Looking For Trouble (Rogue Series Book 5)

by Lara Ward Cosio

  “Left him home this time,” I say shortly.

  Conor nods. “I brought an extra helmet. It’s Felicity’s, but give it a try.”

  His girlfriend’s helmet is black, thankfully, and fits well enough. We spend the next sixty minutes going over everything in fine detail. Conor is exacting and a control freak, and the lecture makes me antsy. But once I do get on the motorbike, it’s fantastic. The feel comes more naturally than I thought it might. I do a series of passes up and down the empty roadway, each time a little faster than the last. The rush intensifies the longer I’m on the bike and tempts me to increase my speed, to lean into the bike for better aerodynamics as I weave and turn like I’m suddenly Evil Knievel.

  I only stop when I finally realize Conor’s been shouting and waving his arms at me.

  “Get the fuck off my bike,” he tells me when I roll up to him.

  My heart is beating like a jackhammer. Blood is coursing through me to the point where I can practically feel the flow. Jesus, I can get addicted to anything.

  “What’s the problem?” I reluctantly swing my leg over the seat and Conor turns off the ignition and sets the kickstand, two things I hadn’t thought of.

  “You were getting reckless, Danny Boy. Get your own bike if you want to crash it.”

  “I didn’t realize.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t.”

  Conor has never liked me. He’s always seen nothing but the worst in me. I’ve given him reason for this, of course, but no matter how much time passes with me on good behavior, it’ll never count for him. This is the other reason why I dislike him: he is the embodiment of the voices in my head that say I’m trash and not only will never amount to anything but don’t deserve to.

  “Give me a fucking break,” I say. Even if I agree with his assessment of me, my instinct is to push back. “I was just enjoying the moment. Why can’t you ever just let go and do the same?”

  Conor’s always had a stick up his arse, eternally concerned about his image and controlling things in general. That may have led to his successes, but it’s fucking annoying to me—again, probably because I’m the exact opposite. I’ve never had an ounce of control all my life, starting with the way my parents raised me. Instead of rebelling against that and claiming control over things, I gave in to it. The lack of control, Ms. Patterson tells me, is actually comforting to me because it is what I know best. It’s a big part of why I spent so many years seeking out dangerous situations and making poor decisions.

  “This isn’t about me,” Conor says. “You asked for the favor. You need to abide by the conditions that come with it.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mumble.

  Conor shakes his head and I can tell he’s struggling with himself. He feels obligated to help me because of Shay. The best thing that kid ever did was get into a band with these guys. They took care of him when I left home. Shay calls them brothers and though it’s a little painful for me to admit, I can see that is what they are to him.

  “What have you been up to?” Conor asks.

  I appreciate the effort at neutral small talk, even if I can’t exactly tell him the truth. “Not a whole lot. Getting anxious for you guys to get back on the road.”

  Conor smiles the smile that has caused a thousand panties to drop. Though he’s committed to Felicity now, he was one of the most sought-after bachelors in the world for a lot of years. Whenever women in my party crowd found out who my brother was, the first thing they asked was whether I could hook them up with the gorgeous guitarist of the band. Conor’s always been partial to models and actresses, though, so even if I had some pull there would be no way he’d be up for one of my party girls.

  “We’re enjoying the break,” he says. “We won’t even think about recording until next year. The tour wouldn’t happen until springtime at the earliest.”

  It’s nearing August now, so this isn’t good news for my idle mind. The idle mind that Jules has been filling with things that have me slipping and sliding toward the wrong direction.

  “Let me ask you something,” I blurt out, unable to edit my thoughts. “How do you know exactly when you’ve made the wrong bet on someone?” It’s a question I probably should have saved for Ms. Patterson, but it’s out there now.

  Conor raises his eyebrows as he looks at me. It’s clear he’s thinking he always knew I was the wrong bet. But he gives the question some thought.

  “I’m not sure I can define it. But I do know that it’s usually realized too late,” he says. “If you want to know the truth, it’s those times where I’ve lost the control you seem to think I’m too fond of.”

  “Like when you slept with Sophie?” I ask without thinking.

  Conor’s expression hardens. It’s not a subject anyone speaks openly about, even though it’s well known within the band—and by me because I got the dirt out of Shay. Conor slept with Sophie when Gavin was checked out at the height of his cocaine addiction. It was a spectacular betrayal since Conor and Gavin had been best friends since age seven. The other huge part of the drama was that it was clear that Conor did it not out of some uncontrolled desire to get laid, but because he was in love with Sophie and probably had been for a long, long time. He had his choice of any woman he wanted and yet he still fell for the one he couldn’t have. Despite all that, the three of them somehow put it behind them and moved on.

  “Yes,” he finally says, “that was a mistake.”

  “Do you really believe that? I mean, ‘cause you had to have gotten something out of it. Besides getting off, I mean.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Conor says with a groan. He does not want to talk about this.

  “I’m just trying to figure out whether if you do something you pretty much know is a mistake, is it okay because you will still get something worthwhile out of it in the end.”

  He watches me for a long moment, but I can’t see his eyes behind the shades.

  “Julia O’Flaherty,” he says. “You’re seeing her, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t expect that deduction. But fucking Quinn is no fool. Gavin must have mentioned my visit a while back and now Conor’s put it together.

  “Em, well, just casually,” I lie.

  “Fuck me,” Conor says softly and looks away. “Listen, I never had a problem with her personally. But you’d do well to take Gavin’s advice.”

  “You know what he told me, then?”

  Conor looks at me and nods. “Watch your back.”

  “I am. I will. But there’s something I need to sort out with this. Can you please do me the favor of not mentioning this to anyone? I’m asking sincerely. Let me sort it.”

  I’ve asked this man for things before. I’ve begged for his favor and he’s granted it only for me to fuck him over. I know he’s not inclined to help me again. But I must have gotten through to him on some level—maybe because of that stuff about Sophie, even—because he gives me the answer I want. And it makes me think I might need to give him more credit for the chances he’s given me.

  “Okay, I’ll do that,” he says. Then the control freak in him returns and he says, “But if this negatively impacts at all on the band, or on Gavin and Sophie, you better believe I’ll step in and shut it the fuck down.”

  23

  When I tell Ms. Patterson I’m thinking of getting a motorbike, her response surprises me. It isn’t concern that the things can be dangerous, and I might get hurt, or that I should think about the fact that I might want it for that very thrill.

  Instead, she asks, “Where would you have Roscoe if you got a motorbike?”

  I have no answer. My poor buddy. I hadn’t thought about him with this idea.

  “Fuck. I’ll have to get one of those ridiculous sidecar things, won’t I?” I ask with a laugh. “Maybe get him some doggy goggles. Won’t we be a sight?”

  Ms. Patterson laughs.

  She’s in a particularly warm mood today. The last few weeks as I’ve gotten in deep with Jules have put us off track. Our
sessions haven’t been productive as I’ve spent the time trying to avoid talk of my so-called relationship. I don’t reward her with any other meaningful talk, either. The good efforts we had been making before Jules came along have stalled.

  After diligently trying to break through to me during those fruitless sessions, Ms. Patterson seems to have decided to take a more passive approach today. Her appearance reflects this. She’s wearing a floral-patterned dress with suede high-heeled boots that reach her knees. Her hair is down but partially pinned back. She looks lovely and I tell her so.

  “Thank you, Daniel, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know I’m not to compliment you.”

  She nods and raises her pen over her notepad as if to signal that we should get down to business.

  “Another theater date with your girlfriends?” I can’t help but ask.

  After a moment of hesitations, she tells me, “I do have plans later.”

  “Good for you. I won’t follow you this time.”

  “It’s funny you say that. I—” she cuts herself off.

  “What is it?” I lean forward.

  “Nothing.” She shakes her head dismissively.

  “Now, Ms. Patterson, you know me better than that.” I give her a meaningful look. “I don’t give up that easily.”

  The inner struggle she has shows itself on her face. Finally, she says, “I was going to say something to the effect of you following me that way seemed more true to yourself than the way you’ve been in the last few weeks.”

  This strikes me as one of those moments where she’s dropped her professional distance. It’s always those moments that have the most impact. The last time she did that, she told me I had lost my identity. If she’s right about that, then have I been overcompensating by attaching myself to Jules? I’m still not in the mood to analyze myself or my recent actions, though. So, as it is one of my favorite things to do with Ms. Patterson, I deflect.

  “Well, I’ll just have to find a way to fuck up again, then, won’t I?” I ask with a laugh. “Maybe don’t hurry too fast from the office later? Try not to give me the quick slip, yeah?”

  Again with the head shake. But she hasn’t lost that warmth. I wonder what it would be like to know her outside of this space. It feels like we could be friends. I obviously amuse her. And I adore her.

  Wait, I adore her? Is that what I feel for her?

  I know I respect her: she’s smart.

  I also appreciate her: she’s loyal; she’s never given up on me; she sees the best in me; she believes in me.

  I admire her: she’s got her life together with friends and a social life that very likely does not include lines of cocaine.

  I’m definitely attracted to her: she’s a beautiful woman, with what I like to imagine are hidden depths of sexuality waiting to be uncovered. By me.

  Above all that: I trust her.

  I can’t apply many of those things to Jules.

  The discrepancy of my feelings between the two women is stark. Especially given that it makes me realize I’m sleeping with the wrong one.

  Not that I have the option of being with Ms. Patterson. I know that. I may lack impulse control and make poor decisions, but I’m aware enough to know my therapist is not a dating option. But does that mean forever?

  “If we stopped doing the client-therapist thing,” I say, “would there ever be a time we could have contact? Or is all that null and void because of this stuff?” I’ve basically just spewed my thoughts out loud, but she’s used to that sort of thing.

  “Null and void,” she says firmly, automatically. It feels cold, like the moment when a fire finally dies out.

  My disappointment must be visible because she smiles and humors me by saying, “Besides, you wouldn’t want to date someone who knows this much about you, would you?”

  I don’t see it in that context. I just see all the ways she makes me feel good, despite knowing all my bullshit.

  “Or to put it another way,” she continues, “you’ve said you don’t like it when Jules tries to ‘figure you out’ as far as why you started heroin. Your upbringing has left you with difficulties getting close to others, so naturally you don’t want to expose your deepest hurts at the very start of a relationship.”

  “See, we’d never have to go through that. Already past it.” I grin triumphantly.

  “Oh, I’d never stop pointing out how you were manifesting your issues, Daniel,” she says with a small laugh. “You’d very quickly tire of me, just—”

  Again, she stops herself and I can just about fill in what she would have said: Just like the rest of them. As if she’s had a series of relationships gone bad because she couldn’t keep from diagnosing her partners. Poor sods.

  “Something I’d have to live with,” I say with a wink. I want her to know I’m breezing by her inadvertent admission. It would kill her for me to point out I knew exactly what she was saying, and I don’t want her to feel exposed like that. I know what that unwanted exposure feels like, after all.

  “Hypothetically, anyway.” She taps her pen on her notepad. “So, let’s talk about how things have gone since I saw you last.”

  24

  “What do you talk about in those therapy sessions, anyway?”

  Jules is eyeing me from her side of the bathtub we’re sharing. It’s the big jacuzzi tub in Shay’s master bathroom. I rarely go into his bedroom, not since that time I fucked up and made an ass of myself with Jessica. And I’ve never used the tub. I’m more of a shower guy.

  But Jules loves her soaks and has asked several times for us to share one. After our less than successful attempt at a date, I haven’t made much of an effort to do things the proper way. We’ve reverted to the familiar routine I had hoped to avoid for a minute there. It’s been all informal hanging out, getting the dogs out for walks or hikes, and going to parties. The constant is plenty of drink and a lack of depth to our conversations. Whereas I understand she’s my substitute for heroin, I still don’t know what I do for her. She seems content with the fact that I never returned her sentiment of supposedly loving me, which I appreciate.

  I got to thinking of that and decided it might be wise of me to give her a little something, and I came up with the tub idea. I went the whole way and set up the room with candles, bubble bath, champagne, and even bloody Sade playing in the background.

  Jules was delighted, and I found I don’t mind it. The water is warm, and the company is good.

  Until she asks about my dear Ms. Patterson.

  “Em, just the usual therapy bullshit,” I say, trying to evade a real answer. Because that real answer would mean confessing that a good part of the last session we had was about me wanting to see Ms. Patterson in a much more personal way.

  She trails her toes over my ribs and asks, “Do you ever talk about me?”

  I can’t be sure exactly what she’s after with this, but I decide to be honest. “Yeah, I told her I’d met you. Told her the very same day, in fact.”

  “The same day? You had a session planned that day?”

  “No. I dropped in on her. I didn’t think it could wait.”

  Jules smiles, and it’s obvious she’s charmed. But it’s for all the wrong reasons.

  “I knew that first day you fancied me,” she says, “with all that stumbling over yourself to claim you weren’t really a Southsider and all.”

  She’s smiling at me and looks so pleased that I don’t have the heart to correct her.

  “I was rather overwhelmed after our meeting, love,” I tell her. “Tell me something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why’d you kiss me in the park so sudden like?”

  Her smile fades a little and when she recovers it, the joy is gone. “You know why,” she says softly.

  “Tell me.”

  She shakes her head a little, wary.

  “I want to hear you tell me.”

  With a little shrug, she straightens against the tub and draws her knees to her che
st. “I wanted you to know my interest wasn’t in him.”

  “Who?” For once, I want her to say his name. Because if she does so in the way I think she will, it will confirm my suspicions about how all this came to be with us—that is, by kissing me, she was only trying to prove a negative.

  Now she rolls her eyes. “What are you playing at? I thought we were having a romantic moment here?”

  Maybe I should stop. But that’s not who I am. “You’re saying you kissed me because you wanted to show you weren’t interested in who?”

  She sighs and drops her hands abruptly, splashing water and bubbles up. “Gavin. You know, the fella you were imagining I had some kind of crazy plan to get to through you?” she says with exasperation.

  So, there it is. Just what I knew she’d say. She kissed me to distract me from thinking that she was after my connection to McManus. Only, she didn’t realize the spark it would ignite. She didn’t expect how massive our attraction and our need to escape in each other would be. Should I just count myself lucky that it worked out that way? That even if we’re just doing this co-dependent thing with each other, it’s better than being alone?

  “Do you have regrets, Danny Boy?” she asks.

  The question gets to the heart of my internal debate. It’s a wake-up call as I realize I don’t need to get stuck in my own head any longer. It’s time to just let this thing be whatever it’s gonna be.

  “No, love,” I tell her. “If there’s one thing about me, it’s that I don’t do regrets.”

  “That simple, huh?”

  “Has to be. Why? Do you regret kissing me in the park?”

  She makes a show of thinking about it just to annoy me, but I keep my patience.

  “No, I don’t. I just wish it wasn’t so hard to convince you that I like you. Or, I guess I should say, I wish it wasn’t so hard for you to believe I could like you.”

  She hasn’t been shy about telling me she’s into me. I haven’t returned the favor much. Being naked in this tub with her seems like the perfect place to be more intimate with her—in terms of sharing things, that is. I can, and do, have sex with her wherever I want, so it isn’t about that. I decide to take a gamble and finally answer the question she posed during our date.