Ruby chuckles. “Exactly.”
In that moment, I know that everything is going to be all right between us. “I’m in.”
Once again, I’m sitting on Dr. Sorenson’s couch, trying to recapture some sense of equilibrium. I swallow hard as she sits across from me, looking ever so patient. The silence is growing, becoming uncomfortable as she waits me out.
Absently, I wonder if shrinks take some sort of class in waiting. She must have because she’s a master at it.
Unable to resist any longer, I blurt out, “I’ve had two panic attacks in the last week.”
Her pen scratches across her notepad, and in my head, she’s judging me. After all these months she must be tired of hearing me whine. I wouldn’t even tell her, but I’ve hidden my attacks from my friends and family, so she’s the only person I can confess to about my backward slide.
I frown, finding the notion that the only person I can talk to is my shrink, disconcerting. How fucked up is that?
Her lips press together, and she nods. “They’d been under control for a while now, what do you think has changed?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. I’m sure they’re related to Michael. All the violent emotions he evokes within me aren’t allowing me the numbness I was afforded before. But there’s no need to talk about him. He’s gone. And he’s not coming back. It’s been sixty-seven hours since we spoke, clearly, he’s moved on. Talking about him will make him real, and I need to forget.
“Tell me about the first one,” Dr. Sorenson says in that calm tone she has, interrupting my obsessing.
If I talk about that, I’ll have to talk about Michael, so I skip it and head straight to the latest, more explainable one. “I had one Monday, when I went to visit John’s grave. While I was standing there, I had a flashback about the attack.”
“Understandable.” She’s nodding and writing again. “And the other?”
“I was at the club.” How to explain?
She looks at me, and one dark blonde brow rises in question.
I lick my lips. “Someone…grabbed my wrists, and it happened then.” I don’t want to talk about this so I change the subject. “Don’t you ever get tired of my lack of progress?”
She rests her pen on the pad before tilting her head to the side. “Why do you think you haven’t had progress?”
I throw up my hands and I raise my voice without meaning to. “Um, because I haven’t. Nothing has changed. This is pointless.”
“And, yet you keep coming back. Why?”
I bite my lower lip, hard enough to sting. “I don’t have anyone else to talk to. Everyone else has moved on.”
My throat closes over, and before the first tear even falls, she plucks a tissue from the box on the table and hands it to me. “Tell me more.”
I dab at my eyes with the soft cotton, before pressing my fingertips to my temple. “I’m tired. All these months later and I’m still having nightmares, still having panic attacks, still crying at inappropriate times, still fucking random guys. When is it going to stop?”
“There’s no timetable on grief, Layla.”
I stare at my gray-and-black tweed skirt until my vision blurs.
“You have to remember, your situation isn’t as easy as laying a loved one to rest. You didn’t just lose John,” she continues, her voice soft and so empathetic, I want to crawl into it. “You suffered a trauma.”
I blink and a fresh wash of tears slide down my cheeks. “Aren’t you frustrated with me?”
“No, I am not.”
I look up; surprised she’s given me a straight answer.
She points a manicured finger at me. “But you are, and that, is progress.”
After my early-morning session with Dr. Sorenson, I haven’t had time to think, as my day has been filled with one meeting after another. My small company just won a major client and is going through their millionth restructuring while they shuffle things around to accommodate the business. I’m missing lunch, needing to get the first draft of my communication plan to my boss, by the end of the day. But I don’t mind, I need the constant buzz of activity to keep from going insane.
As though I’ve conjured him, Frank leans over the side of my cube. “How’s it going?”
In his late-forties, with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut, and dark brown eyes already deeply lined with crow’s feet, Frank Moretti reminds me of a mobster crossed with a newspaper man from the comic books.
“Good.” I shrug one shoulder. “At least I don’t have to start from scratch. I’m just modifying the com plan from the last go around.”
He nods. “At least it’s good news.”
One thing I’ve learned in the year I’ve been working for the boutique software industry is that they love change. Ironically, considering my love of keeping everything the same, I find the frantic pace suits me. I use to work for a large, Fortune 100 company, but when John died I quit, unable to stand being around so many people who knew what happened. When I finally hit the market this job fell into my lap as one of the head software developers, Doug, is a good friend of my brother-in-law. At the time I wasn’t in a position to be picky and it all worked out in the end. I’m a department of one, and my salary is enough I’m able to pay the mortgage on my condo in comfort. I’ve learned to live with, and even appreciate, the chaos.
It allows me the luxury of being able to avoid my own.
I turn my attention back to Frank. “I should have a solid draft to you by two.”
“Fair enough,” he says, then juts his chin toward the direction of his office. “If you need Judy’s help, I’ve already told her to give you whatever you need.”
“Thanks, I’ll take you up on that.” Judy, Frank’s admin, is a whiz at PowerPoint in a way I could only dream about.
He turns and leaves, and I, once again, immerse myself in my document. Fifteen minutes later, my cell phone rings and I answer without looking at the caller ID. “Layla Hunter.”
“What did you do on Sunday, Layla?” Michael’s deep voice washes over me and I’m so relieved if I’d been standing it would have brought me to my knees. My mind goes blank and my mouth instantly dry. He’s been nagging in the back of my mind all day but, convinced I’d never hear from him again, I refused to let him in.
I don’t even want to think about how happy I am. How glad I am to be wrong. “Michael.” My tone is breathless and filled with a hope that makes me cringe.
“Do I have to go through this whole cycle again?” That voice. So deep and rich, every time he speaks it’s like a stroke against my skin.
“No.” I manage to croak out. He’s called and my stubbornness is already melting away.
“Well?” While the word is a hard bite, I can make out a faint undercurrent of amusement.
He knows he’s got me.
I press my lips together and take a deep breath. Answering this question means things will change between us. And as terrified as I am, I’m unwilling to let him go. I will, someday soon, but not today. I exhale. “I went to my sister’s house, she had a family brunch.”
“Good girl,” he says and my whole body quivers with the impact of those two little words. “Tell me who was there.”
My work phone lets out a loud shrill and I jump in my seat, quickly identifying the caller as the Director of Operations, and ignoring it. Not even the CEO herself could pull me away from this call. “My sister, obviously, her husband and my twin nieces. And my parents.”
“How old are your nieces?” He sounds completely normal, as though we’re actually discussing our day. As though nothing monumental has happened and I haven’t taken this gigantic step.
I’m not sure if I’m happy or irritated. “They’re five. They just started kindergarten.”
“Cute,” he says. “And that reminds me, how old are you?”
“I’m thirty.” I can’t stop my heart from pounding too fast. I can feel sweat slick my palm as I hold the phone far too tightly. “How old are you?”
“T
hirty-three.” He chuckles and it’s as sinful and decadent as I remember. “Wanna know my birthday?”
I wipe my clammy palms across my black skirt. “Yes, please.”
“November thirteenth. What about yours?”
I swallow hard. I’m doing it. I’m having a normal conversation. “April fifth.”
“I feel like we’re supposed to say something about our signs, but I don’t know anything about that stuff.”
I laugh and the knot in my stomach loosens. “Me either.”
“Did you have a good time at your sister’s?” he asks.
I decide to be honest. I don’t really know why. Maybe because I’m too tired to pretend any longer. Just so damned tired of holding it all in. “No.”
“Why not?”
I take another deep breath, hoping to slow my pulse. “They’re all waiting for me to go back to normal and I always end up disappointing them.”
“You’re never going to be normal, sugar.” His voice is soft, almost consolatory.
“Yeah, I know.” What else is there to say?
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know. I think they think it is.”
There’s a pause and I hear the buzz of activity through the line, before finally he says, “Something to talk about another time when I’m not sitting in the middle of the station. So tell me, was it really that hard to answer the question?”
I nod, and then remember he can’t see me. I clear my throat. “Yes.”
He laughs. “Your honesty is one of the things I like best about you. I was going to call yesterday but I got caught at a scene and didn’t get home until two in the morning.”
I frown, picking up a pen and holding it tight. Not liking the reminder of his profession. I clench my teeth, it doesn’t matter what he does. Regardless of what I’ve agreed to in the present, he’s still temporary, and eventually I will get him out of my system. He’s not a replacement for John. “I didn’t expect to hear from you at all.”
“Did you really think I was going to give up that easy?”
“I don’t know you.” I pause and weigh my answer carefully. “But you seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t waste your time.”
“Layla, you might be a pain in the ass, but you’re not a waste of time.”
A smile tugs at my lips before I’m able to help myself. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing at all.” His voice drops. “I like a good challenge and I’m not about to skip out before we’ve had the chance to do battle.”
I can’t stop the gasp or help how my blood picks up speed, heating in an instant. I lick my dry lips, wanting to come back with a witty retort, but I’m unable to think of a damn thing. All I can think of is the hot delicious rush of anticipation at the thought of going toe to toe with Detective Michael Banks.
“Would you like to know where we’re going on Friday?” His tone is amused, knowing and smug.
I narrow my eyes. “How do you know I don’t have other plans?”
He laughs, an evil sound that girls like me recognize in an instant. It sends a spike of desire through my veins like I’ve just taken a shot of tequila. “If you do, I expect you to break them.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit presumptuous?”
“I think it’s a lot presumptuous, but the statement still holds.”
“And you think you have that right?” I can feel it, that stir of excitement I haven’t felt in forever. Betrayal takes a vicious jab, but I ignore it, because my craving for Michael is a real tangible thing, while betrayal is a familiar friend I’ll meet again.
“Do you want to know where we’re going or not?” Completely disregarding my attempt to bait him.
I mutter a curse under my breath.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, nothing,” I say with a tiny kernel of satisfaction.
“I guess you don’t want to know then.”
“Wait!” I have to know how to dress. I might be half dead but I’m still a girl. “Go ahead and tell me.”
“Aww, sorry, sugar, you missed your chance.”
I shiver, my heart and body falling into the game, and welcoming it with open arms, even as my brain protests. “You’re evil.”
“It comes with the territory. You know that.” His voice drops to a husky rumble. “Don’t make me keep repeating myself and I won’t have to pull rank.”
“You don’t have rank!”
“Christ, I can’t wait to make you eat those words.”
The heat between us, present every time we interact, flares from a smolder into a hot lick of flame. I smile, a real genuine smile that warms something inside me that’s been long cold. “At least tell me if it’s fancy, casual or somewhere in-between.”
“It’s casual.”
“There, was that so hard?” I use my sweetest, most cloying voice.
A long, long pause filled with promise. “You are just begging for it, aren’t you, Layla?”
I feign complete innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You—” A beeping noise goes off in the background and he mutters something under his breath. “I’m sorry, I have to run. Duty calls.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to think about how disappointed I am. How that long-forgotten girly part of me wants to talk to him for hours.
“Tomorrow, seven o’clock.”
“All right.” I hang up and stare at my computer monitor until the pretty blonde HR Generalist, Priscilla, stops at my cube.
“Hi, Layla, all ready for our eleven thirty.”
I blink at her, completely confused.
She points down the corridor. “I reserved conference room A.”
“Oh, right.” I straighten and start scooping various meeting materials into my arms.
“Are you okay?” Priscilla asks, and waves a hand in my direction. “You’re all flushed.”
“I’m fine.” I just agreed to an actual date. With Michael. In less than twenty-four hours.
I should be obsessing about the implications of what I’ve done, what it means, how I’m breaking every single one of my rules, or how I’ve barely thought about the club that I fixated on all last week.
But I don’t think of any of those things, all I think is…what am I going to wear?
O’Malley’s is beyond packed with wall-to-wall people. Every single woman in Chicago must have heard the same thing as Ashley, because there’s just as many girls decked out in their finest casual clothes as there are guys in various sports jerseys and backward baseball caps.
I’m thankful Ashley insisted we get here early because we’re lucky enough to have a table. With the crush of people, free flow of alcohol, and sweaty men, standing in the middle of the commotion would have been too much for me. The last thing I need is another panic attack.
No, I’m fine right here, tucked into the corner, and nursing my third round of the bar’s local autumn ale.
“Having fun,” Ruby shouts into my ear.
“Oh, tons,” I yell back, grinning at her so she knows I’m not being sullen.
She looks amazing in faded, distressed skinny jeans and a tight white T-shirt. She did her famous smoky makeup, and her bright blue eyes are a stark contrast to her ivory skin, and shiny black hair swinging around her shoulders. As always, she manages to be stunning without appearing like she’s trying way too hard.
“Thanks for coming, I had no idea how crowded this place would be. Are you okay?” she asks, brow furrowing in concern.
My fingers tighten around my beer. After my talk with Ruby last night, and my call with Michael today, I’m actually feeling decent. Even a bit hopeful, and for tonight, I don’t want anyone reminding me of my past. Tonight, I want to have fun. That is, if I remember how. I pull at the red jersey top I’m wearing, and ignore how humid the air is. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
From across the table, Ashley cups a hand around her ear. “What?”
I wave a hand throug
h the air, gesturing it’s not important, and to minimize my screaming so I’m not hoarse for my work presentation tomorrow.
Unlike Ruby’s not trying too hard, Ashley is the exact opposite, in a faded blue V-neck adorned with the Cub’s vintage logo. The top is so tight it might as well have been painted on, and her jeans ride low enough to show a strip of skin between the hem and waistband of her pants. Her one concession to the casual, after-the-game vibe the Irish pub has going on, is her sleek, blonde ponytail. I have to admit it’s an effective look, with her cute face, dancing brown eyes and absolutely killer rack she’s perfectly positioned to capture the attention of the Chicago jocks.
Ashley fans her face and leans across the table. “Have you ever seen so many hot guys?”
She’s right; there are a lot of hot guys. Of course, no one pings my radar, and even if they did, Michael’s an impossible act to top. My mind drifts to our date tomorrow night and at the reminder of all the possibilities, my stomach flutters.
I’m not sure if my exhilarated anticipation terrifies me or not.
I yell, “Yeah, it’s great.”
Ashley gives me a speculative once-over. “Are you ready to get back on the horse?”
I issue a fierce, “No!”
At the same time Ruby says, “Ashley!”
She shrugs one shoulder. “What? It’s a logical question.”
I take a deep breath. This is what I wanted, for people to treat me like I’m normal, and that’s what Ashley is doing. I can’t fault her for that. I shake my head. “I’m just trying to get out of the house a bit more.”
“And I bribed her,” Ruby says.
But Ashley has already lost interest, her attention fixed past Ruby and me. A mega-watt smile lights up her whole face. A healthy flush fills her cheeks and she practically screams, “Oh my god, Tyler’s here.”
Ruby and I groan in unison.
Tyler is Ashley’s kryptonite. The baddest of bad boys, who’s supposed skills in bed are only rivaled by his legendary California good looks. At six-two, the bone structure of a model and a body to match, even I have to admit he’s gorgeous. Although he’s not to my taste and I’ve never quite understood the appeal. Of course, that could be because John used to joke that he was a closet sub, so every time I see him I get a mental image of him in chains at the stockade.
Crave Page 10
