by Darcy Burke
She slowly rose, silently counting how long it would take for someone to come. Or would they wait for security to come over from the hospital? If she could keep him talking, maybe she could prevent him from doing something awful. “If you aren’t here to shoot me, why did you bring a gun?”
He looked at her as if she were the one in the middle of a mental health crisis. “So I could kill myself.”
Oh, God. No. Nooooo. Her vision blurred, and nausea swirled in her gut. Without thinking, she moved around her desk. “Ryan, don’t, please. Give me the gun. There are so many reasons for you not to do that. You’re bright, young, and one of the most caring people I’ve met.” Everything she said was true, though she knew he couldn’t see it now.
His answering smile was sad. “Forty-seven isn’t young, I’m not that bright since I lost my job and my girlfriend dumped me, and I’m way past caring.” He lifted the gun toward his temple.
“Nooooo!” She ran toward him just as the door burst open, sending Ryan flying forward. The gun went off, and she hit the floor, her hands covering her head.
Footsteps sounded, but she kept her eyes squeezed shut. She didn’t want to see what had happened, whether Ryan had been successful . . .
She swallowed bile as she began to shake. Commotion and noise went on around her, but she stayed flat on the floor with her eyes closed.
Finally, voices broke into her panicked mind. “Dr. Trent?” Gentle hands clasped her arms, helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?”
“Is he . . . ?” She couldn’t say the word.
The security guard who’d helped her up let go of her. “He’s fine. We’ve taken him into custody.”
She carefully opened her eyes and blinked to accustom herself to the light. Her assistant, pale and frightened, stood over by the couch, talking to another security guard.
Other people from the office stood outside the door in the hallway, and she heard a collection of voices—more than just those of people who worked in the clinic.
“The police will be here in just a minute, and you can talk to them about what happened,” the guard said.
Stacy rushed over to her. “I’m so sorry!”
Maggie barely registered what she was saying. She was too shaky, too upset. “Excuse me.” She calmly went to her desk, pulled the garbage can from beneath it, and threw up the lasagna she’d just eaten.
Stacy came over and put her arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s sit on the couch and wait for the police.” She guided Maggie to the sofa, pulled the decorative throw blanket from the back, and wrapped it around Maggie. “Do you want some water?”
“Yes, please. And a mint if you have it.” Her mouth tasted awful. Even before she’d vomited, it had tasted as though she’d sucked on a penny.
Stacy brought her a tall glass of cool water and sprinkled a few Tic Tacs into her palm. A few moments later, the police arrived and took Maggie’s statement. They informed her that Ryan had been admitted to the psych ward.
Exhaustion crept over her as her body finally relaxed from the adrenaline dump. She looked up to see her assistant still lingering near her desk. “Stacy, I don’t think I can see any more patients today.”
She came back over as Maggie stood and folded the blanket. “We’ve already canceled all of the clinic’s appointments.”
Maggie placed the blanket back over the couch, her movements robotic and disjointed—like they belonged to someone else. “I’m not sure I’ll be in tomorrow, either,” she said. Just the thought of seeing a patient was tightening her stomach muscles again and making her wonder if the garbage can was close.
“I’ll take care of it,” Stacy said.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
With a determination born of a sheer necessity to get away from her office, Maggie collected her things and left. All she wanted was a swimming-pool-sized glass of wine and a nice, long sit in her yard.
Chapter Twelve
IT WAS NEARLY eight o’clock when Kyle stepped out of his car, flowers in hand, and made his way to the doors of the medical building. When they didn’t automatically open, he rechecked the time on his phone: only 7:56. But maybe their clock was off and they’d already locked the doors.
A security guard appeared and opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m here to meet Maggie Trent.”
The guard’s brow furrowed. “She’s one of the therapists on three, right?”
Something about the guard’s reaction and demeanor pricked Kyle’s neck with dread. “Yes. Can I go up and meet her?”
He shook his head. “Everyone’s gone. Left early. There was a rogue patient there this afternoon. Jerk fired a gun.”
Kyle’s gut clenched and then promptly dropped through his feet. He squeezed the stems of the flowers in his fist, practically snapping them in half. “Is she okay? Is everyone okay?”
“Yeah. He was trying to off himself but missed. He’s in the psych ward now.”
Kyle practically ran from the building. He had to get to Maggie. “Thanks.” He turned and rushed back to his car, then ignored every speed limit on the way to her house.
After parking in the driveway, he leapt out of the car and sprinted toward the front door. He knocked briskly and fidgeted while he waited for her to answer. When there was no response, he rang the bell. His apprehension climbing, he pounded on the wood. “Maggie? Open up, it’s me.”
Still nothing. Swearing, he retraced his steps to the driveway and went around the garage to the gate leading to the backyard, where he’d found her the last time he’d stopped by. Releasing the latch, he followed the path to the back and froze when he saw her sitting at a little table on her patio, a giant glass of red wine in front of her. She was wrapped in a sweater despite the fact that it was probably seventy-five degrees outside. And she was so still as to be a painting, especially with the setting sun casting a golden patina over the entire scene.
He walked toward her. “Maggie?”
She still didn’t move.
He sank down in the other chair at the table and silently willed her to look at him. “I heard about what happened. What can I do?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” She lifted the glass and took a sip of the wine.
Okay, that was total bullshit, but he didn’t say so. “I don’t know how you can be—was this guy one of your patients?” He assumed it was, given her state. She was too detached, too distressed.
“Yes.”
The fact that she didn’t say more told him she didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to help her, but he also didn’t want to push.
The sound of a phone ringing from inside the house interrupted the quiet. When she didn’t seem to register the noise, he got up and moved toward the door. “Should I get that? It might be someone checking up on you.”
She finally turned to look at him. “No, it’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. Her coworkers were probably worried about her and justifiably so. He’d let them know she wasn’t alone. “I’ll just get it.” He opened the screen door and had one foot inside before he felt her hand on his arm.
Her gaze was wide, panicked almost. “No! Don’t go in there.”
His eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior, and he tried to conceal his shock. The door opened into the kitchen and eating area, both of which were . . . to say cluttered might be an understatement. The counters were covered with papers, dishes—mostly clean—and boxes and cans of food, like she was using the space as storage. Moving boxes were stacked in the corner, and the table held a similar array of random items—a DVD player, a laptop, a package of paper towels, a mishmash of papers and envelopes, as if her mail was just mixed in with everything.
He never would’ve imagined her house would look like this. He’d seen her office—it was impeccably clean and organized. He’d spent plenty of time with her—she was beautiful, put-together, clever. How did someone like her live in a place like this?
He stepped furth
er inside before turning.
She slumped against the doorframe, her gaze downcast. “Now you know my secret. I’m a total disaster.”
His heart twisted, and he reached out for her, pulling her into his embrace. “You are not. You’re talking to a gambling addict who had to move across the country to flee his demons, remember?”
She sniffed into his shoulder, her head bent. “Don’t lie to me and say you aren’t shocked. Now you see why I never asked you in.”
He infused his tone with a generous dash of levity. “Damn, and I could’ve gotten lucky that first time if not for you worrying what I might think . . .”
“Ha.” She made the sound, but he couldn’t tell if she’d smiled or if he’d lightened her mood at all. When she pulled away and looked at him with eyes that were nearly as dark as midnight, he had his answer. “You should go. There’s nothing for you to do here except watch me spiral into a puddle of self-loathing.”
“Maggie, don’t.” Her words made him a little angry. She didn’t deserve that—even from herself. “Talk to me. Why does your house look like this? On the outside you seem collected and together.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s much easier to be the person who doesn’t draw attention, the person everyone thinks is absolutely normal.”
“What the hell is normal? If you know what that is, please enlighten me, because growing up as an Archer, I learned that normal isn’t real.”
She blinked at him. “Don’t say that,” she said softly. So softly, he had to strain to hear. “I worked so hard to be the normal girl despite my crazy parents and the crazy clothes they bought me and the crazy things they made me do, like read poetry aloud every night before I went to bed.”
“We all have crazy families. In fact, I’m pretty sure those two words together are redundant.” He hoped for at least the hint of a smile, but she gave him nothing but that hollow, tortured look.
“In trying to escape that, I chose the worst possible boyfriend—a guy who looked utterly normal. Intelligent, ambitious, super motivated, attractive, funny . . . perfect. But he was a controlling asshole. He chose my clothes, my friends, my activities. He was just a different version of my parents—always someone else making my decisions for me, telling me what I needed to do.”
Watching her ache and struggle, he was robbed of thought and speech. At last he simply said, “What can I do?”
She took a deep breath that sounded a bit like a shudder. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure this out. I left Mark—at least I was smart enough to realize things were only going to get worse. I moved to Ribbon Ridge, took over a small practice from a retiring therapist, and began to reclaim my life. No, claim it, because I’d never really lived it for myself before.”
Admiration swelled in his chest. “You’re incredibly brave.”
“I try to be, but it’s hard when life kicks you in the teeth, isn’t it? Things actually did seem to be going well. Until Alex killed himself.”
He hadn’t been expecting her to say that. Alex’s actions had devastated their entire family, but Kyle was only now beginning to see what it had done to her. “That pushed you over the edge,” he said quietly.
“In helpless, careening somersaults.” She pulled her sweater off and threw it over one of the chairs. She paced around aimlessly. “I was a mess, Kyle. I couldn’t work, I could barely get out of bed. I was taking Xanax, which I still take from time to time and shouldn’t.” She stopped to look at him, but he wasn’t sure she was actually seeing him, lost as she was in her turmoil. “What kind of therapist has to medicate herself? A shitty one—you said so yourself.” She resumed her movement, her hands twisting together. “After I broke up with Mark, I started over in Ribbon Ridge and had just begun to find myself. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know who I am. I’m not a very good daughter. I completely suck at relationships.”
God, he knew what this felt like. The idea that you weren’t worth anything. That you had nothing of value to offer to anyone. “You are not a bad therapist.”
“No, you were right.” She spoke with absolute conviction. “I really hate doing it. Trying to fix other people only reminds me how unfixable I am.”
He crossed to her and cupped her face. “You aren’t broken. You had a really bad day. Hell, a bad year, I guess. But it’s not the totality of who you are—who you can be. I’m here. I’m with you, and that’s not awful, is it?”
She shook her head, blinking. He saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes and wiped his thumbs over her lids. “Don’t cry, Maggie. I’m here. We’ll fix this.” He glanced around at the clutter. “We’ll fix all of this together.”
She stared at him and said nothing. He worried he’d overstepped. He grew uncomfortable as the silence stretched, finally saying, “Do you want me to go?”
She shook her head and twined her arms around his neck. “Stay.”
Standing on her toes, she kissed him. Warmth spread through his body, igniting the passion that always seemed to be lying under the surface when he was with her. She tasted of wine and sadness, and he wanted to banish the darkness—at least for tonight.
He scooped her into his arms, and she clung to his neck. “Bedroom?” he asked.
She gestured with her head toward the stairs. “And it’s the cleanest room in the house.”
He grinned. “I don’t care, but that certainly saves us time.”
He took the stairs as fast as he dared while holding her and followed the hallway to the left. Her room was in the back corner of the house. It wasn’t terribly large, but it had a wrought-iron bed that was immaculately made with a fluffy comforter and a stack of pillows. Like she’d said, the room was tidy.
“Just don’t go in the closet.” She indicated a door in the corner.
He set her on the bed. “You got it.”
Instead of lying back, she knelt at the edge and unbuttoned his shorts. He could read her intent and wanted to stop her—he’d brought her upstairs to make love to her, to help her forget. But he couldn’t form the words, and when her mouth and palm touched his heated flesh, he was lost.
She pushed his shorts and boxer briefs off, and he kicked them and his shoes to the side. Her hand curled around the base of his shaft as her tongue licked around the head. She teased him, lightly moving her fingers over him but never quite taking him into her mouth.
He wound his hands in her hair, loving the sight of her bent over him. He wanted to plunge into her, but he held himself back, content—for now—to let her take the lead.
At last, she closed her lips over him and sucked. Gently and just the tip, but it was enough to send a rush of blood straight to his cock. She raked her thumb over his balls and then scooped them in her hand, holding them as she encircled her fingers around the base once more. She took him deeper, her tongue gliding along the underside. The heat and wetness and feel of her tight mouth ravaged his senses. He closed his eyes and let himself just feel.
She let go of his balls and began to pump his shaft with her hand, bringing it up to meet her mouth as she withdrew, then sliding it back down as she devoured him again. Up and down she worked him, driving him toward release. She moved faster, and the sounds of her mouth and tongue filled the room. His balls tightened. He was so close.
“Maggie,” he groaned, opening his eyes. “I’m going to come.”
She looked up at him, her pupils dilated with her desire. “Is that what you want?”
“I’d prefer to do it with you.”
She pulled her tank top over her head and threw it at the wall, then shimmied out of her shorts and underwear, leaving her naked—she’d ditched her shoes at some point, or maybe she hadn’t been wearing any. She definitely hadn’t been wearing a bra—a fact he’d tried not to focus on when she’d taken her sweater off downstairs. That hadn’t been the time for lascivious thoughts. Now, however, was definitely the time as she scooted back against her pillows so that she was only partially reclined. She parted her legs and held her breasts, as
if she were offering herself to him. And he supposed she was.
With a growl, he tore off his shirt and fell on her. Her legs parted wider to accommodate him as he nestled between them and bent his head to her breast. She held herself for him while he tongued her. He reached for her other breast and found that she was tweaking the nipple, which only heightened his lust. He raked his teeth across her and sucked her deeply, his fingers taking over from hers. Her low moans skated over him, exciting him further.
“Let’s go, Kyle,” she said, lifting her legs and planting her feet flat on the bed.
God, he loved a woman who knew what she wanted. He moved his mouth to her other breast, consuming it the way he’d done the other while he moved his hand between her legs. She was so wet, beyond ready. But shit, his condom was wherever his shorts were.
He leaned up to go find them, but she pulled his head back down. “Where are you going?”
“Condom.”
“In the nightstand drawer.”
He also loved a woman who was prepared. Dropping a quick kiss on her mouth, he reached for the drawer and found a small box of condoms. He withdrew one and quickly tore it open. “Can I hope you were planning to invite me in?”
Her lips finally curved into the smile that could light up his entire day. “Maybe.”
He slipped the condom on and narrowed his eyes down at her playfully. “You’re mean.”
“You’re taking too long.”
He barely got the condom over himself before she pulled at his hips with one hand and guided him into her heat with the other. He thrust forward and grabbed the wrought iron above her head to brace himself. “God forbid I take too long, so this is going to be hard and fast.”
She wrapped her legs around his waist and squeezed his ass. “Yes. Come on, Kyle. Bring it.”
He clasped the headboard and let himself go, driving into her with long, savage strokes. She latched her mouth onto his neck and kissed him, licking and biting as her nails raked across his back.
Their moans and cries punctuated the incessant sound of their bodies’ slapping together. It was like a musical piece—rough and unpracticed but so sweet and arousing to his ears. His orgasm was within reach, about to crash over him like a crescendo of cymbals. He reached between them and stroked her clit, needing to have her come with him. “Come with me, Maggie. Come.”
