freezes.
Working as a cop, and growing up the way he did, Vegas has a very well-developed sense of danger. And this very second, that sense kicks in with full force, completely out of the blue, and it screams at him—danger danger danger—the hair at the back of his neck stands up—runrunrun—it all takes him by total surprise. And then time unfreezes again and he exhales shakily, his stress level instantly sky-high. What the hell, why is he overreacting like this? He must be more stressed about this meeting than he initially thought. This is his therapist, not some crime suspect. Damn Vegas, get a grip!
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Being the cop he is, he pauses to give the other man who entered a more detailed look-over, noting and memorising the details.
… he looks unexpectedly young…
… they are the same height, give or take an inch…
… his body looks lean yet soft…
… he is wearing a pair of dark slacks and a no-nonsense button down shirt in a soft blue hue…
… the face is smooth and youthful, with round cheeks and smiling lips…
… straight nose…
… no facial hair…
… a pair of expressive dark eyes…
… the bangs are so long they obscure the shape of his eyebrows, shadowing his eyes…
… sleek hair, solid black…
… strangely enough it reminds Vegas of the black cat his cousin Tankhun used to have when they were children.
If I touch it, will he purr or claw at me, Vegas ponders, his thoughts running wild again. Bloody hell, what’s wrong with me?! Okay, time to snap out of it—and so he does.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me! Are you even out of school yet?!” the harsh words just burst out. Oops… yeah and hello to you too.
Vegas wants to smack himself. He is so on edge these days that even the appearance of this cheerful cinnamon roll is apparently enough to set off all sorts of false alarms in his body. Damn. He didn’t mean to snap at his therapist like this. They need to get along after all. Great Vegas, just great.
As far as first impressions go, the other man doesn’t seem overly impressed with Vegas either. He is clearly surprised that there’s someone in his office already and quickly gives him a once-over, only to be visibly taken aback as soon as Vegas swears and comments on his age. Very slowly, he arches his eyebrow and gives Vegas a long intense look that is difficult to categorise.
Silence ensues. And up here on this floor, silence really means silence. It’s so quiet they can hear each other breathing.
“Well… this is awkward,” Vegas eventually acknowledges and gives an apologetic shrug.
“More for you than for me,” the other man quips amiably. “Detective Theerapanyakul, I assume? A pleasure to meet you. I am Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham, your therapist. Just call me Pete.” He holds out his hand in greeting and winks playfully. “Oh, and according to the files I have received on you, we are about the same age. Appearances can be deceiving.”
He winked. Instead of being a middle-aged dork with glasses, his therapist is a cheerful young fluff ball and he winked at Vegas. It’s simply mind-boggling. “This is so not going to work…” Vegas mumbles under his breath, but still reaches out to shake hands. The moment their skin touches, there is an ever so slight shock of static electricity and Vegas all but yanks back his hand. More awkwardness.
“Well… Why don’t you take a seat, detective? Let me get my papers…” Pete gestures towards the armchairs and then steps further into the room, closing the door after hanging a ‘Please do not disturb’ sign on it. Then he busies himself at the desk, unlocking drawers and taking out a leather-bound notebook and a nondescript folder.
After taking yet another deep steadying breath, Vegas picks the armchair that offers the best view of the door, the window and the rest of the room. The armchair is just as comfortable as it looks; he feels engulfed in cozy softness. It invites slouching, but Vegas is way too tense to relax. His whole posture screams that he is uncomfortable and very much does not want to be here. He cannot seem to relax, his shoulder muscles are all knotted up and he can tell that in an hour or so he will have to suffer through yet another tension headache.
This is going to be hell.
His therapist—call me Pete—places the folder on the coffee table and sits opposite from Vegas, leafing through his notebook while fiddling with a multicoloured pen in his right hand. There’s so much colour when it comes to this guy, it really feels overwhelming. Vegas wants to be back at his grey desk in his grey office. In his grey reality. Colours suck. Especially red.
When he lifts his eyes from staring at the distracting pen he becomes aware that Pete is watching him closely. Their eyes meet, and Vegas once more feels the hair at the back of his neck stand up. Fuck. The guy is not his enemy, he needs to relax already. If only he weren’t so tense.
As if he could read Vegas’ thoughts, Pete’s lips curve into a winsome smile, and smiling does things to his face that makes Vegas’ mind go completely blank for a second, then his thoughts go haywire. Like a sudden beam of sunlight illuminating the darkest corners of Vegas’ soul. Inconceivable! This is not what he has signed up for, this is not going to work, he really shouldn’t be here! Vegas digs his fingers deep into the fabric of the armrests and pointedly turns his face towards the lovely pink flowers on the windowsill.
“Thank you for filling out the forms and returning them so promptly. That saves us a lot of time.” Pete acts as if it’s perfectly normal for his patient to react the way he does, and maybe it is. Who knows.
Still staring blindly at the flowers without even registering any details about them, Vegas can hear the sound of pages turning. He takes yet another steadying breath—breathe, just breathe—and then feels grounded enough to once again face his therapist.
“I suppose you read the basic information about anger management therapy I sent you?”
Vegas nods.
“Of course you did. According to your file, you are meticulous. I didn’t expect anything less from you. You and I will be working on controlling and regulating your anger so that it does not result in any further problems.” Pete pauses to check his notes. “How is your latest victim doing? Still in the ICU?” he asks ever so mildly.
This shrink is really not pulling any punches. Victim, my ass. “I don’t have the slightest clue how the suspect is doing.”
Pete tsks and makes a note in his little leather book. “Do check up on him before our next session. Consider this your homework.”
What the fuck?
Vegas fumes inwardly, clenching his jaw. And nods curtly. He does not trust himself to actually reply—it seems his internal filter has disappeared and all that is left is curses.
“In order to deal with your anger we will delve into the psychological causes linked to your anger problems. Knowledge is power…”
“Listen to me, son. Knowledge is not power, it’s only potential. Applying that knowledge is power. Understanding why and when to apply that
knowledge is wisdom.”
“…and then I will teach you different methods that will help you take control and cope with your anger. This will also decrease your overall stress levels and have a positive impact on your personal relationships and well as on your workplace relationships.”
It’s probably too late to repair his relationship with Tem, but Vegas feels a little spark of hope when he hears this. There might be something good coming out of therapy after all. He doesn’t hold much hope when it comes to fixing his anger issues, but if this helps him patch up things with Tem… that would be nice.
Pete keeps talking about the therapy in general, and Vegas finds himself listening instead of zoning out. The psychotherapist has a rich and well-modulated voice and you can hear that he is passionate about his work. People who talk about something they are passionate about are fascinating, and Pete is positively bubbling with enthusiasm.
“Just how long have you been doing this?” Vegas cannot help but interrupt his flow
“Huh?” Obviously this wasn’t a question Pete expected.
“This. Your work.” Vegas gestures to the office and himself. “How long?”
There’s a slight hesitation before Pete answers truthfully: “About six months. This is my first employment.” He is obviously embarrassed and proud at the same time. It’s a nauseatingly cute look on him.
Great. Just great. He got himself a baby shrink. Vegas sees his chances of fixing things with Tem slipping away right before his eyes. This is never going to work.
Meanwhile, Pete is talking again, something about successful anger management leading to an overall longer life span due to the decrease in reckless behaviour and violent altercations. Boy, do I have news for you. You picked the wrong cop, Vegas muses, almost feeling pity. He considers himself ‘Reckless Behaviour Incarnate™’. He has been like this all his life and it’s unlikely to change, no matter what this fluff ball tries to teach him. This is never going to work.
While Vegas was lost in thoughts, Pete has wandered off into a mine-field that he isn’t even aware of. “I also have some assessment forms for family members, you think you could forward them to your immediate family? They are mainly for siblings and parents.”
Uh-oh. Best to put a quick end to it before this goes somewhere that wouldn’t be good for either of them.
“If my father ever were to find out I am in therapy, for whatever reason, you are a dead man. And I don’t intend that to be a threat, I am merely stating the facts. You would be well advised to keep your focus entirely on me and forget altogether about my family. Let’s pretend they do not exist, that I am an orphan. That will save me and you so much trouble.” His voice is smooth as silk but carries a sharp edge. Vegas isn’t joking, he is dead serious.
Then he feels compelled to add: “No guarantees though. I am not aware who he has currently paid off in this department, so there’s a good chance my father will find out about you anyway. I guess that falls under occupational hazard?” Vegas’ lips curve into a smirk as he observes how his therapist swallows hard, and he shrugs. This isn’t his problem. He has warned Pete. He considers he has done his duty. In fact, why not cut straight to the chase? He has wasted enough time here already.
“Listen. I don’t want to be here and I think you know it. Fact is, I have better and more important things to do with my time. Perhaps you and me can come to an agreement? We could go through the motions and pretend we are doing this whole therapy thing, when in fact we are not. You do your paperwork during our designated sessions, I do mine, and at the end of the hour we go our separate ways and no one will ever be the wiser. And after a while you write me a nice little official document with a stamp and signature that certifies that I have indeed gone through therapy and you deem me to be reasonably fixed now. End of story. And we will never need to see each other again.” This sounds like an excellent idea to Vegas and he hopes his therapist will agree. Please agree.
“Interesting.” Pete listens calmly, then nods to himself. “It seems your family knows you very well.”
“Excuse me?” Vegas’ eyes narrow into slits, his mood switches in the blink of an eye and if ever a face showed the threat of imminent death, Pete sees it at this moment. What is this shrink implying? Has he been in contact with Vegas’ family? Seriously? No way. Vegas feels his hackles rising; he didn’t consent to have anyone snooping around in his background. His family is off limits!
His therapist continues to watch him, but there’s an ever so slight flicker of something in his eyes—there and then gone again. Or maybe Vegas just imagined it, because Pete really does seem utterly calm and collected as he consults his notebook before facing at Vegas again.
“I received a phone call from your … cousin, I believe? Khun Kinn Theerapanyakul? You are cousins, correct?”
What the fuck?! Vegas is momentarily unable to communicate and stares incredulously at his therapist.
“It was a very pleasant conversation, slightly unconventional to contact me directly, I suppose, but I am starting to see why your cousin felt the need to talk to me before my first session with you.”
… Kinn…
… fucking Kinn…
“Your cousin was worried that you might try to convince me not to go ahead with these sessions. Fascinating really, he seems to know you very well, he even predicted with astonishing accuracy what you would tell me. Did you grow up together? Are you very close? I usually only observe this behaviour in siblings.”
…Vegas is going to kill Kinn…
The world bleeds into red.
If you’re wearing red today,
Red today, red today,
If you’re wearing red today,
Stand up and shout, “Hooray!”
There is a loud thud and then the little coffee table goes flying across the room, hitting the wall with a crash, papers from the folder flying everywhere, scattering on the floor. The outburst seems to surprise both of them with its violent suddenness.
Pete freezes in his chair like a mouse that has come face to face with a cobra. His hands clench the notebook tightly, hanging on for dear life. The ever present smile has slipped right off his face, leaving behind… fear?
Vegas is panting heavily, standing before his overturned armchair. His hands are curled into fists; he seems coiled and ready to attack —something… someone—and they both seem to be wondering if that someone might be his new therapist.
The tension in the room is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Then there’s a knock on the door. “Everything okay in here?” someone asks in a concerned voice.
Pete exhales, relaxes, and in an instant the bright smile is plastered back on his face; the change is so quick that Vegas finds it vaguely troubling.
“Everything is fine,” his therapist calls out cheerfully. “I stumbled and pushed over a chair. Sorry.”
“All right.”
And then the silence resumes and there is just Vegas and Pete, staring at each other. Sizing each other up. Where to go from here is the question.
“I suppose we found a trigger point so…” Pete moves his hands slowly, wary about setting off Vegas again, and makes a cautious thumbs-up sign. “Yay to progress?” He is obviously trying to diffuse the situation with a nervous joke.
“Fuck progress.” Vegas is in no mood to soften his words. He is still seething inside. Fucking Kinn and his fucking interference. And goddamn Porsche who spilled the beans. But he unclenches his fists and then abruptly turns around to start picking up all the scattered papers. He has to keep himself busy with something to turn all the buzzing energy inside of him into something constructive rather than destructive. Besides, he has caused this mess, he might as well clean up after himself. In silence, he sorts the papers back into the folder and then lifts the coffee table into place again. Lastly, he rightens his armchair and hesitates for a moment before taking a seat once more. He still hasn’t looked at Pete. Instead he looks at his hands. Hands that can hurt people. Hands that can kill.
“This is not going to work,” he states once more, very distinctly this time. “You want money? I can give you money. Just tell me how much, I will arrange it. Then we will simply pretend that you did your job and fixed me. And you will be able to continue working in this police department without having to deal with anyone from the Theerapanyakul family, which will ensure that you will lead a long and healthy life. A win-win situation for both of us.”
He does not lift his eyes, even though the silence stretches. Vegas hates bribing people. He does not want to see the look in Pete’s eyes right now. He does not want to look at anyone. If it were up to him, he would go home and curl up in a corner of his bed. Sleep until tomorrow and forget any of this ever happened.
When Pete finally speaks his voice is very gentle, with a distinctly serious undertone. “Please keep your money. I will pretend that you never made an offer like this. As for this anger management therapy, let me remind you again that your participation is required. No matter how uncomfortable you might feel about this therapy, you will not be able to pay or talk your way out of it. I believe your superior was quite clear about this already.” He pauses briefly, perhaps to consider how to best phrase his next words. “You either come here and actively work with me on improving your situation, or you can sit at home, suspended without pay until the review board has convened and discussed your employment status. Judging from your work history I believe the chances for a termination of your contract is fairly high—and you wouldn’t want that to happen, Detective Theerapanyakul, am I correct?”
Vegas thoughts skip back to the moment he first saw Pete. Will he purr or claw at me, he asked himself then. Well, well, well… apparently this kitten has claws.
“This is unwise,” Vegas insists, speaking through his teeth, and finally looks up to face this stubborn nuisance of a man. “I warned you already about the inherent risk involved when dealing with the Theerapanyakul family. My father will not react kindly when he finds out about this therapy.” And once again, there’s a clear unspoken threat in this statement. Let the fluff ball choke on that.
He does not get the reaction he hoped for. Far from it.
Pete contemplates Vegas for the longest time. His reply, when it comes, is deceptively gentle. “I suppose you are right. From what I have gathered about your father, he will have a most unpleasant reaction if he were to find out that you are having therapy of any sort. I wonder…” And then he goes for the kill, his words drawing blood as his dark, fathomless eyes lock onto Vegas. “Do you think this time he will stop beating you when you are on the floor or will he be so enraged that he will just continue?”
“You useless piece of shit! You are not worthy of being my son! Not worthy of being a Theerapanyakul! You are a fucking disappointment!” … the blows rain down on him relentlessly… he can hear Macau crying… he whimpers and curls up in a ball, trying to protect his belly and head best he can… it hurts… he is crying too… but father doesn’t stop… the blows keep coming and coming until he passes out…
Vegas is speechless. He cannot read the expression in Pete’s eyes, so he blinks and swallows nervously. Just who is the cobra and who is the mouse now? It’s disconcerting how effortlessly his therapist has turned the tables on him. That was a threat, right? He has just been threatened with his own father! Vegas is dumbstruck.
A quick glance at his watch, then Pete closes his notebook with a snap. “It seems we are out of time. Saved by the bell, detective. I will see you in a few days. Oh, and don’t worry, I think we are going to get along just fine.”
Then the corners of Pete’s mouth turn up in yet another dazzling smile that makes the whole of him look like sunshine incarnate. A dimple, Vegas notes, bewildered. He’s even got a dimple, for fuck’s sake! And as an immediate reaction to it, Vegas channels his inner puffer fish, his (invisible) spines popping out of his skin right there and then. Ugh, stay the fuck away from me!
That smile… Cheshire Cat, Vegas thinks as he flees the office hastily and shudders. Fuck. What has he done to deserve this?