Asher furrowed his brows. “You said you’d be home at six.”
“Yeah, I did. Why can’t you just call me?”
“This is a request that should be made in person.”
Rocky just blinked.
“It’s not sexual,” Asher said.
From inside the car, Dandridge started laughing. “Never a dull moment with you, Dunleavy.”
Asher’s lips twitched but didn’t curve into a smile. “I’ll call you if something comes up and I’m running late.”
Rocky should’ve told him not to bother, then insisted he didn’t want to see Asher again. Instead, he said, “You remember where I live?”
Asher’s gaze darkened, and Rocky had no trouble interpreting his emotion. Longing—absolute and undiluted after all their time apart. Rocky had fled to Savannah fifteen months ago and Asher had followed. They’d spent a weekend locked together in the tiny house but hadn’t resolved anything by the time Asher boarded his plane a few days later.
“Oh yeah,” Asher said huskily before climbing into the SUV.
Dandridge drove off as soon as Asher shut the door, leaving Rocky with a heart more tattered than his jeans.
Karen Hollingsworth looked up from the newspaper in her hands. “You’re late.”
“Would you like to see my manager, Karen?” Rocky asked.
“Ha, ha, ha,” she said dryly. “Like I’ve never heard that one before.” She set the paper on her desk, then folded her hands on top of it. Karen wore the same navy blue nail polish each week. It was calm and cool like the woman who’d chosen it. Was it her signature color or was she just on a kick? Time would tell. Fuck. There were those three words again. “Close the door and sit your smart ass down.”
Rocky flopped down onto the couch. “You’re not what I imagined a psychologist would be like.” He’d pictured soft voices and empathetic gestures, and he’d received them when the situation warranted it, but more often than not, she’d demonstrated what Rocky would call tough love.
She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“I’m not sure I meant it as a compliment, Karen.”
“I’ll take it as one anyway,” she replied. “I guess we’re even because you’re not what I imagined a private detective would be either.” She picked up a remote from her desk. “What are you in the mood for today?”
“Blues rock,” he replied. Rocky closed his eyes and focused on his breathing like she’d instructed him during his first visit. “Always blues rock.”
The familiar music of BB King filled the room, soothing the tension in his body. Rocky opened his eyes and slowly brought her office into focus. He liked the pale blue walls and the various watercolor paintings of wooded landscapes and lighthouses on rocky shores. If he stared at them long enough, he could almost hear the wind whipping through the tall blades of grass or the waves crashing against the rocks.
“Would you like something to drink?” Karen asked. “You seem a little frazzled and disheveled.” There was the empathy and kindness he’d expected.
“Some water would be nice.”
“You know where the refrigerator is,” she reminded him. There was the tough love he admired.
Rocky smiled as he rose from the couch and crossed the room to retrieve a bottle of water.
“Whoa,” Karen said. “Somebody is having a rough day.”
“Just don’t psychoanalyze my underwear choices,” Rocky said when he returned to the couch.
A wry smile briefly tugged at her lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Rocky sipped the water, then set the bottle down on the table. “So, where do we begin our session today?”
“We’re on your dime, so you tell me,” Karen said.
Scrunching up his face, Rocky said, “Shouldn’t you have some kind of master plan to guide me along this journey of healing and self-discovery?”
Karen quirked a brow. “Who says I don’t have a plan?”
“You’re letting me steer the ship.”
“And that can’t be part of my strategy?”
Rocky considered it for a second, then shrugged.
“There are two things at work here,” Karen said. “First, I haven’t earned your trust yet. We haven’t known each other for very long. Once you believe I can help you, I will adjust my approach.”
Rocky nodded. “What’s the second issue?”
“Forcing you to talk about traumatic events before you’re ready will only cause you more harm, and that’s the last thing I want.”
He’d completed the necessary intake forms, which had asked the reasons he sought therapy. Rocky had included a summary of the incident in Vegas, so she wasn’t merely making an educated guess that he’d lived through something dark and devastating.
“I’m here to help you, Rocky, which cycles back to the first issue,” she said. “Once you have faith in the process, you’ll be ready to open up to me. Until then, I want to help you in any way I can.”
Rocky repositioned himself to lie on the couch so he could stare up at the ceiling. It was the same pale blue as the walls, but someone had painted puffy white clouds on it to mimic the sky. It reminded Rocky of his lazy summer days when he was a little boy. He’d lie on his back and look for clues hidden in the clouds that proved his mother was really watching over him. On most days, Rocky felt like three centuries separated him from the boy he used to be instead of three decades.
Karen was right. Rocky didn’t fully trust her yet, but he needed to start somewhere if he ever wanted to find some semblance of peace. He had told the therapist he was tired of running during their initial consultation. Karen had asked follow-up questions to clarify if he’d meant literally or figuratively. Rocky had answered “both.” He had fled from Vegas a few months after the incident, and he’d been running in one form or another since. Today, he literally ran from Snickerdoodle, but most of his fleeing occurred in his sleep. The terrors differed from night to night, but they were all variations of him trying to get away from the awful event and the blood that still coated his soul.
He’d never be able to outrun the tragedy, wash it away, and he’d sure as hell never forget it. Rocky just needed to learn how to coexist better with the trauma. Karen assured him she could help, and he had to trust that much at least.
“I’m still not sleeping very well,” he said after a brief pause.
“Is it because of insomnia or nightmares?”
“Both,” Rocky admitted. “Mostly I just feel like a giant elephant is sitting on my chest.”
“Are the breathing exercises helping?”
He nodded, then reminded himself to use his words. “Yeah. The relief just doesn’t last. The pressure comes back when I least expect it sometimes.”
“That’s very normal. The breathing helps you deal with the symptoms, but it’s not a cure for anxiety.”
Rocky crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m just not sure how talking about my problems will make anything better.”
“Bottling up your emotions isn’t working for you very well.”
“Touché.”