In This Life

by Terri Herman-Poncé

  David looked away, probably balancing his desire to protect me with the need to let me go. He was one of the best people I knew but he also had an edge. It was what made him successful at his job and respected by his men, and occasionally annoying to me.

  “This is the least I can do for Mrs. Reynolds,” I told him. “Logan is her son and my client and I owe them both.”

  I stood up, and the minute I got to my feet the room swayed again. David looked at me and sighed out loud, but this time he didn’t try to stop me.

  I saw his worry just the same. “I’m very well aware that I’m not one hundred percent yet, David, and I promise to be careful.”

  “I’m working very hard here, you know. I still think this is a mistake.”

  “I know.” And I appreciated it.

  David’s bright green eyes met mine and the fleeting anger and impatience I felt with him melted away, replaced with something that warmed my heart and filled my soul. He was trying his hardest. The least I could do was to return the favor. So I searched for a compromise and found one.

  “Drive me there,” I said. “Hang around the office while I meet with Mrs. Reynolds and then drive me back home. This way, if I need help, you’ll be there.”

  He considered me and shook his head, but acceptance only came when he said, “Fine.”

  I sent him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “You can remind me of all the things you disagree with after you bring me back home,” I said, leaning down to give him a kiss.

  With fingertips to my chin, he gently angled my head so that I was forced to kiss his cheek instead. “I love you, Lottie,” he said as he pulled away, “but not your germs.”

  I made a chicken sound, and David gave me a wide, playful grin.

  I slipped out from his hold and, on shaky legs, headed for the bathroom to get ready.

  Chapter Three

  We took David’s SUV and wove through the back roads toward Amrose Counseling Center in Huntington, but I didn’t pay attention to the warm, summer morning that surrounded me. I was preoccupied with Logan, preparing myself for every possible conversation I might have with his mother, and each scenario ended with the same desperate outcome. Despite all my training, I didn’t know what to say to this woman and I didn’t know what to expect from her, especially given what Logan had told me. Much of what he shared about his mother wasn’t good, and I had no idea how much of it was true.

  We parked under a shady oak and David steadied me as we crossed the treed parking lot. By the time we reached the front door, I was sweating and out of breath. Alicia, the Center’s receptionist, gave me a smile that lit up her face as I walked inside. She was the only fifty-something woman I knew who looked more like thirty-something, and for a moment I envied her short silver hair and slender navy pantsuit. She looked fresh and young and vigorous. I felt wilted and beaten and apprehensive. It was a superficial thought, I realized, and one fueled by denial. I simply didn’t want to face Mrs. Reynolds or my guilt over Logan.

  I blew a kiss to David and heard him make small talk with Alicia as I headed down the muted pastel hallway. Her answering laugh to something he said made me smile. David could banter with the best of them.

  I closed the office door and opened a window to let in fresh July air — something I’d missed while cooped up in bed for three days. The breeze smelled like freshly mowed grass and thick-leaved trees, and I took some time to enjoy its clean simplicity. Another breeze followed, this one carrying a rich, spiced scent that I immediately recognized from my dream.

  In the distance, I heard laughter and music.

  I closed my eyes and followed the happy sounds. Some people were singing. Others were telling jokes and celebrating. And for some reason, I had the feeling that I did not want to be there. I felt out of place in that celebration, and very sad, and was looking for any excuse to leave. Fingertips were touching my chin, coaxing my attention away from my sorrow and back to the festivities. Back to him. He handed me a cup of dark red wine and encouraged me to sip. “You must let go and find your way,” he said. “Drink, and let the wine take you where you need to be.”

  His fingers lingered on me for too long, and he leaned in as if he was going to kiss me.

  “Be quiet, Doctor Morgan.”

  A hand clamped over my mouth and I jumped, startled out of the moment and into Logan’s bloodshot, brown-eyed gaze. His flicked a look at the door and then focused back on me, and my heart double-timed with adrenalin and fear. He tightened his grip to make sure I wouldn’t run, and I felt tremors vibrate from him into me. He was scared. And high.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said, digging a knife into the underside of my chin.

  I swallowed and nodded.

  Logan removed his hand from my mouth, slowly, but kept the knife at my throat. He wore a black baseball cap, pulled forward, a black T-shirt, and a pair of designer jeans that I recognized. David once toyed with the idea of buying a pair but couldn’t justify spending two hundred dollars on denim. Knowing Logan’s background, he probably had on an equally pricey pair of sneakers to match.

  I squeezed the armrests on my chair, channeling all the panic down to my fingertips. I was not going to let Logan see that I was scared.

  “How did you get in?” I asked.

  Logan pointed to the slit screen in the open window. “Couldn’t take chances of being seen,” he said.

  I swallowed, relieved that Logan was alive even though part of me wasn’t surprised to see him. Logan was a manipulator and a chameleon and molded every situation to suit his own needs, without regard to how it affected anyone else. It was behavior many teenagers exhibited, only Logan took it to the extreme. And it was that knowledge that kept me cautious now.

  “Does your mother know you’re here?” I asked.

  Logan moved in closer. His breath smelled of alcohol mixed with something pungent and sour, and I held my breath until my roiling stomach settled down.

  “No.”

  “She’s worried. She thinks you’re dead.”

  Logan pulled back and flicked the blade closed with a sharp, disgusted snap. “The only thing my mother cares about is herself.”

  I kept still and watched him walk toward the light brown sofa. He sat down and dropped his sneakered feet on top of the wood coffee table, looking like he wanted commiseration and maybe a poor baby. He wasn’t going to get either.

  “She’s coming here this morning,” I said. “Maybe you should call her and let her know that you’re okay.”

  He blinked his eyes twice, looking like he was fighting the urge to sleep. “Why?”

  The question was simple but the answer wasn’t. I’d come to the conclusion long ago that Logan and his mother needed family counseling, but neither one of them wanted any part of it.

  “It’s not like she gives a shit,” Logan went on. “She don’t need me, what with her rich friends and rich life and rich family.” He paused, like he wanted to say something else and wasn’t sure how to say it. “You know she’s got a new boyfriend now, too?”

  He kept watching me, waiting for an answer.

  “No.”

  “Yeah. And get this. I’ve seen this guy out there where I hang sometimes. He’s a player, but she don’t see it.”

  In the year I’d been counseling Logan, I knew of three so-called boyfriends, one of whom had ties to organized crime. The gods only knew what else I didn’t know, and how much of it I could believe.

  Logan flicked the knife open, closed, then open and closed again. He was buying time.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “It seems to me that you’re concerned about your mother’s welfare.”

  Logan said nothing.

  “Your recognizing her boyfriend as possible trouble indicates an emotional interest in her well-being. I’d like to talk about that.”

  He shrugged again, tugged on the baseball cap an
d stared at the opposite wall.

  “What are you concerned about?”

  Logan folded his arms over his chest. “I asked my mom about my dad again last week.”

  He’d shifted gears but that was okay. It was something I could work with.

  “What happened?”

  Logan started flicking the knife open and closed again, and I started thinking I should alert someone on staff that he was here. When he flicked the blade closed and slid it into his pocket, I eased back into my chair. I didn’t trust Logan, but knowing the knife was no longer easily accessible meant I had regained all the control. I let out a long, quiet breath and felt the knot of tension between my shoulders fade away.

  “My mom deposited twenty large into my account so I can take a vacation somewhere. She told me to go away for a few weeks.” Logan tugged the baseball cap down further. “I’m so sick of her shit, trying to buy me off all the time. I know why she does it, too. To stop me asking about my dad.”

  And yet he kept asking about him. And lately more frequently, too.

  Logan cursed and sank deeper into the sofa. His body language screamed out a need for love and acceptance and guidance, and the more I studied him and spoke with him, the more I understood his compulsion in finding his father. Although he never said it outright, I knew he hoped his father would give him what his mother never would or could.

  “Do you think faking your death was the best way to deal with this?” I asked.

  Logan made a face. “Does it matter?”

  “If it doesn’t, then why did you do it?”

  “Because I want to be on my own and this was the only way I could do it.”

  “By inventing your suicide?”

  He held out his hands like I was a slow learning child. “My mother needs to be taught a lesson. What are you not getting here?”

  “How do your actions this morning teach her a lesson?”

  Logan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His knuckles, I noticed, were bloodied and bruised. “What does it matter what I did this morning? Are you my mother now, too? And what if I don’t want help? What if I just want to be left alone? Did you ever think of that?”

  “Then feel free to leave,” I said, motioning to the door.

  Logan didn’t move.

  “Logan, if you believe you’re mature enough to be on your own, then why not just do it? Why come back here? Why leave a suicide note for your mother in the first place, when you could just take off and be done with it?”

  “I told you already. To teach her a lesson.”

  And we had come full circle.

  I glanced at the clock. We’d been talking for nearly fifteen minutes and Logan’s mother was due in another twenty. If I used my time wisely, I might be able to maneuver both him and his mother into my office at the same time. A long shot, but one I hoped for.

  And as I thought about the suicide note a little more, another thought came to mind. “Logan, what exactly did your note say?”

  For a short second, Logan’s large eyes widened with recognition and intelligence, and he grinned. “So Doctor Morgan’s gears all finally clicked into place, huh? I didn’t leave the bitch a suicide note. I told her I was leaving home and don’t come find me.”

  I remembered the three occasions when Logan ran away from home and ended up in a local rehab center. The most recent time lasted about one month — long-term by Logan’s standards — until he ran away from the center, too, only to find his way back into his mother’s house where he’d lived for the past several months. He didn’t want to be with his mother, and yet he kept returning to her over and over again.

  Just like he kept returning to me.

  “So your mother misunderstood your note,” I told him.

  Logan laughed. “She didn’t misunderstand it. She lied so she could get to you.”

  The news left me feeling a little dumbfounded. I’d only considered Logan’s situation from Logan’s point of view because he was my client. Not once did it occur to me that his mother might want help from me, too.

  “Hey.” Logan snapped his fingers. “You okay? You look kinda somewhere else.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but there was a sudden rushing noise in my ears and I was having trouble focusing on the conversation. I was hearing the laughter and music again, too, and trying hard to ignore it.

  “Yo, doc,” he said. “What’s the deal?”

  Logan’s voice sounded muffled and distant, like he was talking to me underwater. He slid over to the end of the couch, closer to me.

  “Maybe David needs to make you more soup and tea,” he said. “Take you back home and get you under those chocolate brown bed covers. They are chocolate brown, right? Isn’t that what the package said?”

  My eyes went wide and I swallowed down a nervous knot the size of a fist.

  “What are you gonna do when he goes away in a couple of weeks?” Through a thin, blurry haze, I thought I saw Logan grin. “Unless my calendar is wrong. He is supposed to go away, right?”

  A sick feeling churned in my stomach. One that had nothing to do with the flu. Logan shouldn’t have known about David, or anything about our lives.

  Logan leaned forward and even though ten feet of carpet and furniture separated us, I felt the walls begin to close in. “See?” he said. “This is what I mean. No one gives me credit for what I can do.”

  My chest tightened, my throat went dry, and the room swayed and spun around me. I gripped the desk to steady myself. Sweat broke out under my arms and trickled down my back, and the unusual scent I’d smelled since this morning filled the room. I shut my eyes and squeezed the desk harder, trying to calm my breathing so that I didn’t pass out.

  I felt a presence, nearby and drawing closer. I felt body heat and sensed someone else’s attention.

  “Do not worry,” another voice said, and although I recognized the voice I did not know where it came from.

  I tried answering but my throat swelled and I had trouble taking in air. Something was wrong. The place. The time. The feeling.

  Me.

  Hands settled on my shoulders, then caressed my hair and my arms and my back. The scent came at me again, and I could not help but breathe it in. It smelled intoxicating and reminded me of something wonderful. Decadent.

  I drew in deeper breaths, wanting that scent to engulf me and take me whole. Yet I knew something was wrong. Somewhere, deep down, I sensed it but I could not understand why.

  The hands on my body felt different now, no longer attentive but rough. Urgent. A warm breath caressed my face and soft lips pressed against mine. I returned the kiss, wanting more of those lips, more of his body, more of that powerful, exotic scent.

  “Lottie?”

  My body shook and my surroundings sharpened into focus. I breathed in and tried to find him again, but he was gone. My lips felt warm, tingling with the memory of the kiss that lingered there. An ache grew in my belly and moved lower. I felt empty, wanting him.

  A man crouched down in front of me. A man with a handsome face and shocking green eyes that stood out against his dark, near-black hair.

  “Lottie?”

  Another man was speaking to me now and I heard worry in his voice but did not understand why it was there. I felt so very good and yet he seemed upset.

  Two other people stood by his side. One woman with short, silvery hair, and another with locks of gold wrapped tightly atop her head.

  I looked at all three and asked, “Who are you?”

  Chapter Four

  The man looked up at the two women with him and then looked back at me. He sat on his haunches, both of his strong hands clasped on either side of my chair so that I could not get away. He was powerful looking with well-defined muscles, and though his size was intimidating, I could see that he was not prepared to hurt me. I may not have been able to run past him but I knew that running would not serve any purpose. In my heart, I knew he was here to protect me.

  He blinked and a small
smile emerged on his face, but I saw no mirth behind his expression. He seemed confused. More so, he seemed uncomfortable for feeling that way.

  “Who are you?” he said, repeating my words. “Not funny.”

  An odd silence moved in and it took some time for me to understand why. The man wanted me to respond and I felt unsure as to what I should say.

  “I did not realize that I was behaving in a manner that amused you.”

  His gaze narrowed and his expression deepened and intensified, while small worry lines crinkled his forehead and the corners of his eyes. I recognized the expression and understood that it suggested fear, but could not explain why I knew it to be so. I simply knew that he felt it.

  I reached out to him and traced my fingertips over his forehead and down his face. His skin came alive, blazing with heat under my touch. He drew in a deep breath and held it. I dared not pull away, dared not be separated from him and no longer able to feel the fire between us. Yet I knew that if I did not, touching would no longer be enough for either one of us.

  I withdrew from him but I longed for more. For a moment, I wondered if he had been the one who kissed me.

  “Lottie?” The man spoke just above a whisper but his urgency was clear. “What’s wrong?”

  “Lottie?” The word felt awkward as it rolled off my tongue. “What is Lottie?”

  His face paled and he looked away, as if he were trying to make sense out of something that confused him. It pained me to see him in such discomfort and, against better judgment, I touched his cheek, needing to feel him again.

  The heat between us swelled and climaxed and I pulled away with a gasp. The man remained steady and crouched before me, but what I saw in his darkening gaze made my body ache and my flesh burn. Images of the two of us came to mind. Images of a time and a place when we were alone and wrapped in each other, with only our love and our future, and no one else trying to break us apart —

  “David?” I said.

  I found David staring at me with a look that I recognized but didn’t see often. Something was wrong.