Problematic Love (Rogue Series Book 8)

by Lara Ward Cosio

  I laugh out loud, imagining her knowing smirk. She’d probably take great pleasure in telling me I was fulfilling a sick mother-figure fantasy.

  And then I remind myself I don’t give a fuck what Jules would think of me being with my therapist.

  A sharp rapping on the glass shower door pulls me from my thoughts. I wipe the steamed door to see Shay standing there, his usually impassive face colored by impatience. I meet his intelligent gray eyes with my own. It’s one of the characteristics we share. But his gaze has an intensity mine does not. He’s always decoding people. It can be unnerving, even to me.

  “You wanted my advice?” he reminds me.

  “Oh, right.” Quickly turning off the hot stream of water, I open the door and Shay hands me a plush navy-blue towel, his eyes averted away from my nakedness. “Listen, Amelia showing up here—”

  “Quite a surprise.”

  “Yes, exactly. And the thing is, it was amazing for her to come. I’m over the moon, really.” I go quiet again, focusing on drying myself for a moment.

  “But?”

  “But, I dunno. I’m just out of sorts with it.”

  “She seems nice.”

  “She is. Nice.”

  Shay eyes me as I secure the towel around my waist and step out of the shower. “And you don’t know what to do with ‘nice,’ do you?”

  Of course, he gets me right away. It’s both a relief and a reminder that he’s always seen me for exactly who I am. That hasn’t always been a good thing. It is now, though, because I was serious when I said I needed his advice. No use in asking for it if I’m not going to be totally honest about things.

  “No fucking clue,” I admit with a laugh.

  Looking away, Shay considers this. I take the opportunity to swipe on some deodorant and then clear the mirror for a look at myself, trying to see what Amelia sees. Though I know I’m good enough looking, especially with my recent, consistent, healthy habits, I don’t see anything that could measure up to her. She’s educated and well-mannered. She’s always put together, with nice clothes and her hair styled. I barely made it out of my third year in secondary school. I tend to say the rudest things to people—either purposely to get a reaction, or by a simple slip of the tongue. I’ve graduated to a better wardrobe than I used to have, which isn’t saying much. I’d been happy to wear the same variation of worn-out jeans, ratty tee shirt, and suspenders for so long, but those had to go by the wayside once I put on some weight and filled out my frame. Now, I favor a variation of a style I’ve stolen from Mr. Perfect, a.k.a., Conor Quinn. Mind, I can’t pull off some of the more tailored or high-end designer stuff he does, but the gist of clean, dark jeans with a form-fitting soft cotton tee shirt under some sort of flannel or other button-down shirt works just fine. I even tried adding on a pocket chain like his signature one before realizing I’d look like a scary fucking fanboy if I did that.

  Anyway, the point is, as much as I’ve changed, as much as my look has changed, I’m still, at heart, a heroin addict not worthy of good things. I have no clue why Ms. Patterson has taken this leap. After all, a whole lot of our “relationship” was me spilling my guts to her, confessing all the horrible things I think and do. What have I ever done to be someone she should be attracted to?

  Then again, she seemed very receptive to my touch. The way she leaned her backside into me when I kissed her neck was enough to get me instantly hard. How I had the strength to stop it, I’ll never really know.

  “My advice, then,” Shay says, once more pulling me from my thoughts, “is to go slow.”

  “Go slow?” The concept—on its face—is completely foreign to me. I’ve always been an instant gratification kind of guy. But then it dawns on me that I have been making incremental steps toward acting in a more controlled, deliberate way ever since I first started seeing Ms. Patterson for therapy. And, that, in fact, I exercised that very restraint when I stopped trying to devour her out there in the living room.

  “Just let it play out,” Shay continues. “She’s come all this way. She’s obviously into you, so there’s no need to rush into deciding what this all is.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, kid.”

  He nods but keeps staring at me. There’s more he’s trying to decipher and in response I put up my best blank expression. While it’s true that I asked for his advice, I don’t need hand-holding.

  It’s time for me to stop leaning on him and figure things out for myself.

  4

  Amelia

  * * *

  Taking Jessica’s advice, I dress warmer now that fog has come in and blanketed the Golden Gate Bridge and surrounding Marina District. I pair a black skirt with nearly knee-high leather boots and a mint-green cashmere jumper.

  I’m in one of the guest bedrooms. The house is to die for. It’s large and surely cost a fortune. Every design detail is exquisite, from the soft glow of lighting embedded into the crown molding to the intricate, colorful wildflower design sewn into the bed skirt on the ridiculously comfortable bed. I didn’t disturb the gorgeous quilted lavender duvet, but rather laid on top of it for a ten-minute nap before my shower. I’m exhausted from the travel. From the emotions and nerves of seeing Daniel again.

  It hasn’t exactly been the reunion I’d expected. But then again, I’m not sure what I’d hoped for by coming out here. Did I want us to fall into each other’s arms, to declare our love?

  I roll my eyes at that. No, it certainly wasn’t that. Not for Daniel and me. We’re too complicated. This was never going to be a hearts and flowers romance. So, what was it meant to be?

  I don’t know the answer. All I can say is that I didn’t have any real sense of what would happen between us. I just wanted to . . . see.

  And so, that’s what this drinks date will be. Us seeing how we—if we—fit together outside the confines of my office.

  The way Daniel’s eyes scan up and down my body as I join him in the living room sends a thrill through me. I have a fuller figure. To tell the truth, I’m not all that different than most women. At least the ones who weren’t born with supernatural metabolism or restraint, that is. I’ve never been able to resist the sweets that would save me some of this extra weight, and I’m fine with that. The fact that Daniel seems to be fine with it, too, is a relief. We have so many other things that could threaten to trip us up. I don’t want to bring physical insecurities into this, too.

  I wasn’t attracted to Daniel when we first met. How could I be? I had my professional boundaries in place. I saw him as nothing more than a new client. I appreciated that he was, if not a stunner, then handsome in his own way. His gray eyes are so expressive. They telegraph his mood more than any man I’ve ever met. I could often tell exactly how our session would go once we had a second to lock eyes. They are what clearly conveyed his mixed emotions over my surprise appearance when I first arrived. But now they are showing me nothing but hunger. He wants me, I can see. So, why did he stop things so abruptly earlier?

  “You look beautiful,” he tells me.

  It’s not the first time he’s complimented me this way. But it feels different now because I’ve opened myself up to a new dynamic with him. I’m now in a position where I don’t feel the need to push back on such things. I can accept his attention. And give it back.

  “You look gorgeous yourself,” I tell him. I mean it. He’s tall and lean, but solid and with shoulders that seem broader than I remembered. His dirty-blond hair is short but styled. His face is cleanly shaven, and I think I can detect just the hint of cologne. That makes me smile. It’s a first. He never wore any scent at our sessions. Nor did he dress as nicely as he is now. His jeans and boots are new, the gray and green flannel he’s wearing molds to his chest and makes his eyes brighter. He’s wearing a fine leather belt rather than his old suspenders. I bet he turns heads.

  He winks at me before holding out his hand. “Don’t we make a pair?”

  I raise my eyebrows. He could mean anything by that. A pair of idio
ts. A pair of love birds. A pair of fools. A pair of—”

  A mobile chimes. It’s Daniel’s. He glances at it.

  “Our chariot awaits, my dear Ms. Patterson,” he says.

  I let his old habit—the one I forced him into—of calling me Ms. Patterson slide and take his outstretched hand. For a moment, he pulls me in close to his side, and his arm around me feels good. Just as quickly, however, he’s released me and has started down the stairs.

  Outside, the tan Honda Accord double-parked and idling on the street is less chariot and more Uber. But I’m happy either way. We sit together in the back, separated by the small space meant for a middle passenger. Daniel is busy telling me that we could have walked, that he loves walking all over this city and has come to know it well, but he didn’t want me to walk since I must be tired from my flight. It’s all busy talk, trying to unconsciously fill a void. That, along with his bouncing leg are tics he doesn’t even realize he’s doing.

  For my part, I employ the thing that I was terribly good at in my practice: silence. It’s something I naturally fall back on because it gives the other person both the space and the motivation to continue to reveal themselves. Which is what Daniel does next when he keeps talking.

  “I am so ready for a drink.”

  A drink, I notice he says. Not this drink, as in the one he’s been trying to convince me to have with him for so long. He wants something to take the edge off.

  Because he is on edge.

  Me being here has thrown him into a mess of emotions. I think back to one of the reasons why I hadn’t come sooner. I hadn’t wanted to disrupt his sobriety by complicating his life. The sinking feeling that I’ve done this very thing threatens to overwhelm me.

  In an effort to steady us both, I put my hand on his bouncing leg and after a moment of resistance, he stills. He looks over at me and I nod slightly.

  He opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, and then the opportunity is lost. Our driver announces we’ve made it to our destination.

  Stepping out of the car, I take in my surroundings. Night has fallen, and the streetlights shine an amber halo against the now wispy fog, lending the streets a romantic feeling. In front of us, I can see the waterfront in the distance. What looks like an enormous pirate ship is moored to a dock. Closer to us, just across the street, is one of the city’s famous cable car open-air stations. There’s a long line of tourists waiting to board one of the cars. Plenty of others are wandering the area around us, some falling prey to the street performers looking for a tip. Daniel had told me we’d be in an area known as Ghirardelli Square and very nearby Fisherman’s Wharf, both must-see destinations in San Francisco.

  “This is it here,” Daniel tells me.

  He gestures behind us, and I turn to see that the pub hugging the corner of Hyde Street and Beach Street is called The Buena Vista. It’s a narrow building with a long, dark-wood bar and tiled floors and walls just inside, along with large windows facing the street and water view.

  Placing a hand on the small of my back, he steers me up the stairs toward the door. It’s a gesture that feels protective and confident. And then his fingers slip lower and I feel an unexpected tingle at the intimate, familiar way he first squeezes, then pats my backside.

  And then I feel his warm breath against my ear and his words send a shiver down my neck.

  “You have an arse worth worshipping.”

  I turn to look at him and find he’s raised his hands defensively.

  “Poor impulse control, me,” he says with a grin.

  I shake my head, unable to stop my own smile.

  Inside, the place is crowded, and the chatter bounces off the tall ceilings. A waitress whizzes by, telling us to take any seat we can find. As Daniel scouts for an empty table, I watch a gray-haired, mustachioed barman filling a dozen small glasses with hot water. He soon dumps each glass out only to deftly drop two cubes of sugar in each. In one smooth movement, he uses a coffee pot to pour the hot brew into the glasses. A green bottle of whiskey materializes, and he adds a healthy pour to each glass. Just as quickly, he grabs a blender pitcher filled with frothy cream. He tops off each drink with the cream poured over a spoon to keep it from sinking. In less than a minute, I’ve watched the barman create the specialty of the house. Those dozen Irish Coffees are placed on a tray and handed off to a waitress before he begins the process all over again.

  “Here we are,” Daniel says.

  He takes my hand and leads me to a small table that is being vacated. It’s directly in front of one of the large windows, a perfect spot to enjoy the evening view of the San Francisco Bay.

  Before we have a chance to make awkward small talk, a waiter squeezes through the crowd to our table and supplies us with menus.

  “Welcome,” he says, and I immediately recognize his County Mayo accent. “In for a drink, or will you have a bite to eat as well?”

  “Aye, mate,” Daniel says familiarly. He launches into an animated conversation with the young waiter—Malcolm—about the merits of living in Ireland versus here in the states.

  “Far and away, the States, is the better place to be,” Malcolm says. “If only for the amount of action my bloody ‘accent’ gets me.” His grin fades when he looks at me. “No offense, ma’am.”

  “Honestly, I’m more offended at being called ‘ma’am’ than I am over your ability to get laid,” I say.

  Daniel is the first to laugh. Malcolm follows, though with a bit of uncertainty.

  “Anyway, we’ll have two of them Irish Coffees to start,” Daniel says. “Send us your fish and chips, too, but only if you personally think they do a decent job of it. Otherwise we’ll do something else later.”

  “Absolutely,” Malcolm says, back to being all business.

  “I have met so many Irish people in this city,” Daniel tells me once we’re alone. “On a rainy day, it’s almost like I never left.”

  I laugh, but his conversation with Malcolm has made me curious. “Do you think you’ll move here, too?”

  “Hadn’t really thought about it. I mean, I can’t claim to have a place of my own in Dublin anyway, can I? Roscoe and I just take care of Shay’s house there. So, I’m not truly tied to any one spot.”

  Nodding, I try to hide the disappointment from my face. Part of our therapy together was getting him to feel established in Dublin, even if he was playing the role of Shay’s house-sitter. He had spent so many years wandering from one party crowd to another, never investing in any one place or community. That lifestyle had been unpredictable, making it easier for him to make the wrong choices. And then, of course, my other disappointment is that he doesn’t seem to want to be in Dublin to be near me.

  Slow down, I remind myself.

  There’s no need to jump to conclusions about me even wanting him in my life. That’s what this visit is to determine. For all I know, we could be wholly incompatible when it comes down to it.

  Malcolm returns with our drinks but doesn’t stay to chat. He’s got a full section of other customers to deal with.

  “What shall we toast to?” Daniel asks.

  I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “To taking chances.” I gently tap his glass with mine and take a sip. The cool cream on top makes the hot coffee below easily drinkable. I can taste the whiskey. Though it’s smooth, it’s still a jolt to my system. I don’t tend to drink hard alcohol. I’m much more of a sip-one-glass-of-wine kind of girl.

  I realize Daniel hasn’t tried his drink. He’s still examining me, his gray eyes slightly squinted as if to try to decipher me.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  My question breaks his fixation. He blinks, shakes his head, and takes a drink.

  “Tell me, Daniel.”

  “Nothing, really. I suppose I should expect that you’d see me as a risk.”

  “That’s not what I said, actually.”

  “No. You said, ‘to taking chances.’ But I know what that means. And you’re right to be nervous about this.”r />
  “This?”

  “Trying it on with me.”

  “Because of our previous relationship in therapy?” I suggest.

  He leans across the small table, a wild look in his eyes. “No, not that. Because I’m a goddamn heroin addict with a connection just over that way in Oakland.” He gestures somewhere to the east of where we are. “Though I don’t need to even go that far. I can find my way to trouble in any city I’m in. I’m a fucking expert at it, in fact.”

  I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to stoke my fears about the worst of him, trying to see if I’ll run scared when confronted by the ugly truth.

  “Is that what you’re after? Ready to relapse and give up on everything you’ve accomplished?”

  “That’s who I am, is what I’m telling you. That’s who I’ll always be―someone this close to fucking it all up. How’s that for taking a chance?”

  “You’re suddenly very hostile.”

  “You’re suddenly acting like my therapist again.”

  I look down at my coffee and find that my hands are trembling as I pick it up. I drink down most of it. The heat of the coffee and the whiskey slowly spreads throughout my body, numbing me just the way I had wanted.

  “You really want to take a chance?” he asks.

  When I make eye contact with him again, I see that wild intensity once more. I want to turn away. I want to be back in my safe and predictable life. I want to take back all my imaginings of wanting the danger this man can bring me.

  Instead, I whisper, “Yes.”

  Cupping the back of my head with his hand, he pulls me to him and kisses me hard on the mouth. He then pulls away, but only so he can speak in my ear.

  “Give me your knickers.”

  “What?” I ask with a laugh. But my heart is pounding, betraying me. I’m thrilled rather than insulted.

  I should be examining his abrupt change from being confrontational to this sexual game-playing. I should be telling him off. I should be tempering his outrageous behavior, the same way I would when we were in therapy.