by Roni Loren
“Is it?” he asked. He should probably know that about her, but she never brought up work and he never asked.
“Yep. She did a groundbreaking study on it a few years ago, researching the incidence of that particular dual diagnosis among people in the arts. That’s what got her the job here. She’s one of the country’s leading experts in that area.” She jabbed a thumb behind her. “You should go pop in and hear her speak. Any time people talk shit about McCray, I tell them to withhold judgment until they see her with a patient or hear her give a training. The woman’s a genius.”
Genius. He didn’t doubt it. She was a genius, and he was getting assigned student tutors to help him read. Fantastic. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the disturbing thought. “Which room is it?”
“E-one.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“No problem. Enjoy.” She smiled and gave him a little wave before heading past him and out the door.
Lane wound his way through the main part of the rehab unit, which was decorated in muted grays and dark navy and looked more like a lobby at a posh hotel than a hospital. A couple of the patients were chatting in a squared-off section of plush couches. A few others were solo—reading, listening to headphones, writing in notebooks. He recognized a couple of faces from magazine covers and movies. That wasn’t uncommon. The Grove, particularly the rehab unit, often had its fair share of who’s who in Hollywood or the music industry—at least in recent years.
Initially, The Grove had mainly served wealthy southerners and the occasional actor or actress who happened to be filming in New Orleans, which had become known as Hollywood South after some favorable tax laws were put in place a few years back. But once word spread in the right circles about the level of care and privacy, The Grove had quickly become the facility of choice for those who didn’t want to be stalked by the relentless paparazzi in L.A. and New York. Even now, it was still a pretty well-kept secret, tucked away in the Louisiana bayous behind big gates. And the level of confidentiality employees had to agree to in order to work there was no joke.
When he’d gotten hired on, they’d required a full background check and he’d had to disclose his past, including a few minor criminal charges. He’d thought that would be the end of it, but Dr. Suri, the director, had been surprisingly accepting. You’ve come a long way to get to this point. I imagine in your previous profession, your job depended on keeping people’s secrets. You will find it is the same here, only with confidentiality clauses that will cost you a lot of money and legal problems if you break them. Straightforward and no bullshit. He’d liked her instantly. She’d also, as far as he knew, never shared his background with anyone else.
He skirted the edge of another seating area, trying not to disturb anyone. The door to the education room was only a few steps away, but he could already see the handwritten sign on the door. Session full. Come back later.
He let out a sigh.
“You lost?”
He turned at the voice, finding a woman watching him from one of the couches, a notebook and pen clutched in her hand. He hadn’t paid close attention when he’d first passed, but now he wondered how he’d missed her. She had the kind of rocker-girl beauty that would get her cast as the cool chick in a movie. Dark eyes lined darker, straight black hair with a pink streak in it, eyebrow ring. But she didn’t need a movie role, she was already the real deal. Jun Alexis, lead singer and bassist for Fractured Sun. He had all their songs on his playlist and had seen them play an arena show last fall. He loved their stuff and Jun was a badass.
He had a brief rush of starstruck-ness, but he’d learned to play it cool around here so kept his expression even. No one wanted to be fan-boyed while they were in rehab.
“Who am I kidding?” she said before he could answer. “We’re in rehab. Everybody’s lost.” A wrinkle appeared between her brows. She glanced down at her paper and scribbled something, humming a few notes to herself. “Hmm, that could be a good.”
He waited until she looked up again before he responded. “I’m not lost. Just looking for Dr. McCray.”
Jun glanced at the closed door. “Ooh, are you fresh blood? I’ve been in here two weeks as the new girl, and I officially hate everyone. Please tell me you’re checking in and that you’re not a self-involved douche canoe.”
He huffed a laugh. “Sorry to disappoint.”
She sighed dramatically and collapsed back against the arm of the couch. “So you are a self-involved douche canoe?”
“Probably at times. But it’s not that. I work here.”
She blanched. “Great. A white coat. So you’re someone I’ll be begging for a sleeping pill later?”
“No, I’m not a doctor, and I’m in a different department. I have no pills to give. The doctors around here aren’t so keen on giving them out either.”
“I’ve noticed.” She tilted her head. “That is really cramping that whole addiction thing I have going.”
He smirked. “This place is a total buzzkill.”
“Literally. They should just call rehab Buzzkill U.” Her lips pursed again and she pointed at him. “And that, my new friend, could be a great song title.” She scribbled another note and then gave him a rapacious grin. “Ooh, you’re muse-y. Sit down and keep talking, cute doctor man. I’m Jun and I’ve got half an album to fill and a whole bunch of group therapy to avoid.”
He couldn’t help but be charmed. Jun was spellbinding on stage, but in person, she was pure charisma. He peered toward the still closed door and then stepped around the couch to take a seat opposite Jun. If he was going to wait for Elle, he might as well sit and chat while he did. “I’m still not a doctor.”
She tilted her head. “So what’s your name and what do you do?”
“Lane. And I work on the sex therapy wing.”
Her pierced brow twitched up. “Like fixing people’s sex problems?”
He nodded. “Something like that, though I’m not a fan of the word fixing. It implies something’s broken. I assist.”
Something flickered in her dark eyes. “Right. So if I were to get a referral to that wing, you could end up assisting me?”
Her tone had his uh-oh sensors flickering to life. “In theory.”
She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. “Huh.”
“What?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Nothing. It’s just not in theory. Oriana, my social worker, wants me to talk to”—she flipped back two pages in her notebook—“a Dr. Rush while I’m here.”
Lane straightened. “Oh.”
Her lip curled. “Yeah. So I guess I can’t let you be my muse if there’s a chance that in the near future, I’m going to be telling you how I hate sex and haven’t had an orgasm in five years. That kind of kills the vibe.”
He frowned at her admission, his want-to-help instincts surfacing. Five years? The woman who wrote some of the sexiest fucking rock songs out there hated sex? And had she not had an orgasm in that long because she didn’t want to or because she couldn’t? Questions filled him, but he couldn’t delve further. She wasn’t his client at this point. “If you end up as a client of Dr. Rush’s, you could end up working with me at some point, yes.”
She sighed. “Damn. Way to kill the dream, man. I prefer to keep my muses separate from my fucked-up therapy sessions. I need my muse to think I’m wonderful and funny and brilliant.” She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I need someone here to look at me like I’m something other than a Dumpster fire.”
Lane sat forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs, empathy swelling in him. He’d never been to rehab, but he knew what it felt like to have people look at you like you were screwed up or hopeless. “That’s not what they’re thinking about you.”
She looked up, skepticism all over her face. “Yes they are. And they should be. I am a Dumpster fire. I’m surprised you can’t smell the smoke.”
“Even if you are right now, even if you’ve made a complete mess of things, that doesn’t me
an the other things aren’t true.” He reached out and tapped her notebook. “You are wonderful and funny and brilliant. You write songs that make people feel things and create music that chases away bad days.”
Her eyes met his, a little of the tough girl facade slipping. “You don’t know that. I don’t write happy songs.”
“I do know that, and no happy songs required,” he said resolutely. “When I’ve had a crap day, I can put the Bright Fall album on full blast in my car and no demons are left standing afterward. It’s like an exorcism.”
She stared at him. Then her smile appeared like a sunrise, slow but brilliant. “An exorcism.”
“Yeah. Everything but the pea soup and head-turning-backward thing.”
“Man, if I could do that to people, that’d be hardcore.” She playfully made the devil horns sign with her hand. “But messy. And I hate peas.”
“Peas suck,” he said with a smile. “And I don’t know your story or what you’re going through, but I can say that if everything feels like it’s on fire right now, you’re in the right place. You’ve called the best fire department. Now all you need to do is let them help.”
“Fuck,” she said with a sardonic grin.
“What?”
“You realize how doctor-y you sound? You are such a white coat.”
The words threw him a little, and he didn’t register why she was climbing off the couch.
She stepped over to him and gave him a hug before he could intercept. “A white coat with incomparable taste in music. Thanks, Lane from the Sex Therapy Wing.”
He froze for a moment. He hugged clients he was working with if the person initiated and it seemed appropriate, but Jun wasn’t his client and she was a patient here. He gave her an awkward pat on the back and was about to extricate himself from the embrace when he heard a loud throat clear.
Jun straightened, releasing Lane, and he turned to see where the noise had come from.
Elle was standing a few feet away, her lips in a thin line. “Ms. Alexis, aren’t you supposed to be in group right now?”
Jun blanched. “I was just about to head over. Lane was waiting for you and giving me some advice on a song I’m writing.”
Elle’s expression remained implacable. “We can discuss it later in session. Right now, please head to group.”
“Yes, Dr. McCray.” Jun looked appropriately chagrined but when she put her back to Elle, she gave Lane a quick eye roll, like they were co-conspirators who were trying to get away with something in front of the principle.
Lane gave her a tight smile.
After Jun had gathered her things and left, Elle turned to face him. “Why are you here, Mr. Cannon? I don’t recall having an appointment with you.”
Her voice was one part professional, nine parts frosty. He stood and frowned. “I wanted to run something by you before you went on rounds.”
Her gaze narrowed but she cocked her head to the left. “I have to drop off my laptop in my office. You can walk with me.”
She didn’t say a word as they made their way across the main floor. Not until they were safely ensconced in her office did she turn on him and drop the Dr. Ice routine.
She set her laptop on her desk with a thunk. “What the hell was that?”
For a moment, he wondered if her ire was jealousy. She’d walked out to him hugging another woman—a famous, beautiful one at that. But that wasn’t Elle’s style. Elle was patients first, everything else after. He lifted his palms. “It was absolutely nothing. I was waiting for you and Jun struck up a conversation. We talked for a few minutes. When she shared some of her current struggle with being here, I gave her some encouragement and told her she was in good hands. She surprised me with a hug. That’s all it was.”
“That was not your place,” she said, words sharp. “This is my unit. My patients. I am responsible for their care. She was supposed to be in group, not talking to some—”
“Some what?” he challenged. “Some untrained lackey?”
She tipped her head forward and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You know that’s not what I was going to say. You wouldn’t want me interfering with your clients either. Jun’s looking for any excuse to not do the work here. She’s isolated herself from the rest of the patients, won’t open up in sessions, and has generally been acting like a brat. She needed to be in group, not flirting with you.”
He sighed. “She wasn’t flirting.”
Elle put her hands on her hips, an elegant snort escaping her. “You think I didn’t catch the look she gave you before she left? Please.” She batted her eyelashes and tucked her hands beneath her chin, her voice etching up an octave. “Oh, Lane, you’ve been so helpful. I could write sappy love songs about you.”
Lane’s mouth curved. “You couldn’t possibly be feeling a little possessive, could you, Dr. McCray?”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “Of my patient.”
“Uh-huh. I think the doctor doth protest too much.” He stepped closer, letting his hands slide onto her waist. “Did you know you’re kind of adorable when you’re jealous?”
Her lips thinned, defiance in her eyes. “I. Am. Not. Jealous. And never adorable. I’m not a goddamned puppy.”
“I was thinking in more of an angry wildcat kind of way,” he amended. “Did I mention Jun’s the lead singer of one of my favorite bands? Or how much I love her music? That shouldn’t bother you, though. That I’m a fan.”
She groaned and tried to wiggle away from him. “You are such a sadistic asshole.”
“I am.” He touched his forehead to hers. “That little twitch in your eye, the one that says you’re working so hard to not break, is definitely giving me half-wood. The more you protest, the more it does it for me. Keep telling me how it didn’t bother you one little bit.”
“Ugh. Fine,” she said, giving him her most ferocious look of disdain. “Maybe I was a little annoyed to see the guy I’m currently sleeping with embracing a beautiful young thing who’s sold a metric ton of records.”
“Downloads, babe. Downloads,” he said, amping up his old California accent.
Her jaw unhinged, a haughty expression crossing her face. “Did you just call me old? Oh, now that’s your ass, Lane Cannon.”
She reached between him and grabbed his balls with a not-yet-painful-but-definitely concerning grip. All the air puffed out of him as his body went into protect-the-man-parts-at-all-cost mode. “Doc.”
“Say you’re sorry, Cannon. And say it nicely.” She smiled sweetly.
“Now who’s the sadist?”
She arched a brow.
The arrogant look only made him want her more. He licked his lips. “I was not calling you old. I was teasing you because it’s becoming a favorite pastime of mine and I love how riled up you get. You have nothing to worry about from some twenty-something singer.” He took a breath when her grip eased ever so slightly. “And here’s what you need to remember, doc. I don’t have trouble getting laid. You don’t have trouble getting laid. Neither of us are here because we’re out of options. We’re choosing this option because we’re good together.”
A cornered-animal look flashed through her eyes and she released her grip entirely.
“In bed,” he added, hoping that would soothe her flight response. “We’re good together in bed. Your kink and my kink line up just right.”
She sighed and some of the tension leached out of her body. “I know that. And this isn’t even—well, I don’t really know what this is, but I guess when I saw you two hugging it just set off old stupid shit.”
He rubbed his hands along her upper arms, a kick of guilt in his gut. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think when I was teasing you—”
She shook her head. “Stop. It’s fine. Please don’t coddle me.”
He frowned. “I won’t, but know that while we’re together, I won’t sleep with anyone outside of what I need to do for my job. That’s a promise. I’m not him. And I know you haven’t known me long enough to necessarily believ
e it, but when I give my word, I keep it.”
She met his eyes and gave a little nod. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
She graced him with a reluctant smile. “Yeah. Now why are you on my unit, besides to torment me and make me late for my rounds?”
He dipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out what he’d tucked in there before his meeting at school. “First, I came by to give you this.” He held out a vintage gold wedding ring. “What do you think?”
Her eyes widened and she took the ring. She held it up and the light sparked off the cluster of diamonds at the center that formed a flower shape. “Lane, this is gorgeous. You didn’t have to do this. I could’ve…”
He shrugged. “I got a good deal at the local pawn shop near the college. It’s vintage and one of a kind, which I thought suited you and would impress your family. I can sell it back to the shop when we’re done.”
She glanced up at him, something tender flickering there. “It’s perfect. Honestly. It’s something I would’ve picked out for myself. Thank you.”
He beamed and put a hand over his heart. “A compliment. I might fall over.”
She rolled her eyes but her smile stayed in place. She slid the ring on her right ring finger for now. It was a little loose but not enough to be a problem. “So you said, first. What’s the second reason you’re here?”
His shoulders slouched. “Test results.”
“And?”
“Hi, my name is Lane Cannon, and I’m dyslexic.”
She crossed her arms, her all-business face replacing the smile. “So it’s what your professor suspected. That qualifies as a disability and should get you some help and some more time on your paper.”
“Yes. Plus, a dictation program to learn,” he said, failing to keep the derision out of his voice. “And a student tutor to teach me how to use it. I told them to keep the tutor. I have a mean-as-hell doctor to take my dick.”
She reached out and pinched his hip, hard.
“Dictation,” he said quickly, taking her wrists in his hands to thwart further torture. “To take my dictation. And then my dick. Because let’s face it, after all that work, we’re going to need some fucking.”
