by Whitley Cox
Not every visit with her mother was like this, but when they were, it took a lot out of her. She needed a drink. She needed several drinks.
Have you been to the Rage Room?
Her mystery texter’s question came back to her. No, she hadn’t been to the Rage Room. But after that fiasco inside with her mother and the terrible week she’d had with Carlyle, Blaire, Forest and that jackass father of Aria’s, she needed to smash, destroy and demolish like her life depended on it.
With her chest still heaving, she brought up the directions to the Rage Room on her phone. Only nine minutes by bike. Perfect. And there was a liquor store in that same strip mall. Even better. She’d bash some stuff, grab a bottle—or two—of wine, and then go home to her flannel pajama pants, her empty fridge and her empty apartment and watch how serial killers operated.
Maybe her new friend would be holed up at home on a Saturday night, too. Could she ask him if he liked serial killer documentaries? Was that saying too much about her? Maybe they could watch one “together.”
She swung her leg over her bike, kicked up the stand and plopped her helmet on her head, tucking her hair beneath her leather jacket before she zipped it up. Pulling the visor down so she didn’t get bugs in her face, she turned the key and let her baby purr for a moment.
If the Rage Room was closed or full, she’d go for a ride into the mountains for a bit, let the throttle out and feel the speed and power beneath her. She needed some kind of outlet. Painting was usually one way of channeling her emotions, but after tonight with her mother, she couldn’t bear to even look at a paintbrush.
She taught her clients how to channel their emotions in positive, constructive ways. Using art to convey their feelings, to let out the demons and the pain that they kept bottled up, that ate away at them morning, noon and night.
But tonight, art just wasn’t going to cut it for her. She believed in her practice, whole-heartedly. Believed that art could and did change the way our brains processed grief and anger, sadness and confusion. But sometimes a canvas and paintbrush just weren’t enough. Sometimes the emotions were too intense; the pain too unbearable. The anger too scalding that if she didn’t let it out, didn’t embrace it, it would burn her from the inside out.
Tonight, she needed to maim and decimate. She needed to demolish things into tiny pieces until they resembled the last remaining fragments of her heart. Because after this week and seeing her mother just now, she wasn’t sure the pieces left were even salvageable.
7
“Ante up, boys, I’m dealing tonight,” Scott said, grabbing the deck of cards from in front of Atlas with a sly but cheesy grin. “You hog the cards, Atlas. Give someone else a turn.” He began to shuffle, his slightly crooked nose looking even more crooked in profile.
Atlas grunted and sipped his bourbon. He liked dealing, and the job usually fell to him. It was just another way of maintaining control. He wasn’t much of a gambler—never had been—but poker night at Liam’s was more than just ten guys playing cards and taking each other’s money. So much more. So that’s why he went. For the camaraderie, the support and the break from his children—as much as he loved them.
“How’s the therapist working out for Aria?” Zak asked, scrubbing a hand down his rusty beard and pulling on his chin. “You fall in love with Tessa yet?”
What the fuck?
Atlas’s head shot up from where he’d been staring at the ice in his glass.
Zak’s blue eyes sparkled. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
Atlas grunted and shrugged. “Haven’t really looked at her.”
It was Zak’s turn to snort, and he shook his head as he took a pull off his San Camanez summer wheat ale. “Is that the lie you’re telling yourself, then?”
“That’s the truth. I’m focused on my kid, dipshit. Now are we going to play fucking cards?” He glanced at the rest of the guys around the table, who were all watching the interaction between him and Zak with keen interest.
“We’re all focused on our kids,” Aaron said with a touch of snark. “Doesn’t mean we can’t also be focused on our women.” Aaron was another redhead, like Zak, and equally beefy and tattooed. Though unlike Zak, who owned a gym and worked out nearly as much as he breathed, Aaron was a former Navy SEAL turned contractor.
“I don’t have a woman,” Atlas retorted. “I’m focused on my kids.”
“And how is therapy helping Aria?” Mark asked, defusing the tension around them. “Gabe’s been doing therapy since his diagnosis, and then ever since Tori took over his intervention, he’s come leaps and bounds. If the kid and therapist are a good fit, it really can work wonders for them.”
Scott began to deal out the cards. “Yeah, we thought about sending Freddie to therapy after the divorce, but he adjusted pretty well, all things considered. That’s not to say I didn’t spend a shit-ton of time in a therapy office myself.”
Several of the other men around the table nodded to agree that they too had been in therapy and found it helpful.
Atlas merely grunted.
He’d been forced into therapy and hadn’t found it helpful in the least.
“How many sessions has she had?” Mark asked.
“Two.” He was still hung up on Zak’s question about whether he was in love with Tessa already. What the fuck kind of question was that? Had Zak fallen in love with her? Was that why he was asking?
“So not enough to really tell if it’s working yet, then,” Adam chimed in. “It will though. Aria’s a good kid. She’s just going through some shit, which is totally understandable.” His smile was supportive as he fixed his gaze on Atlas. Mitch, who was sitting next to Adam, made the same face. Mitch was the only other widower in the group. His daughter Jayda was a sweetheart and seemed to have adjusted well to the new woman in her father’s life. Who just so happened to be Adam’s ex-wife.
Yeah, crazy.
Adam’s new partner, Violet (Mitch’s sister), was a widow, so once in a while she, Atlas and Mitch would go for coffee. It was usually prompted by one of them who was feeling a little dark—after a memory triggered a new wave of grief, or an anniversary of some kind with their deceased partner was coming up. Having other people in his life who understood his loss and daily struggle was a huge comfort. He needed Violet and Mitch almost as much as he needed the rest of the single dads.
“JoJo has been asking about Aria,” Emmett piped up. “Wants to know if they can get together for a playdate.”
Emmett’s daughter Josie, or “JoJo,” was six, but she and Aria got along like a house on fire. All the kids in their little makeshift family got along really well, thankfully. Tia, Mira, Jayda and JoJo—although all older than Aria by at least a few years—didn’t treat her like a baby and instead drew her under their protective wings and clucked around her like little mother hens. They had no problem letting her hang out with the “big girls.”
Atlas grunted as he nodded. “Maybe Sunday next weekend.”
Emmett grinned. “JoJo would love that.”
Atlas sniffed, though he didn’t actually have to. “I mean, I guess we could do it any time, seeing as I’ve been forced to take a mandatory leave of absence from work.” He lifted his head and hit Liam with a gaze he hoped made the man’s asshole pucker.
Judging by the look on Liam’s face, it had.
Now he had to stop thinking about another man’s asshole.
The table was suddenly dead quiet, and wary eyes shifted back and forth between Atlas and Liam.
Liam cleared his throat and chuckled, though it was clearly forced, and the unease on his face made Atlas smile inwardly. “It wasn’t mandatory. It was strongly encouraged.”
“You said I didn’t have a choice,” Atlas ground out, collecting all his cards after Scott had dealt everybody in. He fanned them out in his hand. “Sounds pretty mandatory to me.”
Liam fanned his own cards out in his hand. “And name partner will be there waiting for you when you get back. Look, Jerrika, Rocky
and myself are all parents, too. We understand that sometimes you have to take a step back and focus on family; otherwise everything else begins to suffer. We’re a family law practice. If we didn’t put family first, we may as well go into corporate litigation.” He snorted a laugh, but the joke was lost on everyone but Atlas, and even he didn’t think it was that funny.
“How long is this mandatory leave of absence?” Mitch asked, scratching the back of his neck, his green eyes probing. “Not indefinitely, if they’re holding name partner for you.”
“A month or so,” Liam said, shrugging. “Just until he gets some rest, gets Aria on track and maybe hires a part-time live-in nanny or something to help with nights if Cecily still won’t sleep. It’s not forever. And it’s not a leave of absence, it’s a sabbatical. People take them all the time.”
“It’s mandatory stress leave,” Atlas countered, not bothering to look at Liam.
Liam’s face turned incredulous before he polished off his short, stocky tumbler of scotch. “And I thought we were cool because I gave you my McGregor favor. Which, by the way, you never told me what it was for. Those favors are worth more than gold, so I hope you used it wisely.”
“None of your goddamn business,” Atlas replied.
Liam rolled his eyes and stood up. “God, you’re a snarky fuck. I’m getting another drink. Anybody else want one?”
A few heads bobbed, and others shook in dismissal.
“Are we going to play fucking cards or what?” Atlas barked, irritated that he had been the topic of conversation since they all sat down at the table.
“Untwist your G-string,” Liam said from behind his leather-top bar. “Just gimme a fucking minute. You guys place your bets.”
Fuck, he was in a bad mood now. He’d hoped to keep his stress leave under wraps, at least until he wrapped his own head around not working. And here he’d been the one to go and blurt it out. He thought for sure it would have been Liam and his big mouth. But nope.
Fuck.
“I gotta piss,” he murmured, getting up from the table just as Liam came to sit back down. He tossed his chips in the center, grabbed his cell phone that sat next to his bourbon and headed down the concrete-floored hallway toward Liam’s bathroom.
He didn’t actually have to piss, he just needed something to lift his mood. He brought up his phone, the mystery number and punched in a message.
Apt 204-7890 Ladybird Way. That’s where Forest is.
He pissed anyway because he was there and hoped that she was close enough to her phone he wouldn’t have to wait long for her response.
Thankfully, he didn’t.
OH MY GOD! How did you find this? Thank you! Thank you! I’m literally bawling right now I’m so happy.
His face split into a huge grin, and he opened the bathroom door, texting with his other hand. PI friend owed me a favor. Use that information wisely. I really hope you’re who you say you are and I’m not sending a serial killer to go and finish off his/her last two targets. And if I am, please spare the dog.
He snickered as he rounded the corner.
Did you see that serial killer documentary too? Spared the pets, even gave them treats and toys but offed the owners.
He had watched that documentary. He’d stayed up way too fucking late finishing it. He texted back. Made me kind of like the guy, to be honest. I’m a huge dog person, and he was just so kind to all the animals. Didn’t like him so much when he beheaded the owners with a chainsaw while they slept though.
He’d paused in the kitchen and was typing away, his cheeks hurting from smiling. Who’d have thought he would have found another serial killer documentary lover by way of random texting error?
“What the fuck’s got you so happy all of a sudden?” Aaron asked, wandering in the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that before.” He popped the cap and tossed it into the trash beneath the sink, taking a long pull on his lager. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you smile, period.”
“Nothing.” Atlas grunted as he waited for her to reply.
Aaron shook his head and wiped the back of his wrist over his mouth. “Sure doesn’t look like nothing. Iz makes me smile like that too when she messages me.” He lumbered back into the dining room, his T-shirt looking like it was about ready to snap off him, it was so fucking tight.
I completely agree about sympathizing with the killer. Honestly, though, I don’t know how to thank you for finding their address. I wish I could repay you somehow. But then that would break our code of … whatever this is. I went to the Rage Room tonight and it helped so much, thank you for the recommendation.
“You coming?” Liam called from the dining room.
Atlas grunted and shot a quick text back to her. Gotta run. Wanna watch a documentary tonight? We can text about it.
Then he stowed his phone in his pocket and joined the guys, hoping that when he finally got a chance to check his phone again, she had messaged him back and her answer was a resounding yes.
Between a successful demolition session at the Rage Room, taking the long way home on her bike, and the good news from her mystery friend, Tessa was practically floating around her apartment as she poured herself some wine and hunkered down on the couch in her pajamas.
Her new friend had texted her about half an hour ago saying he was just leaving his poker game and was heading home. They planned to start the same documentary at eleven and then text back and forth through it.
Was this a date?
She had no idea.
He was a widower, after all, and she was on the rebound.
Was she on the rebound?
Could you simply decide that you weren’t going to be “on the rebound”?
Either way, even if she was “on the rebound,” it wasn’t like she was jumping into bed with this guy. They were going to watch the same serial killer documentary at the same time in their respective living rooms while texting back and forth.
That was her kind of date. Pajamas, wine and a man who liked her taste in television. There was no need to get all gussied up, sit in a restaurant with a bunch of strangers and whisper as they ate overpriced food and egregiously overpriced wine.
Nope. Her ten-dollar special from the liquor store was doing her just fine.
Her phone said it was five minutes to eleven. She bounced on her toes as she cut up cucumbers and bell peppers to munch on. She hadn’t been this happy or this excited in far too long. And after the week she’d had—losing Forest, being dumped by Carlyle, being treated like an intruder by her mother, and enduring Aria’s jerk of a father—she needed this win more than ever.
Taking her container of veggies and her wine into the living room, she giggled as her phone in her pajama pants pocket buzzed.
Ready? was all it said.
She grinned like an idiot at the screen.
So ready! she texted back, bringing up the documentary on Netflix.
I’m hitting play. Are you hitting play?
She laughed again. This was so stupidly fun. Two grown-ass adults timing things like they were children trying to tape their favorite song off the radio. Kids today would not even know what that meant. I’m hitting play … now!
She hit play and sat back on her couch, munching on a cucumber slice.
They began to text back and forth over the course of the next thirty minutes. Mostly about the show and the serial killer but a bit about their lives as well. They seemed to have an unspoken understanding, though, to not dig too deep or ask questions that were too revealing. Everything remained rather vague. Like she knew he had two kids under four, but she didn’t know if they were boys or girls or one of each. And it felt too nosy and prying to ask. He also didn’t volunteer.
He also never asked her what she did for a living, and even though she was damn proud of all she’d accomplished career- and education-wise in her thirty-five years, she wasn’t ready to play her shrink card. Whether that
was an ace in her back pocket or a joker, she didn’t know.
Some people got all weird when they found she was a therapist. Or others, like Aria’s dad, Mr. Stark, thought she was some hack—at least that’s the vibe he was throwing her way. The guy was such a jerk. Too bad he was a hot jerk she’d found herself thinking about more than once over the weekend. Those gray eyes, that smoldering, broody demeanor. Why was she attracted to men who were clearly bad for her? Either enormous jerks like Carlyle, though she didn’t know he was a jerk until it was too late, or a grumpy widower like Mr. Stark.
Another text message buzzed on her phone, pulling her from her oh-so-confusing thoughts. So are you going to go to Carlyle and Blaire’s apartment and confront them?
She’d been thinking hard about that for the last few hours. What was she going to do? She couldn’t very well go knock on their door, walk in and just take back her dog. This wasn’t Legally Blonde.
She didn’t want to ask her mystery friend for more legal advice because, clearly, he wasn’t keen on giving it to her, but she wished she had somebody to talk this stuff through with.
To be honest, she really wished she could speak with her mystery friend. Hear his voice. He was the only person who knew what she was going through, and he’d been an incredibly big help. Not only uncovering Carlyle’s whereabouts, but also just being somebody she could vent to and use as a bit of a sounding board. He didn’t know her, know her family or her past, so like a therapist, she was going into this “relationship” with him with a blank slate.
Another text message buzzed. You still there?
Oh, right. She sipped her wine and tapped in a response. Yeah, sorry. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Carlyle. Can I just go up to his apartment and demand my dog back?
