Blake: A Romantic Suspense (V Mafia Series Book 1)

by Karice Bolton

  “May I?” she asked, nodding toward the chair.

  “Please.”

  She took a step toward it, but Devin had already wrapped his fingers around the back of it and brought it over to the side of the bed.

  Ever the gentleman when he thought it would work in his favor.

  I watched Ava sit in the chair, cross her legs, and turn her attention to me. Devin’s expression dropped and I hid a smile.

  “Do you like soccer?” I asked.

  “I don’t really follow sports.” Her brown eyes were bright with embarrassment. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and sat up straighter in the chair.

  Her honesty was refreshing. I was usually confronted with women lying about their adoration for the sport just to get me to sleep with them.

  I won’t lie.

  In the beginning, it was fun as hell, but it got really old, really quickly.

  “So what brought you to the game that night?” I asked, sucking in a deep, painful breath as I studied the woman before me. It was as if she needed to be coaxed into the very conversation she came here for.

  Her lips parted, and that was when it hit me. Every cell in my body blazed as I flashed back to that night and the woman sitting in front of me. Not only had she been at the game, but she was on the sidelines, watching me.

  “Mr. Volkov, are you okay?” She reached out and wrapped her hand around mine, squeezing it gently. When I didn’t answer, she changed her tactic. “Blake, stay with me. You’ve been through a traumatic experience, and I understand the emotions that might be—”

  “You were on the sidelines,” I interrupted, ripping my gaze away from Devin’s. I didn’t even realize I was staring at him.

  I watched Ava nod slowly as she tried to slip her hand away, but I found myself holding it tighter.

  “Yes, I was there with my friend, Sarina. Her fiancé had arranged the event on the field.” She glanced at my brother before bringing her gaze back to mine. “Her fiancé is why I’m here.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Abram Vasiliev is her fiancé.”

  The name meant nothing to me.

  She drew in a breath. “I’ve only met him a few times. I’d promised myself that I was overreacting and merely overprotective of my friend. She doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to men.”

  Ava’s eyes looked riddled with concern and possibly fear.

  “When I first got to the game, Abram seemed unsettled, evasive, distracted.” She bit her lip and looked uncertain. “When I asked him about it, he brushed it off about some bet he’d placed.”

  “What made you ask him?” I asked.

  “In all honesty, I was exhausted from attending a conference that dealt with behavioral indicators and body language so I thought I was just overly sensitive. It wasn’t until the change in his behavior became exaggerated even more right before . . .” Her voice trailed off and I had a sudden urge to protect her.

  From what, I hadn’t a clue. This woman was obviously capable. It took a lot of courage to not only hunt me down, but to persuade my brothers she had something to say. That in itself was a feat few ever attempted, male or female.

  Our eyes connected, and I felt a charge run between us. It was as if she knew what she was about to say was going to somehow alter my existence.

  She parted her lips. “Before your injury, he was texting to someone, focusing on you, and making disparaging comments about you. Only you.”

  “That’s not too unusual when I’m on someone else’s turf.”

  She nodded in agreement. “I’d imagine you’re used to being the enemy in all cities except your own.”

  I noticed she shivered under her coat, and my eyes snapped to my brother’s.

  “Can you turn up the heat?” I asked.

  He nodded and left the room.

  I leaned forward. “Did my brothers set you up? Ask you to do this?”

  She looked completely puzzled and shook her head. “Of course not. Why would they? I’m only trying to tell you what I saw. I thought it would be better if it came straight from the source.” She drew her hand back and I nodded. “Had I seen Abram acting as shifty as he was and you hadn’t been injured, I never would have thought twice, but I can’t, in good conscience, not inform you of what I felt and saw that night. His behavior, compounded with the odd text that slid over his phone after your injury, concerned me.”

  It was as if my world stood still.

  The worlds I’d tried so hard to keep separate were about to collide. I could feel it.

  Maybe there really was no escaping the V Mafia.

  “What did that text say?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

  “When I glanced at Abram’s screen, the text read, ‘Nice Work. Mission accomplished.’ It came over right after your injury.” She let out a deep sigh. “Prior to that, he was trash-talking you, and like you said, that’s not all that uncommon. But he said you were a complete showboat, but that would change soon enough. I pressed him on it, and he brushed the statement off as an age thing, but then Abram added that an injury could end your career. It was like he just couldn’t help himself, like he was boasting.” Her gaze fell to the floor. “I know that separately, it doesn’t sound like much, even as I repeat it aloud, but it was the way he said it, the way he acted.” She returned her gaze to mine, and I knew she was searching for something I couldn’t give.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her. It was that I wasn’t sure it held the same weight as she thought it might.

  Fans were notorious for trash-talking players.

  “You felt it was important enough to fly across the country to tell me?” I asked.

  She smiled and the gesture nearly did me in.

  “No. I live in New York. I just happened to be in Seattle for a conference.”

  As she sat beside me, I realized for the first time since my injury that my anger had disappeared.

  Vanished completely, right when it should be raging.

  Was it just because a beautiful woman was telling me the news? I held in a disgusted laugh. Apparently, I wasn’t above it all. Some women could drop me to my knees, and she was one of them.

  Even with what she’d just relayed, the fury had subsided, and for a moment, I felt like my old self again.

  “I’m sorry my brothers made it so difficult to get to me,” I offered, and her smile only widened.

  “I understand.” She shook her head. “You’re a huge celebrity. Probably lots of random women trying to get a piece of you.” She laughed, but her cheeks reddened a deep crimson, which only made her even more beautiful.

  “Believe it or not, that hasn’t been a big issue my brothers have had to deal with around me.” I grinned and she laughed, shaking her head.

  “I don’t believe it even for a second.” She touched my hand, and her eyes lingered on my mouth a second longer than she probably intended.

  “It’s true.”

  “Well, I don’t believe it.” She shook her head and her ponytail slid side-to-side. “That night, I went to the stadium’s restroom to wash my hands, and I heard a whole gaggle of women talking about you and their fantasies.”

  “Is that so?” My brows shot up in surprise. “A gaggle?”

  “A gaggle.” She nodded. “I had no idea who they were talking about because I had no idea who you were, but the longer they kept going, I realized it had to be the player who winked at me.” A coy smile touched her lips. “Do you do that every game?”

  “Do what?”

  “Wink at a poor, unsuspecting female?”

  “Not often,” I assured her, but as the conversation turned lighthearted, my chest ached with the realization that there would be no more games to play, no more cheering fans in the stadiums, no more lonely nights on the road. I actually enjoyed those nights.

  “Blake, I’m sorry. I should’ve been more mindful of everything. I apologize. I—”

  “You have nothing to apologize for.” I shook my head, rea
lizing I’d just spaced out on her again. “I think it takes a special kind of person to go to so much effort to let us know of your suspicions. Did you go to the police?”

  Horror struck her features the moment I asked, and she shook her head.

  “I didn’t think they’d do anything with the information. I . . . um . . .” She glanced at the painting hanging over the bed. It was a lily. “I looked you up—your family—and thought it might make more sense to let you know of the issue directly. I wasn’t sure I’d be taken seriously or . . .” She stopped herself.

  Very few understood the importance of being discreet, which concerned me. Why did she?

  “You’re a doctor,” I stated.

  She nodded. “I’m a psychiatrist.”

  “Which is why you’re so aware of body language.”

  “Silent communication is often far more valuable than words could ever be.” She looked nervously around the room. “Anyway, I’d be more than happy to answer any other questions you might have.” She slid a card out of her purse and placed it in my hand. “My car is waiting for me, so I should probably get going.”

  She stood up, and all I could do was nod.

  “Thanks for your time.” She smiled and looked as if she wanted to say something more, but instead, she turned slowly and left the room while I let her words sink into my soul.

  Mission Accomplished.

  The moment I was sure she was out of earshot, I grabbed a vase full of flowers from the nightstand and smashed them against the wall.

  I knew my brothers had already done their research on this Abram guy. They knew this had been a setup. They knew my life outside of the V Mafia no longer existed, and this was their way of telling me.

  Chapter Four

  Ava

  It’s not like I’d ever see Blake Volkov again, but I couldn’t get him out of my head. I’d looked him up online and managed to find out he was a notorious womanizer, and even with that, he literally seeped into every other thought I had. It had been three weeks since I went to his family’s estate, and he was still top of mind.

  Everything about him screamed sex and danger, two things I always managed to avoid, especially if they were intertwined.

  “Dr. Dalton, your three o’clock patient is here.” I glanced at Tara, one of the nurses on staff, before looking at the clock. It was a quarter to three.

  “Thank you.” I nodded and clicked on the patient’s name for my three o’clock as she left my office. The appointment was just a follow-up to go over level of symptoms, possible medication adjustments, and patient concerns.

  I let out a sigh of relief that it wasn’t an intake. I’d had three ICEs (Initial Clinical Evaluations) today, and I was exhausted. The first ICE patient left very little to the imagination, and I had to spend the good part of the second and third appointments trying to forget the first one. I knew making the switch to practice at this facility was the healthiest decision for me, but there were times I doubted my choice to leave the state hospital. Dealing with outpatients versus inpatients was entirely different.

  I enjoyed my job for the most part, but there were days that were especially long, appointments that were especially heartbreaking, and outcomes that were less than ideal. My next patient had a breakthrough a few weeks ago, and my hope was that the effects remained for her, but I’d only know by going in and doing my assessment.

  The very first time I’d met Nicole, it was during a crisis intake. She was at her lowest low, and I feared for her safety. There had been something in her eyes that warned me she was a woman standing close to the edge. It was a look I knew all too well and dedicated my life to reversing.

  What I’d grown to learn during my practice was that reversing the symptoms didn’t always equate with long-term success. Every day was a new day for patients and for myself. Sometimes, the promise of a new day was a good thing, and other times, it only set us back.

  I let out a quiet groan and tried to pull myself out of the rabbit hole I felt myself diving into. When I’d lost my mom, I was determined to study the health of the mind. I needed to make a difference. I wanted to understand what made people snap. I wanted to stop them before they went over the edge.

  Most of all, I wanted to know why my mother was murdered. How could someone so mercilessly pull a trigger and smile about it in front of a judge?

  The sickness spread through me, seeping into every cell and reminding me of the harshness of the world I lived in. It was moments like these that made me unsure of my career choice. I closed my eyes, pulling myself out of the nightmare that never ended, and let out a slow breath.

  I still hadn’t gotten the answers I so desperately craved. My focus had been forensic psychiatry, but I didn’t account for the many paths my journey would take me while still remaining clueless about my own mother’s killer. I forced down the lump in the back of my throat and blinked my eyes open. This would have to wait.

  I cleared my throat before heading into my appointment. I tapped lightly on the door of the patient’s room and waited for a welcome.

  “Come in.” A feeble voice sounded from behind the door.

  Not a good sign. Last we left, she was more confident and self-assured, and the hollowness that etched every syllable had subsided. With just two words, I heard the sadness bubbling over. I took in a deep breath and smiled.

  “Good to see you, Nicole,” I said, stepping inside the small room. This wasn’t a counseling session, so the appointment was in one of the clinical rooms. The nurse had already taken all vitals, and Nicole sat at the edge of the exam table. Her blonde hair was matted and her green eyes held a familiar dullness.

  “Nice to see you, Dr. Dalton.” She attempted a smile, but the gesture proved too difficult and my heart sank.

  I took a seat, crossed my legs, and double-clicked on the chart information.

  “Did you manage to keep track of any changes to mood and environment?” I asked Nicole.

  She nodded and handed me the intake sheet. Every question involved an answer that pointed to a huge setback for us. I held in a silent sigh.

  “Everything was fine until finals.” She looked at the blood pressure cuff lying on the counter.

  “Your exams?” I asked, taking notes.

  Nicole bit her lip and nodded. “I thought everything was going well so I stopped taking the medicine before my first test. The meds made me jittery.”

  To hide my disappointment, I continued taking patient notes. At least she admitted it. Many patients hid that they’d stopped taking the medicine.

  “At our last appointment, you were feeling much improved. The anxiety had lessened, you were more focused, and your exhaustion had improved.”

  “So much so that I thought I could handle it on my own. Thanks to that, I failed all of my tests. I couldn’t focus on anything and couldn’t remember the answers to save my life. All hope for magna cum laude is over.”

  I watched Nicole carefully, seeing the guilt flooding through her, followed by disappointment in herself and her choices. It was an endless cycle. She was berating herself for not sticking to our course of treatment, and to punish herself, she stayed away from the medication that was at her fingertips.

  “And you are off everything completely?” I asked, and she nodded.

  “I just . . . maybe it wasn’t the right combination.” Her gaze fell to the floor, and it took everything I had not to hug her, but that wasn’t appropriate. “I did feel jittery.”

  Often, to feel better about choices made, patients would come up with a myriad of reasons they couldn’t take the medicine. It made it difficult to distinguish between real and perceived side effects.

  “We know that for every step forward, there could be a step backward now and again, and that’s okay. It took a lot of courage for you to tell me about your choices and concerns with medication. I have a therapy session open tomorrow morning. Are you available to come in for counseling?”

  “What time?” she asked.

  “
Eight.”

  “I can do that.” She brought her gaze to mine.

  “Do you still have the medication?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Why don’t you take half tonight, and we’ll see how you do overnight with the jitters?”

  She groaned and shoved her fingers through her hair. “I want to reclaim my mind on my own.”

  “I understand that, and I think we can continue implementing a more cognitive approach in our sessions, but I do believe that in the meantime, to lesson the discomfort you’re experiencing, we need to take a two-pronged approach.”

  Nicole’s depression was sudden onset. She hadn’t had a history of it growing up, and her symptoms didn’t appear until her first-year doctoral program for Cultural Studies, which led to our team’s diagnosis of nonchronic depression and general anxiety disorder.

  “Combining these two methods of treatment has shown an increased benefit, and I think it’s our best option, especially with your desire to get off the medication.”

  “That would require that I come here weekly though.” She scooted forward and the paper table covering crinkled beneath her.

  I nodded. “In the beginning, yes, but we would reevaluate based on your progress. I want you to feel good about your treatment plan, Nicole. You need to get behind it as well, but it won’t be overnight.”

  I hated that Nicole had only been scheduled for a clinical follow-up. I wanted to delve into her issues now, but that wasn’t how the healthcare system worked. It was a frustrating part of being attached to such a large teaching facility. It was a recent change. I had been practicing at an inpatient facility until several months ago.

  “If you think there’s a chance it will help and I can get off the drugs . . .” her voice trailed off.

  “I think there’s a very good chance.” I smiled, entering her in the system for the following day. “Do you mind bringing your mood journal?”

  “Not at all.” She grinned, and I noticed relief dash through her gaze.