by Nicky James
When I returned downstairs, the first thing I noticed was the gunfire had ceased. When I peeked into the living room, Dylan and Calvin were no longer on the couch. I stiffened, my muscles instantly taut.
Pressing my lips together, I slinked into the kitchen and aimed for my lunch bag, so I could pack up and get out. The duo had joined Marcus at the island, and the heat of their gazes followed me as I crossed the room. I dropped my Gatorade inside my lunch bag and zipped it up as fast as I could before I raced out of the kitchen. Even though it was early, I headed for the front hall to put on my shoes. I planned to call my cab from outside where I knew I wouldn’t be harassed.
It was eerily quiet as I dashed away, and I checked over my shoulder multiple times, expecting to be followed or to hear nasty remarks and name calling in my wake. Nothing. Their unresponsiveness was enough to make my skin crawl. Nothing good ever came from silence.
Out in the street, I fit my shoulder bag in place and pulled out my phone. The night air was cool, and I regretted not grabbing a jacket. All I had on was a striped navy and red cardigan that buttoned up the front, and a white turtleneck underneath. The wind went right through me, and I shivered. There was no way I was going back inside. The atmosphere was off, and I’d gotten out of there relatively easily. I wasn’t interested in tempting fate.
The cab company told me my ride would be there straight away, so I ducked between buildings to be out of the elements and waited. It wasn’t long before my ride pulled up to the curb. I hopped in and recited Rory’s address as he pulled away.
I glanced over my shoulder to the front door of my residence one last time, a sense of unease creeping over my skin at the simplicity of my escape.
That never happened.
Rory Gallagher’s apartment complex was only a few blocks from the downtown area and sat at least a dozen stories high, directly along the river. In the darkness, the city’s lights reflected off the water making it sparkle. It was a gorgeous view, and I could only imagine how amazing it would be to see it from one of the high, river-facing balconies.
I went into the lobby and took the elevator to the tenth floor where Rory lived. He was apartment ten-o-eight, and I glanced at each numbered door as I made my way down the drab, poorly lit hallway. The building was in decent repair, but the carpeting was a nauseating checkered design of various browns. Who in their right mind ever saw it as an appealing choice?
At the far end of the hall, I came to his door and stood outside staring at the painted black plastic numbers for a minute longer while I composed myself. The eight hung slightly crooked, and I wanted to straighten it. I didn’t. My heart raced erratically, and sweat slicked my palms as I brought a hand up to knock.
Over the weekend, I’d mentally prepared myself as best I could for the job. I liked to be overly prepared for everything. What I didn’t predict was the fiery redhead who opened the door. He was younger than I expected—older than me if I had to guess but definitely not what my mind had anticipated when I’d conjured up an image of who I might meet.
He wore a white sleeveless shirt which displayed tattoo-covered arms. He had muscle definition but was slim and tall, taller than me by at least an inch. His tattered jeans were full of holes, and his feet were bare.
He squinted against the dim hallway lighting, turning his head slightly away from the assault as he frowned, his brows meeting in the middle. The guy looked pissed off, and cold dread seeped into my veins. All his internal anger seemed clearly directed at me, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to do. The air between us grew thick with tension as I swallowed my nerve—again—while I tried to summon an introduction up my throat.
The mood all changed in a flash when a cat darted between his legs and took off down the hallway unexpectedly.
“Shit,” the guy snapped. “Samson! Get the fuck back here, you stupid cat.”
I flipped my head between Rory and the cat who was halfway to the elevators and not slowing down in the least. When I realized Rory was making no move to exit his apartment to chase it down, I dropped my shoulder bag and raced after the feline.
The cat, or Samson if I’d heard correctly, didn’t resist my effort to catch him. When I caught up with the gorgeous tawny Persian, he happily allowed me to pick him up, and he snuggled into my arms, purring and enjoying the attention.
“Well aren’t you simply the most beautiful thing ever,” I cooed as I walked back toward Rory’s apartment.
Rory had disappeared inside by the time I returned, but he’d left the door open, so I assumed it to be an invitation that I should let myself in. Considering I had his cat, I hoped it was a correct assumption.
I snagged my bag from the ground in the hallway, and once I was inside, I let the cat down. He didn’t leave my side and weaved between my legs repeatedly, purring and meowing like he was telling me a tale.
I peered up with a wide grin to look for my new client, but the deep shadows surrounding me triggered a sense of disquiet in my gut. It was ominous in a way I didn’t expect. I knew from what Mr. Polaris and I had discussed that the guy could have extreme light sensitivity issues but being submerged in that reality was a little unusual. Off-putting. Nerve-wracking. I couldn’t help but feel as though I’d been dropped onto the set of a horror movie, and I was the clueless victim about to be hacked into a dozen pieces.
The balcony drapes were pulled aside, but the night beyond didn’t offer much in the way of light. However, when I realized his apartment faced the water, I smiled inside, wondering if at any point I’d get a glimpse off his balcony to see the river like I’d imagined when I was downstairs.
“You can come in.” Rory had moved to the couch, and his silhouetted frame looked to be fiddling with something on the coffee table in front of him. It was too dark to distinguish much more than outlines.
A flash of light appeared briefly as he lit a cigarette. I winced, only then catching the scent of lingering tobacco in the air. The guy was a smoker. Just my luck. I searched the Rolodex in my head, hoping I had my puffer on me in case I had an asthma attack. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask him not to light up in his own home because I had health issues. I guessed I’d cross that bridge if I came to it.
I searched up the brown folder with his name on it and left my bag propped against the wall by the door. He didn’t have a lot of furniture in his living room. A couch flanked with end tables on either side, a chair, TV, and small stereo cabinet which housed a few devices I could only guess were cable boxes, maybe a Blue Ray player, and perhaps a game system. It was too dark to know for sure. There was a square rug I nearly tripped on which sat on top of the carpet in the middle of the room. The patterning was obscure in the low light, and I couldn’t make out colors much less definition.
I settled on the edge of the chair adjacent to the couch and looked around, trying to orient myself. With his smoke balanced between his lips, he leaned toward the end table and flicked on a lamp with a dark shade. The bulb was dim and yellow but cast enough light to chase away the darker shadows without being overly assaulting. Rory squinted with his next drag as he studied me. I couldn’t be sure if it was because of the lighting or because he was trying to figure me out.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded and found a smile as I held out my hand. “I’m Adrian Anderson, we spoke on the phone.”
He took my hand and squeezed. It was warm, if not a little sweaty like my own. He exuded a confidence I’d never had, and it caused another thread of insecurity to erupt. He cut his eyes to his ashtray as he blew a wisp of smoke into the air. I tried not to cough—or breathe too hard for that matter.
“So,” I said, figuring I should begin, “today I thought we could go through some basic introduction stuff. I need to gather information from you, and if you’re feeling comfortable enough, maybe we can talk about why you contacted us and are looking to begin counseling sessions.”
His eyes never left his smoke as he rolled it between fingers and ashed it into the tr
ay. When he didn’t respond, I opened the folder on my lap and clicked my pen.
“Umm… because we are a government funded program, I’ll need your health card information. Do you have that on you?”
He closed his eyes briefly before butting out his smoke and digging his wallet from a pocket in his jeans. As he rooted through in search of his card, I took a moment to admire the art along his arms. It wasn’t dense like I’d seen on some people, but there were enough pictures pieced together to make it interesting. Around his wrist on one side were flames licking up his arm. His knuckles were tattooed with letters, but I couldn’t make out what it said without being obvious in my gawking. There were skulls, a pocket watch, music notes and other symbols, and near the top of his shirt what looked to be leaves or branches.
When he found the card, he pulled it out and handed it to me between two fingers. I offered a weak smile as I accepted it. He was back to studying me, and I wanted to squirm. Instead, I focused on taking down the information I needed.
Of course, I ended up with probably the most intimidating guy on the block. Figured.
Rory Matthew Gallagher. According to his card, he was twenty-eight years old. I fixed my glasses as I jotted down his health number and code before passing it back. His gaze was penetrating, and as he took the card he asked, “You’re qualified for this job?”
“I am.” I drew myself straighter in the chair and ignored the tickle in my throat making me want to cough from the lingering smoke in the air. “I just finished my Bachelor of Psychology with extra studies focusing on human behavior. I’ve maintained a solid 4.0 GPA every semester, although I haven’t received my final grades yet, I have no reason to believe they’d be any different. I have three published articles in Psychology Today. It’s not a prestigious or well-followed magazine, but I won the psychology contests three years in a row qualifying my pieces for entry. In September, I’ll be back at it until I have a full doctorate. That’s my final goal. Then, I hope to have my own practice. I met all the counseling center’s qualifications. Are… Do you not feel comfortable with me being your counselor?”
I tried not to let my own words sting as I waited for his response. It was all I’d ever wanted to do with my life, even though I seriously needed to grow a pair if I was going to be successful. Rory simply stared. I was sure I imagined the quirk in his lip because the minute I thought I saw it, it was gone again.
“You don’t look a day over nineteen. Are you the next Doogie Howser, or something? Child genius? Eidetic memory? All that bullshit.”
My cheeks flushed, and I didn’t know if I should be insulted that he assumed I was so young or thrilled that he considered me to be that smart.
“I’m twenty-four, but thank you… I think. I don’t have an eidetic memory, although I wish I did. It would make studying easier.” My cheeks flamed hotter as I dropped my gaze to the folder on my lap and pinched my pen tighter in my grasp. God, I felt so incredibly stupid—for a smart guy. “Did… Did you want to talk about what drove you to call our office?”
Chapter Five
Rory
What I wanted to say was, “My fucking dumbass friend was the one who initiated this, not me,” but I didn’t. The kid looked ready to shit himself already and probably didn’t need my bitter attitude any more than I needed to admit to some stranger that I needed help.
Twenty-four. I guessed he could pass for twenty-four when I looked closer.
Something about him had set me instantly on edge when I’d answered the door, and because of it, I was unwilling to open up. For the life of me, I couldn’t peg what it was. It wasn’t the normal feelings I got when confronted by people I didn’t know or trust; it was different somehow. He didn’t have a superiority complex, and he wasn’t flaunting his degree or schooling in my face like I was some kind of idiot. Babbling, yes. Flaunting, no. There was no indication he looked down on me or thought me stupid for requiring counseling to begin with, but whatever it was, I was uncomfortable.
Instead of answering his question right away, I tapped another smoke from my pack, hearing Krew’s berating words. Have you noticed you smoke more when you’re stressed, sugar? Ignoring the voice of annoyance, I lit up and tossed my lighter back on the table as I watched the guy fiddling with the papers in his little brown folder. He was increasingly anxious over my lack of response, and a mild sense of guilt swam through me that I was causing such a reaction.
He really did look young. Telling me he was twenty-four initially shocked me, except when I considered he did have a degree of some kind which meant he’d attended school for a while. His brown hair was thick and fairly long on top, swept to the side, but not perfectly styled. Its slight disarray was probably the result of the wind or his fingers—messy, yet not in any way unappealing.
And why the fuck does that matter?
Although he was shorter than me, his preppy clothes hid a nice frame—not too skinny but slender and maybe defined—I couldn’t tell. But it was his damn lips which continuously drew my eyes every time I looked at him. They were plump. The top one just about as full as the bottom. As I watched him think, he gnawed on the corner of his lower lip, showing a glimpse of perfect teeth.
Again, why was I noticing all this?
“You should know,” he said with a hitch in his voice. He cleared his throat before continuing, “Everything we discuss is one hundred percent confidential. Although, should you share anything with me that gives me any reason to believe you are in a dangerous situation, are a victim of abuse, or which gives an indication you are breaking the law in any way, I am obligated to report it.”
Well, look at that, Doogie plays by the rules. And based on the delivery of his little speech, it almost killed him to get it all out. He scrunched his nose and tried to cover a cough as he shifted in the chair. His discomfort seemed to extend from social to physical, and when he clutched his chest and coughed into his shoulder, I asked, “Are you okay?”
He nodded as he squinted, twitched his nose, and made every effort to smile. Why the hell was he blinking so much? “Yeah, I’m great. Umm… if you don’t want to share today, it’s okay. I can collect the information I need and—” Another cough. His voice came out raspier the longer he spoke.
“I haven’t been able to go outside during the daytime in over six years,” I blurted over his coughing before he could continue his yammering.
The shock of having spoken those words made me rigid. Aside from Krew, I’d never talked about my issues before. No part of me wanted to get into specifics, but I felt as though I owed him something.
When his coughing assault ended, he started breathing all weird. Like he was trying to pull oxygen, and it was increasingly difficult or painful. His anxiety piqued my own, and I furrowed a brow when I realized he hadn’t even heard what I said. All that effort to open up and share, and it had gone unnoticed because the guy was submerged in some sort of bizarre struggle to breathe. What the hell was going on?
“I’m sorry,” he wheezed as he jumped from the chair, another coughing fit assaulting him.
He sprinted for his bag and rooted inside almost desperately. Frozen in examination, I couldn’t sort out what the hell was going on until he pulled out a puffer and proceeded to inhale two generous hits from the device. My gaze darted to the cigarette burning low in my hand.
“Fuck!” I butted it out and jumped from the couch, wavering in place, unsure what to do. “What is going on? Do you need help?”
Adrian waved me off and took a minute to breathe deeply as he held a secure hold on his puffer like it was his lifeline. Those things are lifelines, idiot. His chest rose and fell with exaggerated deep breaths before he turned to me, his discomfort and uncertainty glaring.
“I’m sorry. I’m allergic to cigarette smoke.” He paused and shrugged before his gaze drifted to the floor. “And about a million other things,” he mumbled.
What the…
“So, you're just gonna let me chain smoke while you die in my living
room? Open your mouth, and fucking say something. Jesus, I can go on the balcony.”
“It’s your… house. It didn’t… seem appropriate to ask that of you.”
How the hell was he a counselor? The guy didn’t possess a backbone. At all. All I had to do was exist, and I intimidated him. What the hell was he so afraid of, and why didn’t he open his fucking mouth?
“Come on,” I grunted as I indicated across the room. “Let’s sit outside. You need fresh air now.”
He didn’t disagree. Shoving his puffer into his pocket, he followed me outside onto the balcony where he took a minute to catch his breath as he peered out over the river.
“You have a gorgeous view.” The remark was timid and said more to himself than to me.
“It’s all right.”
After a hesitant minute, he sat in the lounge chair across from me, his body still rigid. He’d been there a half an hour, and we’d gotten nowhere fast. Instead of talking about myself—which was the whole point of him being there—I nudged him down a different line of questioning, hoping to delay the inevitable. I had no idea why, only that it felt safer than talking about me.
“So, you have a Bachelor of Psychology? Do you attend our local Uni?”
“Umm… Yeah, I did, or do rather, since I’ll be continuing with my master’s degree in September. I’d eventually like to get my doctorate in psychology. But I’m not from around here originally. My folks would have preferred I went to the U of T. Bigger and more prestigious, you know?”
His focus was continually drawn to the shimmering water, and he zoned out while he spoke.
“Where’s home?”
“Marianna Bay, up north. It’s a small town of only about eight thousand. Just outside of Collette Cove.”
“I know of it. So, once you’re all schooled up, are you gonna take your degree home to practice?”
He broke his stare from the water and cut his eyes in my direction while fixing his glasses. The connection was brief before he looked to the sliding glass door.
