CHAPTER SIXTEEN

She got up early the next day—maybe just to prove she could—and I stood in the doorway between our rooms and watched her get dressed.

It felt incredibly intimate, but she didn’t tell me to go.

Her cheeks were pink as she slipped on her yoga set. It looked so good on her, hugging her curves. I tilted my head and enjoyed the way she fussed with it in the mirror, tugging the bra and adjusting the waist, turning in a circle to make sure it laid flat.

She put on her sneakers and grabbed her suitcase, but I closed my fingers over the handle, pulling it from her grip. She froze, inches from me, dark eyes wide.

“I’ll get that,” I said.

She didn’t protest as I walked her out to the car, and she didn’t say a word when I opened her door and guided her in with a hand on her lower back.

Why was I feeling like this? Like she was mine or something? Maybe because it had been so long since I’d spent the whole night with a hookup. Or maybe because…she didn’t feel like a hookup.

She felt like so much more.

We both kept quiet on the drive back. What we’d done the last two nights was a palpable presence, like a silent specter in the backseat.

Neither of us said a word when we parted.

I took the Kawasaki home, and Circe went to drop the report off to her father. It was late when I got back to my apartment after stopping by the empty training center to get my workout in. My body was still tense when I got on my Kawasaki to head home. Inside, I was coiled and restless, a caged animal.

I thought about staying up to watch TV, but my eyes were starting to ache. So I went home, took a sleeping pill because I didn’t need a sleepless night thinking about Circe, and collapsed into bed.

The night felt like it was a hundred years long. I rolled fitfully. My feet hurt, my body ached. Slowly, I became aware I was waking up, but it was different than usual, like swimming through water towards a bright light.

My eyes opened, and my entire body went rigid. I was on a couch with a blanket that smelled of sweet perfume over my body. The ceiling overhead was unfamiliar.

I sat upright, heart thudding. I wasn’t in my apartment or my bed anymore. Instead, I was on a couch in the center of an expensive, minimalist apartment that smelled faintly of flowers. To my left was a woman with her back to me, steam rising in a cloud from a glass teapot.

Circe?

No, not Circe. She turned around, and my jaw dropped. It was a slender, middle-aged woman with silvery blonde hair and slightly feline features.

“Gretchen Hughes?”

Somehow, I was in the living room of Merrick’s therapist, the same one he’d begged me to start seeing for the last ten years. The same one who I used to tell Merrick I was going to fuck just to see him get riled up, back before I embarked on my mission to be less of a dick.

She offered me a motherly smile, leaning back against the counter. “How are you feeling, darling?”

My mind churned. I looked around, at a loss for what to think. “Did you—what the fuck is happening? How did I get here?”

She laughed, a tinkling sound. Then, she sobered and picked up the tray with the blooming tea and crossed the room. She laid it down before me and dusted her hands while I stared blankly at the tea and toast.

“Uh, what’s going on?” I repeated.

She sank down on the coffee table, tucking her ankles. “You showed up at my door at three in the morning last night.”

My stomach flipped. “I sleepwalked?”

She shook her head, pursing her lips. “You drove your motorbike here, darling. In your sleep, in just your sweatpants. So I put you to bed, but I haven’t called Merrick, since I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

“Fuck.” My stomach dropped. “Fuck, that’s not good.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not.”

We sat there in silence. The steam rising from the blooming smelled faintly of jasmine. Warm, pale sun fell through the windows. I’d never been in Gretchen’s home office because, despite Merrick pleading with me, I’d refused to go to therapy.

But some part of me must have wanted this, deep in my subconscious, or I wouldn’t be here.

Gretchen reached out and patted my knee. “I canceled my morning appointment. I think maybe we should talk.”

I didn’t protest this time. How could I when I’d just driven a motorcycle through Providence in my sleep? Clearly, I needed some kind of help.

“Eat your toast, darling,” she said, standing and clicking across the floor in her heels.

I pushed aside the blanket and sat up against the back of the couch. Still numb, I obeyed. The toast wasn’t bad, the bread tasting like it was fresh from the bakery, crunchy and buttery.

Gretchen returned, sinking down on the far end of the couch. She crossed one leg over the other and laid a legal pad on her thigh.

“You’re not my therapist,” I said.

“I’m giving you a freebie,” she said, unbothered. “Take it like a good boy.”

I laughed, my shoulders easing. “Yes, ma’am.”

She smirked and fixed her eyes on me. “Alright, let’s talk. I know Merrick has been trying to get you to come to therapy. I’m just not sure why he cares about you so deeply. It’s more than just a work relationship. Are you willing to talk about that?”

My stomach froze.

I never told anyone I was Merrick’s son. Maybe because I wasn’t good at letting people love me, and everyone would see how I’d kept him at arm’s length.

Or maybe because they’d doubt everything I’d done. They’d say the way I’d pulled myself up from rock bottom was nothing.

But more likely, it was because, deep down, I didn”t thinkI deserved Merrick’s love, and I wasn’t ready to say that to myself, much less to anyone else.

So, I fell back on the nepotism card.

Merrick hadn’t offered me my position as his right hand and training commander because I was his son. He’d offered it because I was top of every single class for the first five years, because I could beat the shit out of everyone in combat training, and because I knew weapons and was good at getting what I wanted.

I’d learned two things quickly growing up—how to read people and how to defend myself.

“Caden?”

My lips parted. “This is confidential, right? Even if it’s just a freebie?”

She nodded. “Nothing you say goes anywhere. I will never share anything about you to Merrick or vice versa.”

I cleared my throat, eyes on the floor, staring at the tip of her beige heel.

“Merrick’s my father,” I said hoarsely.

She made a note. “I thought so. Either that, or your uncle.”

“Why?” I frowned.

“I’ve been his therapist for a long time. Your faces move the same.”

I sighed, running a hand over my face. “I think sometimes people can tell, but they don’t want to be the first to say anything.”

She folded her hands, flicking the pen absently. “Why don’t you want people to know?”

“I want to earn what I have,” I said.

“I see,” she said skeptically. “Do your peers respect you?”

I nodded.

“The men you train?”

“It seems like it.”

“And you don’t think that work you put in to earn respect will have staying power?”

I sighed. “I don’t know.”

Gretchen made a note. “Tell me how your childhood was in three words.”

I didn’t have to think about it. “Lonely. Painful. Violent.”

Gretchen was a true professional. Nothing changed in her face—I could have been talking about the weather. “Can you tell me who the culprit was?”

I cleared my throat, and she pursed her lips.

“You’d like coffee instead of tea?”

“I’m more of a pour over and espresso guy.”

“Like father, like son.” She rose and busied herself in the kitchen. In minutes, the rich scent of coffee filled the sunny apartment. When she returned, she handed me a cup and sat back down, this time in the chair opposite me.

“Alright,” she said briskly. “Who was it?”

“Stepdad,” I sighed. “Mom, maybe some. I don’t know. How do you blame an addict for their disease?”

“Many people do.”

I shook my head. “I…can’t.”

“You love her,” she said softly.

I cleared my throat again. “I loved her. She’s gone.”

“You love her even though she hurt you.” Gretchen’s voice felt thin, like fine threads.

I nodded, wordless.

There was a long silence. Then ,Gretchen made another note. It bothered me that she kept writing down things about me, but that was her job, so I resolutely kept my mouth shut.

“Let’s pivot,” she said. “Have you ever received any formal diagnosis?”

I flexed my wrist. “I have some nerve damage in my left hand. Did physical therapy for it.”

She smiled. “I meant a psychiatric diagnosis.”

“No,” I said firmly.

“I’d like to run you through a pre-evaluation test,” she said. “Or two.”

My eyes narrowed. “Why?”

She chewed her lip, thinking for a minute. “Has your father ever talked about his own mental health to you?”

I nodded. “I know you diagnosed him with adult ADHD and OCD. Also, I’d rather you called him by his name and not…by what he is to me.”

“It’s called exposure therapy, darling,” she said, making another annoying note. “Anyway, Merrick’s diagnosis is genetic. Your chances of inheriting ADHD are high, and even higher if your mother had it.”

“Well, that fucks me, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

I laughed, but the sound was dry. “Alright, I’ll take it.”

My phone dinged, and I realized I must have put it in my pocket in my sleep. I pulled it out, and an email popped up from Gretchen. It was a single link, which revealed a thirty-five-page evaluation, single spaced.

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Better clear that schedule today,” she said brightly. “Now, I’d like to see you back here in a few days. How does Monday work?”

I stared down at the first question. The entire world went quiet—except for all the roaring I always had in the very back of my mind. The very first line stared back at me like it was the only thing in the world.

How often do you feel like you’re a car in park with your foot pressing the gas all the way down?

I knew the answer to that: every minute of every goddamn day.

How likely are you to engage in risky behavior such as using drugs, driving too fast, or engaging in unsafe casual sex?

Ouch.

I lifted my eyes to Gretchen, who had a knowing look on her face.

“Monday works,” I said grimly.

She rose and moved gracefully to the kitchen again. There was an iPad on the counter, which she swiped on to reveal a calendar. I got up too, adjusting my pants. I was a little uncomfortable that I was in her kitchen naked except for my sweatpants. Apparently, my sleepwalking brain hadn’t considered underwear a necessity.

She turned around. “Would you like some steak and eggs?”

“Fuck, yes,” I said. “I’m fucking starving.”

She took a pan out, flipped it, and laid it on the stove. “Sleepwalking works up an appetite. Now, tell me what you think your worst trait is.”

I balked. “Um…how can I pick just one?”

“Do your best.” She took a pack of meat and an egg carton from the fridge. “Let me guess…you’re a little on the rare side of medium rare?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Anyway, answer me, please.”

“Are you asking my worst trait, or what I hate the most?”

“The latter, I suppose.”

I blew out a breath. “I’m self-destructive. Anytime something good happens, I just get this urge to fuck up. I have to hurt myself or lose the thing that’s making my life better.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Maybe I fucking hate myself, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I don’t deserve good things.”

She laid the steaks out, the pan sizzling. “But you know you’re Merrick’s best.”

“I do,” I said, touching my temple. “In here.”

“You never thought to seek therapy for this,” she mused. “Do you think you’re addicted to your own pain? That you run off the fumes of it like an adrenaline high?”

My stomach twisted. There was an annoying lump in my throat. “I don’t have anything else to drive me.”

“You think your best comes from feeling like you’re not enough,” she said softly. “That’s not an uncommon train of thought.”

I swallowed. The steaks sizzled as she flipped them. “Can I smoke on your balcony?”

She nodded, reaching into the drawer by the stove and removing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I took them without speaking and crossed the room, pulling aside the glass doors. It was a balmy day outside, around nine in the morning. A dove cooed from the church rooftop down below, and the ocean glittered on the horizon.

I lit the cigarette and inhaled, holding it. Into my head came the last time I’d had a smoke: on the balcony, the most beautiful woman I’d ever met laying naked in bed behind me.

Circe.

In the distance, I could see the faint smudge of Johansen Enterprises. She was sitting in her office right now in a mauve pencil dress, the fabric hugging her body, with those tall fucking heels that I wanted over my shoulders tucked under her desk. There was probably soft harp music playing, and everything smelled like hyacinths.

My dick woke up at the mental image of her face. I glanced down, trying to think of anything else.

“Caden, how do you like your eggs?” Gretchen called.

“Over medium, please,” I said. “Thanks.”

Luckily, it took long enough for her to make the eggs for my dick to go back to sleep. I ducked back inside once it was behaving then stubbed out the cigarette in the sink and tossed it. She laid a plate in front of me, and my stomach twisted at the sight.

“Do you exercise obsessively?” she asked.

I glanced sideways, frowning. “You have an interesting style of therapy.”

“It works for me.”

“Why do you ask?”

She glanced over. “You’re very lean.”

I cut my steak, a little blood pooling on the plate. “Hitting on me, Gretchen?”

She laughed. “If I recall, you used to hit on me at parties, and I’d turn you down cold.”

“Yeah, well,” I said. “I turned over a new leaf.”

I bit into the steak and my brows rose. She nodded, smiling.

“It’s good,” she said. “That’s always a favorite with some of my late-night clients. Do you prefer sleeping with women older than yourself?”

I took another bite of steak, chewed it. “Yeah, I started fucking my neighbor when I was around eighteen. She was in her late thirties.”

“What’s your cut off?”

“I don’t have a cut off, more like a preferred age. Maybe forties to fifties.”

“Well, we’d never have worked. I like them older too.”

“I think I was mainly trying to antagonize Merrick by hitting on you. I respect you, Gretchen.”

The words felt forced, but I was really trying to be more honest, with myself and everyone else. She cut her steak primly but didn’t answer for a moment.

“Do you need an apology for my past behavior?” I asked dryly.

She shook her head, giving me a look. “No. I’m just thinking about you because you’re an interesting case. I haven’t had anyone as complex as you in a while.”

“Really?” I said. “Who was the last one?”

She took her time, eating a piece of steak and patting her lipstick with a napkin. Finally, she sighed. “Your father.”

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. She could tell; I knew it because neither of us spoke while we finished eating. Then, she cleared the plates and brought me a plain white t-shirt and a pair of men’s sneakers. I eyed them warily.

“Are these…from your ex or something?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I ordered them from the store when you showed up in just your pants. You can keep them, darling. Now, you have to go; my next appointment will be here soon.”

I pulled the shoes and shirt on and left. She watched me from the door, her eyes narrowed in thought. I sank down on the Kawasaki, surprised to find I’d worn my helmet and hung it on the handlebar.

“Caden,” she called. “Did you take a sleeping pill before you went to sleep last night, darling?”

“I did, actually.”

“I’d say that’s what happened, but don’t sleep alone until you can figure this out,” she called. “Call your father; he’s got a spare room.”

The thought of asking my father to watch me and make sure I didn’t wander off sounded like hell. I nodded once, fitting on my helmet and kicking off the ground. I could feel her eyes on me, and it wasn’t making me feel better that she hadn’t had a case like mine since…Merrick.

Back at my apartment, I pulled the Kawasaki into the garage and headed upstairs. I’d shut the door but not locked it, which made my scalp prickle. I was meticulous about locking my front door.

I showered quickly, changed into my fatigues, and did a round of the apartment. Everything was in perfect order except for one thing: the back burner on the electric stove was on low.

My heart thumped, increasing in speed.

Fuck, I was going to set my apartment building on fire or wreck my motorcycle if I did this again.

I stood in the middle of the apartment staring blankly at the wall.

My phone rang, and I swiped it off, ignoring Yale’s message asking where I was. He could wait. Right now, I needed to figure out how to get my ass safely through the night.

Maybe it was time to swallow my pride.