At least not until she finally releases a breath and tells me that’s what most people would do in this situation. She leaves out the word normal to describe “people” but the implication is clear. Most normal people would have known better than to follow their therapist away from the office. Most normal people wouldn’t have then interrupted their therapist while she was having a private get together with her friends. Most normal people would have spent some time thinking about what had happened and come ready to both talk it over and apologize.
“I am sorry, okay?” I tell her. “I hope you were able to enjoy your evening after that. I really do.”
She seems caught off guard by this. I guess that makes sense since I’ve done nothing but avoid any acknowledgement of improper behavior since I got here. My mind has been stuck on Jules this whole while.
When I left Jules’ house yesterday, it was without any kind understanding of what our time together meant. Well, besides the fantastic sex. That part was clear enough. But despite her protests otherwise, I can’t stop thinking about her connection to Gavin McManus and what it means for why we hooked up the way we did.
“Thank you for the apology, Daniel,” Ms. Patterson says. “Now, why don’t we talk more about your encounter with the woman in the park?”
I don’t want to talk about Jules. Not with Ms. Patterson. I’m not sure why, but I’ve lost the burning desire to share with her all the unformed emotions Jules brought up at our first meeting.
“There’s nothing to say. We already went over it, didn’t we?” I tell her.
“You were very upset when you came storming into my office after meeting her. We should investigate that further.”
“You told me your diagnosis, though, didn’t you?” I lean down and rub Roscoe about the ears.
“Well, we barely scratched the surface of it. It would be good to talk more about how it impacted your sense of identity—”
“The identity you said I didn’t have, yeah?”
“I think you know what I mean. You’ve shed your old self. It’s natural to feel some vulnerability now as you try to understand who you are without it.”
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to “work” on myself like this. I’ve got other things on my mind. I need to get her to stop.
“Here’s what I understand,” I say abruptly. “I saw her again at the park yesterday. She invited me back to her place and I fucked her raw. Okay? So, what does that tell you?”
Though she doesn’t break eye contact, her expression changes. Something hardens as she puts up her defenses. We both know she’s not always kept up on that front, though I sense she would end our sessions if I ever acknowledged that. She has either purposely relaxed her professional distance with me or done so without realizing it. Because we’ve now had two moments where it’s become clear that she is uncomfortable with her own actions—first when she flat out diagnosed me as losing my identity rather than getting me to conclude that myself, and now when she’s let a tinge of jealousy show. She doesn’t like that I was with another woman. That makes these visits a whole lot more interesting.
“What that tells me,” she says carefully, “is that you haven’t corrected your impulsive behavior over the last couple days after all. And that, in fact, it’s escalated.”
I roll my eyes. “What is wrong with being impulsive, anyway? I don’t see why it’s automatically a bad thing. It sure didn’t feel bad yesterday, I’ll tell you that. And I can assure you that I made sure Jules was completely satisfied.”
A blush comes to her cheeks, which I find amusing. Surely, she’s heard far more intimate things in her line of work than what I’ve just shared. Then again, maybe it’s that she’s actually keen to hear more. Maybe the idea of my tryst with Jules turns her on. A sort of vicarious thing.
With that in mind, I lean forward and lick my lips, slowly biting the bottom one while I watch her.
“It was probably that impulsivity that made it that much hotter,” I tell her. “I mean, this was fucking for fucking’s sake, you know? You ever . . . indulge in that? Maybe find some bloke in a pub, lock eyes, and then meet in the toilets?”
Ms. Patterson doesn’t grant me the satisfaction of a reply. Instead, she turns to a fresh sheet in her notebook and makes a note.
“You should give it a try sometime, if you haven’t. That kind of pure sexual gratification is what I got from Jules. That’s why once wasn’t enough.”
She digests this for a moment before asking, “Meaning you’ll be seeing her again?”
I laugh. “No. Meaning, I fucked her once. Then once more not long after.”
“I see.” She clears her throat and jots something down on her notepad once more.
“It was clear from the get go that we were only after a good fuck. This isn’t some grand love story. It’s unlikely I’ll see her again. And that’s fine with me. I’d have thought you’d want the same.”
She looks up at me quickly. “What does that mean, Daniel?”
“Haven’t you said I’m here to sort out my life? I imagine you would say I should stay away from other women and relationships. That I should focus on us.”
“Us?”
“Well, we have a thing going here, don’t we?”
This suggestion triggers something in her. She slaps her hands down on the notepad hard enough to startle Roscoe.
“Our time is almost up,” she says. “But, I think you need another reminder of our boundaries. I have no interest in you other than a professional one. I am your therapist. Not your friend. We are not in some sort of ‘relationship.’ What we are doing here is trying to explore ways to give you better control over how you manage your decision making. It’s about understanding the impulses that led you to your addiction and other poor choices.”
She’s trying to snuff out the spark between us. That’s her duty, I suppose, in her position. Doesn’t mean I believe our connection doesn’t exist. Not for a second.
13
When Roscoe and I pull up to the house, I see a figure huddled under the archway of the front door trying to stay out of the rain. The visitor’s slight size tells me it’s a woman, though she’s hidden under a hoodie. Shay isn’t the type of rock star who gets random groupies showing up at his house. He’s a good-looking kid, but he’s shy and never courts attention. I’m guessing this is some sort of charity or sales call.
Prepared to give this unwelcome stranger the brush off, I get out of the Porsche with Roscoe at my heels.
“Not interested—”
I stop when Jules turns to face me. What the fuck?
She’s done one of my maneuvers by showing up somewhere uninvited. It’s interesting to have the tables turned. I can see how off-putting it is.
“I never got your number,” she says. “Or I would have called.”
“About what exactly?” I ask, an edge in my voice. Her pursuit of me here, to an address I never gave her, throws my understanding of what we had off kilter. I had left her place thinking we were just hooking up with no expectations. What is she really after?
“I dunno. Just about getting together again.”
“I just saw you yesterday. And you’re desperate to see me again? Really?”
She cringes at my mocking tone and says, “Is it so hard to understand that I fancy you?”
Of course it is. I can’t remember the last time a woman pursued me for more than a one-nighter. I’ve felt all my life like I’ve repelled, not just women, but everyone. I was brought up being shown I had nothing to offer. Enough years of that and you believe it. Ms. Patterson would say that I’ve not only believed it but reinforced it by pushing people away or otherwise making myself someone others don’t want around.
“How did you find this house, anyway?” I ask, ignoring her question.
She shifts from one foot to another. Her cheeks are red, but it isn’t from the cold. She looks small as she hugs her arms across her chest. In a flash, I see in her the same thing I’ve been dealing
with—deep loneliness.
“I figured it out on the internet. It was easy enough with one of those Rogue fan sites.”
It always seems to come back to Rogue with her. The wind picks up sharply and rain comes at us sideways. Roscoe paws at the front door.
“I’ll go,” she says.
When she’s halfway down the path toward the gate, I call out, “Stay for a cuppa.”
Inside, I’m keenly aware of the way Jules takes everything in. She’s eyeing the place so methodically I worry for a second that she’s casing it to come back later. It’s another example of what Ms. Patterson says I tend to do—project onto others what I might do or feel. There was a time when I broke into this very house in order to steal a few things. I didn’t think Shay would mind, really. I was nearing rock bottom and just needed one more hit before I gave the old self-detox another go.
Turned out I wasn’t alone in the house at the time, though. His girl, Jessica, was in the shower as I was rummaging through the closet. She scared the shite out of me and I lashed out, telling her some cruel things that had nothing to do with any kind of reality. I had never met her, so there was no reason for me to be casting any kind of judgment on her. But I don’t always think things through, and I certainly don’t have presence of mind when I’m in need of a high.
Shay had come home in the middle of that and nearly broke my neck pushing me out of the room and down the stairs. He was protecting his girl. Not that I had any intention of hurting her, but I guess she was more scared than I was, and he had his priorities.
“So, you’re here on your own?” she asks.
“No, I’m not on my own,” I say and pause for effect. It works because her eyes widen. I tell her, “I’ve got Roscoe. He’s my partner.”
She laughs with relief. “Your brother doesn’t live here anymore? Is that what you said?”
I can’t stop from being suspicious about her bringing up Shay. If I stopped to think about it, I might realize this is normal conversation. A routine kind of getting-to-know-you back and forth. But I don’t do that.
“What did the Rogue fan site say? Surely you already know the answer.” My voice is a taunt, ready for battle.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she says with a sigh. “Okay, yes, I know he moved to bloody San Francisco. Yes, I spent some time catching up on all that’s happened with the band over the years. But it was really just to see if I could find out more about you. God knows why, but I’m attracted to you. I do have my limits on just how many times I’ll have to try to prove that to you, though.”
“I just . . . I just don’t get it. Why do you like me?” If it’s truly nothing to do with McManus? I add to myself.
“You’re a good lay.”
I nod in agreement and wait for more.
“You’re funny. You like dogs.”
“And what more? What is it that brought you here?”
Jules glances around the room as if she’ll find her answer in the things there. But it’s just a sitting room with comfortable furniture and a cold fireplace.
“I need a real answer,” I tell her. Even if she says she’s here because she wants to get close to Gavin and Rogue again, at least I’ll respect the honesty of that. But what she says is more honest than anything I could have imagined.
“Because I’m fucked up,” she says. “And you’re fucked up. Not in the same way, but still, I see something of me in you. I feel like we could give each other something. Even if it’s just taking the edge off this loneliness we both feel.”
14
For once in my life, I exercise restraint and call Gavin before driving over to his grand estate in Dalkey, the coastal refuge for Ireland’s cultural elite. He and Conor each have homes overlooking the Irish Sea, the likes of which could be featured in one of those fancy architectural magazines. At least Shay hasn’t gotten so far up his own arse that he’d get an ostentatious show of wealth like these guys. Though I have to admit the car I’ve borrowed from him is a show of that.
I have no idea if Gavin is home when I get to his gate. See, even though I phoned him, he didn’t answer. I couldn’t hold back from forcing the issue, so Roscoe and I hopped in the Porsche and headed over.
It’s a brilliant, sunny day. The bright light has turned the water a stunning deep green and steady winds have brought ripples of whitecaps to the surface. This is the view Gavin has from inside his home, and after I get lost in it for a moment, I realize the seductive pull of it. Especially on a rare clear day like today. There’s no more beautiful spot on earth than the Irish coastline when the sun is shining down on it. No wonder the bastard lives here.
After ringing the intercom, I get a quick response from the lady of the house, Sophie. She doesn’t question my unannounced appearance, but rather invites me to drive through the gate she’s remotely opened. I can’t say I’m surprised by the welcome. Though I don’t know her well, Sophie has always been kind to me, even during those times in the past when I was strung out and probably alarmed her. And she’s been especially welcoming of me in the last year since I’ve been a steady presence with the band.
At the door, Sophie greets me with a smile. She’s wearing a delicate white linen top under a rose colored knitted cardigan that would have made anyone else look grandmotherly. But she’s paired it with blue jeans that mold to her thin, shapely legs, and besides that, she’s a supermodel who has been on more high-end international fashion magazine covers than just about anyone you can think of. She’d make a burlap sack look good.
“Come in,” she tells me. “Hi Roscoe.”
Thankfully, she and the guys of the band have all accepted Roscoe. He’s a good dog who keeps to himself whenever we’re out or at someone else’s place. Their home is one of those places you instantly feel comfortable in. It’s warm and well-designed without being untouchable. They really live in the space.
“Sorry to disturb,” I tell her, looking around for signs of Daisy. Their daughter Daisy must be about a year old now. She’s all Gavin could talk about when we were on tour.
“Gavin was getting Daisy to nap,” Sophie says, “when he fell asleep, too.”
“Oh, so he’s down for the count?”
“No, he’s waking up. I told him you were here. He’ll be out in a minute.”
I nod, and she sets me up in the kitchen breakfast nook with the promise of a cuppa while I wait. Roscoe leans against my leg before sitting on my feet. Sophie doesn’t make small talk, and usually I feel the need to disturb the quiet. But for the moment, I enjoy just watching her. She moves fluidly around the kitchen, preparing the tea like a native rather than the transplant American that she is. I wasn’t around when she was here initially as a sixteen-year-old doing a year of school abroad. I’d started on my party crowd life of hopping around Europe by then and didn’t pay much attention to what was happening back home. In the years that followed, I gleaned as much as the average observer, which is to say, there was no way I couldn’t know just about every detail of the great Gavin and Sophie romance. They have been the tabloid couple to command the world’s attention for a dozen years. That attention only intensified during their separation and the near end of their marriage a few years back and continues to this day.
All that comes to mind as I watch Sophie. She’s not only beautiful, but so clearly the right match for Gavin. They may have had their troubles, but they’re one of those couples you could never imagine not lasting. This certainty was one of the reasons why I let go some of my suspicions of Jules yesterday when she showed up at my house. Because, I thought, if she was really after some sort of connection with Gavin again, she’d surely never get far. Gavin and Sophie are too solid for anything to take them down.
“Aye, DB,” Gavin says breezily as he comes into view.
“DB” is his nickname for me, shortening Danny Boy. It’s one of the character traits I hate about Gavin. He’s forever ingratiating himself with people by giving them nicknames they didn’t ask for. Well, let me amend that. He
long ago started calling Shay by the full, proper name of Seamus. It’s what our parents were too lazy to start with as they jumped straight to the nickname instead. I never thought to call him Seamus, but Gavin doing so seems to please the kid and I can’t fault that.
“Hey, Gav.” I don’t bother to get up to greet the guy since he’s gone to kiss his wife before helping her bring the tea to the table and settling in.
“Seamus know you’re driving his Porsche?” he asks as he gives Roscoe a pat.
“What else am I going to drive?”
“Maybe not the million-dollar sports car. But that’s between you two,” he says with a smile. “What brings you ‘round?” he asks.
“I’ll let you two talk,” Sophie says.
While Gavin and I have been having this idle chatter, Sophie has been setting out a bowl of water for Roscoe along with a plate of scraps she pulled from the refrigerator. She and Shay are similar in that they are the type of caretakers that are always anticipating others’ needs.
I watch as Gavin grabs her hand when she starts to go. She looks down at him with a smile that conveys something private, something only the two of them understand. It’s their intimacy on display and I’m struck by a sense of longing for that same kind of deep connection.
“Thanks for the tea, Sophie,” I tell her.
She gives me a smile, too, but it’s not the same. Damn, she makes me wonder what that kind of love is like.
“Everything okay with your brother?” Gavin asks once Sophie’s gone.
“Em, yeah. At least I should think so. He’s cleaning up that mess with Marty, though, isn’t he?”
Gavin laughs, amused by his band mate’s folly. “I suppose he is.”
“Remember when you used to be the interesting one?” I ask, thinking of his scandals, including family troubles, a stripper’s claims at having bedded him, and a public cocaine problem. “Now you’re taking naps with a toddler like an old man.”
Looking For Trouble (Rogue Series Book 5) Page 6
