10. Talia

Chapter 10

Talia

W hen I was thirteen, the monster inside me woke up. By the time I turned fourteen, she was constantly with me, flexing and scratching. The pressure was tangible, so agonizing, I’d curl into a ball on my bed for hours and shake with the effort of containing it.

In the months prior to our trip to Ireland, I was so exhausted from my nonstop efforts to manage the monster that my grades started slipping. My teachers grew worried. The school counselor talked to me, but I couldn’t tell her what I was feeling. I’d never been taught how.

Conversely, my parents failed to hide their relief when I brought home my first C. They’d always said they were proud of my academic achievements—especially when it came up around other adults—but I knew they weren’t. Not really. Even if I didn’t have the words to communicate my own feelings, I’d spent my life observing them and others. Always slightly apart from my peers, my family. Looking in from the outside.

My parents loved me, but it was an obligatory kind of love. I made them nervous. A little scared. I was the changeling who’d dropped into their home and upset their perfectly predictable lives. I was too much effort, too different. And when they thought I didn’t notice, they looked at me like the problems in their marriage were my fault.

If only she’d been a normal child.

When we returned home from Ireland, I grew even more depressed. I barely left my bed, preferring to sleep and float in daydreams of the boy I’d met in a graveyard. The first person I’d ever opened up to, who’d seen the real me and shown no fear or revulsion. When I thought about him, my monster was quiet.

My fantasies grew to epic proportions, each more grandiose than the last. My favorite was the one where his father was an Interpol agent with a computer program that could find anyone, anywhere. Kieran hacked the computer and tracked me down by cross-referencing passports with reservations at the hotel in Galway. He showed up outside my house in the middle of the night and tossed pebbles at my window. Our reunion was always the hardest part for me to envision as I had no life experience to draw from. There was some sort of embrace. A confession from him that he couldn’t stop thinking about me, either. It ended with a hazy epilogue of us running away together .

Then, about two months after our trip, my father moved out. Watching from the living room window as he packed boxes into a rented trunk while my mother drank wine in the backyard and Olivia hid in her room, I realized that fantasies were pointless.

No one was coming to free me, save me, or love me. I had to do it myself.

That was my awakening. The moment I stopped fighting the monster and her baby claws popped through my skin. It hurt like a muscle stretching—there was pleasure in the pain. Power I’d never felt before.

I was done kneeling to the world.

The session with Kieran stays with me like a mosquito bite, driving me half-mad over the next two days. I scratch at every word spoken. Struggle with the unprofessional urge to call him and make sure he’s okay.

I try and fail not to hijack his fantasy as my own. In a weak moment, I kneel naked in the shower and close my eyes to a vision of him doing exactly what he said. I imagine what he’d feel like. Sound like. I squeeze my own throat as I stroke myself to an explosive orgasm, then collapse in gasping, tearful shame.

I almost call Leo a dozen times. What stops me is the fear of the questions he’ll ask. The fear I’ll lie to him because I’m not ready to face the truth. My monster—tamed for years—is restless. Pacing. Her claws tickle the underside of my skin, an imminent threat.

I don’t sleep well Wednesday or Thursday, my dreams filled with vague catastrophes I don’t remember when I wake. My only relief comes at work. In my office, I’m not Talia, a woman still worried I’m not enough, that I’m failing. That I still haven’t found where I fit in the world. I’m Dr. Stirling: therapist, life coach, wizard. I’m compassionate and honest. My best self. I cradle my clients in my palms and stroke their tattered feathers. I feed them, soothe them, and help them learn to fly again.

The strain of balancing the schism within me catches up Friday evening. I’m so drained when I get home that I skip my normal after-work ritual of a shower and ten minutes of meditation.

Without bothering to change clothes, I make myself popcorn and grab a beer from the fridge, then slump onto my living room couch. Pulling a blanket around my shoulders, I close my eyes, telling myself I’ll open them in a minute. Eat a little. Watch a show.

In a minute…

The incessant vibration of my phone wakes me hours later. The room is dark, my popcorn cold, the beer warm.

“Okay, okay,” I mumble groggily, digging into the couch cushions where the device slipped. I manage to extract it. Squinting against the brightness of the screen, I see the time first—a quarter till midnight—and then the name of the caller.

Sven Akerman.

My stomach nosedives and I swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Sorry to call so late, Doctor.” He sounds the same as always. Gravel in the desert. There’s a fair amount of background noise wherever he is: feminine squeals, male laughter, and… was that a splash?

I’m now fully awake. The urge to ask if Kieran’s okay is pressing, but I force myself into therapist mode. “What can I do for you, Sven?”

He hesitates, then sighs. “I couldn’t reach Alistair and frankly, I’m at the end of my rope. I’d take a bullet for Kier, but right now I want to strangle him. I need help.”

In the background, there’s another loud splash, followed by laughter.

“Where is he?”

“Home. With fifteen guests.” The slight emphasis on the last word tells me these people aren’t friends so much as co-signers on Kieran’s bad ideas.

I hang onto professionalism with both hands. “I’m Kieran’s therapist, not his babysitter. What are you asking me to do?”

“Nothing, Doctor.” His voice is too dry. “Just thought you should know he started drinking Wednesday when he got home from the appointment and hasn’t stopped since.”

My heart skips.

“Give me the address. I’m on my way.”

Sometime in the last four years, Kieran moved to Malibu. His home is a sprawling, single-story retreat on a bluff overlooking a private beach. Alan could probably tell me who the architect is. All I know is it’s lovely, quintessentially modern but still inviting, the grounds overflowing with palm trees and greenery.

When I pull up to the closed gate, I put my car in park and grab my phone to text Sven. I’m about to press Send on the message when there’s a knock on my window.

“Shit!”

Palm to my chest, I roll down the window.

“Thanks for coming,” Sven rumbles.

“Thanks for the heart attack.”

His lips twitch before he walks a few steps and punches a code into a keypad. The gate starts to slide open, and he returns to my window. “Everyone is gone, as per your request.”

It was closer to an ultimatum. “Where is he now?”

“In the pool last I saw. Gabe’s keeping an eye on him.”

“How drunk is he?”

Sven shrugs one massive shoulder. “He’s Irish.”

I choke on inane laughter. “Was that a joke?”

“Nope.” One of his eyelids flutters, and I’m almost positive it’s a wink.

“And his mental state? Angry, happy, sad?”

“Irish,” he says blandly.

He turns and walks ahead of me down the driveway. Torn between the urge to laugh and scream through my teeth, I put the car in gear and follow. I pull around the loop and park adjacent to a four-car garage, then join Sven at the front door. He opens it for me and stands aside.

Nerves tickle in my stomach. I’m on his turf now. My composure is a toddler’s paper mache project—sloppy patchwork over a balloon of anxiety.

Desperate for more time to pull myself together, I ask, “When do you guys sleep?”

“When we’re tired.”

“Do you live here?”

He nods. “Guesthouse. Are you done stalling, Doctor? Because we’re not getting any younger.”

The drawled admonishment startles a laugh out of me. “I guess I am. Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Anytime. Walk straight through—can’t miss the pool. I’m going to turn on the boundary security system now. It’s motion activated, so shoot me a text when you’re ready to leave or you’ll wake up the West Coast.”

“Great,” I mutter, stepping into the house.

The door closes behind me. I drop my keys and phone onto the entryway table, then take in the expansive floor plan. The open kitchen, living, and dining area are done in soothing, cool-toned neutrals. A wood-beamed ceiling soars overhead, and airy hallways branch to either side of the great room. Opposite me is a series of dramatic, floor-to-ceiling glass panels, the middle a sliding door. I’m sure the view is spectacular during daylight; right now, all I can see is a shadowy outdoor entertainment area backlit by a blue glow from a pool beyond.

The air reeks of alcohol, food, and weed. Off to my right is a chef’s kitchen, the enormous island cluttered with dozens of bottles and cans, half-full glasses, and takeout containers. The rest of the space—a central, U-shaped collection of long couches and an enormous dining table to the left—are likewise trashed.

I step around a bikini top and sopping wet swim trunks. Skirting the couches, I approach the sliding panel. It’s open a crack. I listen but don’t hear any splashing.

Breathe. Hold. Exhale.

This isn’t the first house call I’ve been on for a client. It’s rare, but it happens. The process of healing isn’t gentle. There are always ups and downs, sometimes even U-turns and backflips. But in every way that counts, I know this is different. I’m not objective. I feel responsible. Guilty. Because this is him.

My soft-soled flats are silent as I slip outside and cross the deck, then walk down a set of steps to the pool. Cold, damp air sneaks under my blazer and makes my skin pebble.

A quick scan of the empty turquoise pool leads my gaze to the attached jacuzzi and the man sitting in it. His arms are spread over the cement behind him, his face shadowed. I can sense rather than see the force of his stare.

Pulling air into my tight lungs, I walk toward him. My heart drums in my ears, my breaths shallow and too fast. The closer I get, the less I know what to say. Not helping is the visual overload of him half-naked and wet, steam rising around him. He’s all muscle but not bulky, every inch of him beneath and above the clear water lean and defined.

A bead of red flares at his mouth. Smoke trails from his nostrils, curling upward and dispersing, and a breeze brings me a distinctive, pungent aroma wrapped in chlorine and brine from the Pacific.

I halt a few feet from the jacuzzi. Kieran pulls the joint from his mouth and taps ash onto cement behind him.

“If you call me Mr. Hayes, I’ll throw you in the pool.” His flinty expression and the flat, uncompromising tone tell me he’s not joking.

A few seconds pass before I find my voice.

“Noted.”

A tingle of awareness along my right side snaps my gaze toward a dark figure as it rises from a deck chair. I startle and for the second time tonight, my heart almost explodes.

“Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Make some noise, Gabe.”

Kieran chuckles softly.

“Sorry,” Gabe says, his dimpled smile belying the words. He glances at the jacuzzi. “Be nice, boss.”

Kieran grunts. Gabe gives me a parting nod and strides past me, disappearing up the stairs toward the house. I fantasize about following.

A heavy sigh brings my attention back to Kieran’s hooded eyes. “Either get in the jacuzzi or sit down. You’re putting a crick in my neck.”

I’m not sure which of us is more surprised when I toe off my shoes and roll my four-hundred-dollar trousers over my knees. I sit on the smooth lip of the jacuzzi—a safe distance from him—and drop my legs into the water. My eyes flutter shut on a sigh of somatic pleasure.

“Imagine what it feels like when more than your feet are in it,” he says dryly.

For a moment, I picture it. A different me in a different life, one wherein I wouldn’t hesitate to strip down and join this man in the water. In this alternate reality, I’d be softer, sweeter, my mind smooth curves instead of sharp angles. I’d ease his pain with my body. Quite possibly with my heart.

“Why’d you come, Stirling?”

Clearing my throat, I open my eyes. He takes another long drag of the joint, inspects it briefly, then flicks the nub at the row of deck chairs.

“Sven asked me to.”

He shakes his head. “He didn’t. He knows I’d fire him.”

“Would you?” I ask curiously.

He looks away. “Nah, but still.”

I stare at his profile. His furrowed brow. “I came because he told me this started after our session Wednesday.” I pause. “I wish you’d called me.”

He snorts. “I bet you do.”

“Kieran.” The use of his name—or more likely the note of pleading in my voice—turns his head. “Just tell me.”

“Tell you what?” His lips barely move.

Why your eyes are so angry and sad.

“The truth. ”

His head falls back, eyes sightless on the night sky. “It’s the damnedest thing,” he says, so softly I’m not sure he actually intends for me to hear. “I want to say, ‘I’ll tell you if you get in the water.’ Why? Why is it whenever I see you, I feel instantly defensive? Like we’re about to do battle and I need to attack first.”

I don’t speak. We both know why. Because this is battle. A war for his life and future.

His head rolls toward me. “I know you want to help me. I just don’t think you can.”

His words, his eyes, his tone—all empty, vacant—shatter my patchwork persona. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I’m just me. Just Talia. And he’s the boy who saved me in a rainy graveyard.

And goddammit, I’m going to save him back.