Looking For Trouble (Rogue Series Book 5)

by Lara Ward Cosio

  “Wait until after this session. But I don’t have much time. Will that do?” she asks.

  “It will. Thanks.”

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in my usual overstuffed chair in Ms. Patterson’s office. I passed the time trying to figure out what I wanted by coming here. But I still can’t formulate the words, and Ms. Patterson is not even pretending at patience anymore.

  “Daniel, just start by telling me what you were doing before you came here,” she says.

  That’s easy. I tell her the facts of my day: looking for a park for Roscoe; walking through St. Anne’s; coming across the woman with the uncontrollable lab.

  “And? What more?”

  I’d stopped at the part about the lab splashing around in the muck. I laugh as I think about the question. What more do I really have to say? I don’t even know. Like so much of what I find myself doing, I don’t know what really propels me. I just follow blindly what I think is some sort of imperative action.

  “Did you speak to the woman?” she prods.

  “Em, yeah. After she bummed a fag from me. We talked a bit. She’s some sort of house painter. Was covered in dried up bits of paint. But seemed a bit defensive about the job.”

  “Okay.”

  There’s a deadly long silence as she waits for me to speak again.

  “That was weird,” I continue. “But later I lent her a towel from the car. And when she saw Shay’s Porsche, I went on about how it wasn’t mine. I don’t know why, but I needed to make it clear to her that I wasn’t the ‘poncy Southsider’ she’d accused me of being. I don’t know her, but I was desperate that she have the right understanding of me.”

  She lets that hang in the air for a minute.

  “We haven’t yet talked about your relationships with women,” she finally says.

  “And we don’t need to. What I’m getting at has nothing to do with being attracted to this woman.”

  “No?”

  I fight over a response to this one. Yes, I was drawn to Jules. But that wasn’t my overriding reaction to her and I say as much.

  “Okay, let’s go back a tick. This woman—the house painter—you said she went on about her Northsider status?”

  “A bit. Felt like she was teasing me more than anything.”

  “Flirting?”

  “Em, no. It wasn’t like that.”

  “But you wanted it to be?”

  I shrug. “Wouldn’t have minded.”

  “You grew up Southside. Your brother’s house is still Southside.”

  “I grew up Southside, but I didn’t become one of them, did I? Never had it easy like those spoilt brats.”

  “True, you didn’t have it easy. You made a life of having it rough, didn’t you?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You’ve spent the last twenty years chasing heroin, chasing after a rough way.”

  “And? As if I wanted it like that? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She tilts her head but says nothing.

  “Listen, I don’t know what you’re after with this, but I’m not a masochist. The H was the only thing that ever saved me.”

  “Have you ever considered that being an addict is what you thought you deserved? It was the most you could expect for yourself after what your parents filled your head with?”

  This strikes way too close to a truth I’ve taken pains to ignore.

  “I was talking about this woman, Jules. You’re off track,” I tell her.

  Sensing I’m not open to her last question, she retreats. “Jules, then. You got twisted up trying to prove to her that you’re not some rich Southsider and you don’t know why. Is that it?”

  Taking a deep breath, I exhale and nod.

  “Daniel, this does not constitute an emergency. I really have other pressing business. We need to wrap this up and return to it at next session.”

  The idea of walking out of here right now sends my heart racing. I can’t go without something to help calm the cycle in my head. It’s the self-destructive litany of abuse that’s slowly begun to get louder since the tour ended and I found myself living in Shay’s big empty house. It’s the abuse that crept up a notch after my encounter with Jules. I came here for a reason, and I’m not leaving until I get some kind of relief.

  “It’s pressing business to me,” I tell her. “Jesus, help me out here. Just tell me what you think’s behind it so I don’t obsess anymore. ‘Cause when I get those obsessive thoughts in my head, the only release I know is smack. I’ve already been teetering on the edge and I need help. Take pity if nothing else.”

  This confession hangs heavy in the air. I feel the heat of her gaze on me as I look away.

  “First,” she says carefully, taking a moment to uncross her legs and press her thighs together as she smooths her skirt, “I’d recommend you attend an NA meeting as soon as possible. And agree to a sponsor already. There has to be someone you can connect with.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I get up and Roscoe rouses himself, too.

  Ms. Patterson stands as well. “Second,” she continues, “my initial impression is that you’re scared you’ve lost your identity.”

  “What the—”

  “That this woman sees you as a posh Southsider is terrifying to you because it’s true. You’re not the addict anymore. You’re not the one running away from things anymore. You’ve learned a trade and have the promise of a job with your brother’s band. You are responsible for—at the very least—the wellbeing of your dog. These are all good things. But they’re also so foreign to you that you’re willing to use the discomfort of it as an excuse to ruin it all.”

  Again, she’s veered too close to something I don’t want to think about. Her assessment means that I’ve, for once, in my life broken away from that old version of me, the one intent on destroying everything. But yet, that’s the only me I know. If I admit that’s not me anymore, then who the fuck am I?

  “Or,” I say, a wicked grin coming to my stupid gob, “maybe it’s just that I’ve had it with being strung out all this time and I know how to handle myself when it comes to H, so why in bleeding hell shouldn’t I give it another go?”

  She’s absolutely still for a long moment. I’m not even sure she’s breathing. Or if I am. I said it to get a reaction from her, of course. That’s what I do. I say things without much thought other than to see what’ll happen. But now I’m worried that I’ve sent her into some sort of therapist freak out. I know I’m a handful, but isn’t she trained for this shite?

  “Daniel,” she finally says, “I want to get your permission for me to speak with your brother.”

  That is nothing like what I thought she’d say.

  “Em, what the fuck for?”

  “I’d like to speak with him about other ways to support you since he’s no longer in Dublin.”

  “Nah, you won’t be hassling my little brother with this. You’re stuck with me, Ms. Patterson. Do your job.”

  Clearly, this doesn’t please her. Her shoulders drop, and she eyes the floor. The weight of her disappointment is palpable. Normally, I couldn’t care less to appease someone else. I don’t let others’ expectations of me change a damn thing. So, I don’t know what it is that makes me think twice now. She’s doing her best, I know that much. I’ve fought her every step of the way and she’s kept coming at me, trying to find new ways to connect. I’ve come to enjoy my time with her, even if I spend it dodging her efforts to break through to something meaningful.

  “I’ll call him myself. To check in and have a chat. How about that?” I ask.

  “It’s a step in the right direction, I suppose.”

  “What more? Honestly, what more can I even do?” I’m asking with sincerity. I did come here looking for answers from her—even if I’m not above vetoing the ones I don’t like.

  “What about Gavin McManus?”

  I laugh at the non sequitur. “What about him?”

  “Listen, Daniel, you’re an unconventional cli
ent—we both know that. So, I’m trying to provide some equally unconventional ideas for you. If you won’t let me bring your brother into this and you won’t get a sponsor at NA, would you be able to speak with Gavin about some of your . . . temptations?”

  “Why him?”

  She sighs and throws up her hands. “He had his own run at drugs, didn’t he? That’s what the tabloids all detailed. And what he’s even admitted to.”

  I scoff. Gavin McManus’ cocaine binge a few years back is the stuff of public record, yes, but it certainly doesn’t mean we have some sort of unspoken bond. I get on with him well enough, but we’ve never been about sharing our afflictions. For the life of me, I can’t imagine going to him about this. He’d surely tell Shay, for one. And he’d also tell his fucking boyfriend Conor Quinn, too. I don’t need Mr. Perfect lording anything more over me than he already does. Quinn tolerates me, but only for Shay’s sake. No, I need to get her off this idea.

  “Being an addict doesn’t mean you instantly understand every other one out there. Thanks, but I’ll skip on that one. Now, how about that wee pint?”

  A smile comes to her lips before she can stop it, and she shakes her head ruefully. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

  “Aye, you will.” I pause. “What’s the difference between a Southside man and a Northside girl?”

  Wariness returns to her gaze and she waits me out rather than ask the proverbial “what?”

  “Northside girls have higher sperm counts.”

  The joke only elicits a headshake. It’s a stupid play on the stereotype of Northside women being tough and Southside men being soft, and we both know it. Still, I couldn’t resist. I never can.

  I summon Roscoe and we’re off. The visit offered no resolutions, but I’ve come away feeling better. Rather than analyze why exactly, I just latch on to it and hope it lasts.

  6

  It doesn’t. It doesn’t even last long enough for me to get to the car park before I start obsessing over whether Ms. Patterson is blowing me off or if she really has other business to get to. She seemed rather eager to push off her responsibilities onto Shay or Gavin, didn’t she? Like, she couldn’t wait to be done with me. But was that because she really thought I needed that other support? Or because she can’t be bothered to deal with me if it doesn’t fit neatly into our prearranged fifty-minute sessions? Not knowing the answer gets me riled up again as I start toward the car and then head back toward Ms. Patterson’s office building. I repeat this pattern of indecision several times before I decide my next move.

  Why go home without any answers when Roscoe and I can wait outside her office to see what’s what? Sure enough, fifteen minutes after my session, she steps outside, and we follow her as she walks several blocks before waving wildly at a group of three women in front of the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre. Bloody hell. Her “pressing business” is meeting her girlfriends to see the musical Spamalot.

  Roscoe and I watch the ladies gab for a minute before they head next door to The Marker Hotel’s Brassiere restaurant. The space is made up of glass walls and high ceilings and it’s easy to see them seated at a table with brown and yellow leather club chairs in the main part of the restaurant. They are swiftly presented with a bottle of red wine, which they use to make a toast. Lovely. I can almost hear Ms. Patterson tell them over wine and a laugh why she was late to meet them. Surely, she’ll say it was one of her crazy clients who unexpectedly delayed her.

  I have no internal debate, just start walking. Ignoring the gasp and protests from the girl at the hostess stand, I head straight through to the dining area, Roscoe at my side. The room hushes by degrees as I go until it’s utterly silent.

  Ms. Patterson is looking at me aghast, wine glass frozen in her hand halfway to her mouth.

  “This?” I say to the startled group at the table. “This is your pressing business?”

  “Daniel, this is outrageous—”

  “I’ll tell you what’s outrageous. You knocking off our session—our very intense and intimate session—for this nonsense,” I say, purposely making our therapy session sound like something sexual. Just to embarrass her. I know she can’t or won’t rebut this characterization in front of her mates or all the restaurant diners now watching. It would go against the privileges of our client-therapist relationship. I never said I was a saint, right?

  Before Ms. Patterson can utter a word, a man approaches me and grabs my arm. “Excuse me, sir, but I need you and your dog to leave immediately.” His nose is wrinkled in distaste as he says the word dog.

  I rip my arm away from the guy and Roscoe leans protectively into me, ready to pounce if I so much as give him a nod of approval.

  “Aye, I know this woman, here,” I say.

  The man looks at the table and Ms. Patterson, her face a mask of disappointment, nods. She takes the white cotton napkin from her lap, folds it, and stands up.

  “Let’s go outside to talk, Daniel,” she says.

  As we make the trek toward the front of the restaurant, conversations start up again, softly at first, and then with a few derisive snickers to go with it.

  “You all can fuck off back to your boring meals, can’t you?” I shout and the silence returns.

  “Daniel!” Ms. Patterson presses her hand into my back, pushing me along.

  “Ah, lighten up. These sorry sods will only be delighted to take home the story of the fella who intruded upon their lovely dinner, won’t they?” I laugh out loud at the shocked look on the turtle-like face of a man waiting by the hostess stand. “I gave their dull lives a bit of excitement for a second, is all.”

  “This is unacceptable,” Ms. Patterson tells me as soon as we’re outside. “You followed me from my office?”

  “Your date with your pals for drinks and a crap musical is the reason you needed to cut me short?” I return.

  “That’s not your business. You must respect the boundaries of our therapist-client relationship or we won’t have one at all. Do you understand me?”

  She’s got the schoolmistress act on, complete with stern face to go with it. But I’m not having it.

  “You pushed me out of your office when I was ready to break because you wanted to have a fucking laugh. That’s what I understand.”

  “That’s just not true. Think back on what we talked about in that ‘emergency’ session.”

  “If you’re going to mock me, then, I’ll—”

  “Stop now. Stop this, Daniel. You’ve got yourself worked up and it’s not based on reality.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It means you’re not accepting what has really gone on. You’re letting your fears take over and color things.”

  “I saw you plain as day with my own eyes. You couldn’t wait to run off, all so you could gab with your friends.”

  “Listen to me. We spoke in my office. We talked about your visit with the woman in the park and the feelings it brought up. We talked about what was behind it, that you’ve lost a sense of identity. I suggested speaking with your brother. I suggested an NA meeting. I suggested you speak with Gavin McManus. We agreed to speak more at our next appointment. All that led to us parting in my office. I did not push you out. You know that.”

  This recounting matches my memory. Which means she’s right about why I followed her. Right about why I thought it was a good idea to confront her. It’s terrifying how well she can read me. She sees my motives well before I do. And now I’ve got the sinking realization that I’ve fucked up. It’s not the first time. What is different, however, is the accompanying, unfamiliar feeling of regret over it. It’s not that I regret crossing her boundaries and ruining her evening. No, I regret that I may have jeopardized whether she will see me again as her client.

  Fucking hell. She’s the only person I have. Literally, the only person I speak to in person on a regular basis now that my brother is in the States.

  “I’m a fucking idiot,” I say, mostly to myself. I use my open palm to smack the side
of my head repeatedly. Roscoe whimpers and shifts but I don’t stop until Ms. Patterson makes me.

  She pulls my hand away and slowly lowers it to my side before releasing me.

  “You’ve had a lifetime,” she says, her voice calm and soothing, “of poor impulse control. I’m going to take that into consideration right now. I’m going to let this go for the time being, and we’ll talk more at our next session. Right, Daniel?”

  There’s nothing I can say. I’m so relieved that I want to pull her into my arms and give her a huge hug. It takes all my restraint—something I possess very little of—not to. I nod and turn away.

  “The play?” she asks. “It’s crap, is it?”

  She’s already let me off easy. This is going even further. I’ve earned no right to this, but I’ll take it in a heartbeat.

  Looking back at her, I shrug. “Don’t know. Never seen it.”

  She smiles and shakes her head as if she knew that all along. I’m full of shite, but she’s somehow okay with that. Suits me just fine.

  “Enjoy, yeah?” I tell her with a smile.

  7

  The next morning it’s lashing down rain, but I still load Roscoe into the Porsche and head out to St. Anne’s with the hope that Jules will be there. I can tell by Roscoe’s grunting he knows it’s a fool’s errand, but he’s loyal to the core and would go out into the deluge with me if I actually forced us. The lot is empty when we get there, though, letting us off the hook from getting drenched. I pick a spot at random and park anyway.

  Fiddling with the car’s high-tech equipment, I recline the driver’s seat and lean into it, content to listen to the rain tapping against the windshield. Roscoe rests his warm head on my leg and settles in, too. I didn’t sleep well last night as I tossed and turned, struggling to bury the whole episode with Ms. Patterson.

  I didn’t call Shay like I said I would. No reason to bother the kid. He’s got his hands full with Marty making a spectacle of himself anyway. Seems the idiot was caught shagging that Ashley in some cabin out there in San Francisco.