Chapter 19 – Amanda
Chapter Nineteen
Amanda
Idon’t see how I can help, but Ethan insists I have the same skills as a hostage negotiator because of my “fancy doctor letters”.
I don’t approve of abusing my status to manipulate someone, but I won’t lie…
Most of the people involved with this organization need some type of therapy.
Wyatt suffers from control issues as the eldest son and remains constantly anxious that he’ll die suddenly because of what happened to his dad.
Anna holds him down but buries her problems in her family and is adding to her nursing education.
She worries about her husband about as much as I worry about Ethan.
My other brother-in-law, Owen, continues to gamble at the worst times. Vickie supports his much slower path to healing, but she worries about continuing to work in night life as their kids get older. They all crave balance. Family. Connection. But there are still elements of the past that haunt us.
Word finally reached mine and Ethan’s home in Missouri about the fucked up situation at the club’s quarterly meeting.
Nobody seems bothered by the criminal aspect of the entire affair, but I’m definitely disturbed by the thought of someone drugging two members of a dangerous outlaw biker gang to set up a pregnancy pact.
Ethan remains unbothered. I told him to leave my office with five minutes to spare before the appointment, but he lingers around dusting various surfaces and making an excuse to stay close to me – and exert whatever control he can over the situation ever since he’s been another sixteen weeks clean gambling.
(He slipped up betting on Final Gambit at the Kentucky Derby and lost $1,000.)
“Oske knows something,” Ethan says. “Pry it out of her with all the force you therapists use.”
“You know that’s not how it works,” I answer from my chair, flipping the page and reviewing my notes from The Let Them Theory by Mel Robbins. The messages in that book align with what I learned in school and might relate to Oske’s situation.
“Don’t let her manipulate you.”
“Oske isn’t a criminal mastermind, Ethan. She’s a regular woman with a troubled past. It’s that simple.”
“She called me a baboon.”
“For no reason?”
Ethan turns to me, his fist clenching unconsciously around the duster.
It wasn’t for no reason. Ethan had gotten into Oske’s stash of tequila from her trip to Mexico and shared half the bottle with Zebulon Blackwood and Reed Hollingsworth.
He claims it was an honest mistake, but Oske has every right to be upset too.
“I apologized and reimbursed her.”
“She’s not a bad person,” I remind Ethan. “Not liking bikers doesn’t make someone a bad person.”
Ethan scoffs. “For a woman who hates bikers, she finds a way to spend every waking moment of her life around us.”
“It’s not up to you to judge.”
“Okay, baby,” Ethan mutters, wandering over to me and kissing me on the forehead. “I’ll get out of your space.”
“Get yourself one of those matcha lattes you like so much.”
“Do not tell anyone I drink those,” Ethan says seriously. This is the third time he’s threatened me subtly over exposing him and it’s starting to get ridiculous.
“I get it. Classified information.”
“Classified.”
He kisses me again and warmth spreads through me.
Every time he leaves, I wish he didn’t have to go.
Thank goodness he has an ass like Saquon Barkley’s, so watching him leave isn’t all bad.
I bite my lip as I glance over at my husband’s sexy butt before he shuts my office door.
Let’s just hope his man musk dissipates from the room before Oske gets here.
I don’t want to accidentally trigger her fear response…
I throw on a couple essential oils from my homegirl’s pyramid scheme – long story – into my diffuser and examine my notes again.
The bikers want me to find out if Oske drugged Magnum or Damara, but I have to admit that I’m just plain curious about Oske and she has her own reasons for meeting up with me.
I need help, honestly. Maybe therapy would be good for me.
I have to say, admitting that puts her miles ahead of most people involved in the biker club.
I’ve heard Gideon say some insane things about therapy for a man who basically has PTSD.
But it’s none of my business, really. I know I have nosy tendencies – it’s a part of what drew me to my profession originally.
However, I have to state plainly, everyone involved knows that I’m acting far outside of professional bounds.
This is a personal favor – like showing a plantar wart to your friend who works as a pediatrician – not an official diagnostic setting.
Oske arrives three minutes late, but she doesn’t seem like she was late out of defiance.
She glances around my empty office nervously before I assure her that everything she says to me is entirely confidential.
My husband can’t force me to violate my commitment to my profession, no matter how much he pressures me.
“I’m curious why you came in today,” I tell Oske as she sits down. “But I want you to view this session as an exploration of your inner world. I have no agenda and neither should you.”
“I’m here because I need help,” Oske says bluntly.
She considers me curiously, unafraid of hiding her skepticism that therapy could be useful to her.
As a black woman, I completely understand her hesitation to trust people in the field of mental health.
It’s part of why I became a therapist. I never intended to end up in the custody of the bikers.
I never expected to fall in love with Ethan.
But if I can use my connection to these chaotic (and sometimes downright demonic) white men to make a difference in the world, I’ll do pro bono work when it feels right. I find Oske’s self-awareness fascinating and not a common trait in the world of the bikers.
“What do you think you need help with? I’m surprised that you agreed to meet with me, especially since the bikers have the crazy idea you were involved with a situation you were nowhere near.”
I’m not playing a game by pretending to be on Oske’s side.
Part of why I agreed to this meeting is because I’m fairly sure Oske had nothing to do with what they claimed.
They can’t provide a motive. As a psychologist, I have a fair understanding of everyone involved and this doesn’t seem like a situation Oske would get involved in when she already has everything she wants from the club.
“I need someone to tell me why I’m so attached to this club of absolute idiots,” Oske says.
“In fact, I need to understand why I feel like it’s my job to fix everyone around me.
I have had plenty of chances to leave these men alone.
I have everything I thought I wanted but…
I’m still here. Still a bar wench in Oklahoma. ”
I never knew that Oske thought of herself as “bar wench”, but I try to keep my internal reactions private so I can give her as much of my professional attention as possible. If I can provide her some insight into her own reactions, I would consider that a victory.
“We all have our reasons for doing things. Would you like to be somewhere else? You don’t have to view this session as here to fix you. There are other ways a therapist can support you.”
“I’m in a toxic relationship with this club,” Oske says bluntly. “I’m in a toxic relationship with myself. My whole life I dreamed of getting off the rez but the truth is… the happiest times in my life were chasing my brothers with a wooden spoon playing our stupid games…”
Oske has effortlessly tanned skin, the same shade as Salma Hayek’s.
Her hair is even longer. I notice that she wears it in two equally parted braids for our session when normally she has it in a single braid or a ponytail.
She seems to be missing this connection to her past, which I can honestly relate to as a black woman married into a club of dangerous outlaw bikers.
“It’s normal to have a strong connection to your past.”
“There’s nothing left there for me,” Oske says bluntly. “I have all the money I could ever need. I gave my brothers their share of land from my mother’s will. I should be able to leave and never look back.”
“Maybe there’s a sense of family keeping you here.”
“These white men are not my family. My brothers are… I act like they need me, but they don’t anymore. Wyatt promised to take care of them and ever since they started working for him, they’ve stayed out of trouble.”
Oske clearly feels a familial attachment to Wyatt, but it’s easy for me to understand why that would make her guilty too.
I came late to the party, but I’ve hung around enough people in the club and heard snippets of the past to understand the gist of the story.
Wyatt’s father did some dirt to the Native Americans out here and while he tried to make it right, the wounds still exist.
Wyatt’s sense of justice on an individual level doesn’t change the power dynamic and it doesn’t change Oske’s feelings about the matter.
Everything here suggests Oske’s issues lately have been more about herself and how she fits within the organization.
I don’t think she gives a crap about Magnum Sinclair, even if we have the rest of the session for me to probe further into that line of discussion.
I nod and wait for Oske to fill the silence. It’s a tactic that works well, even on the most recalcitrant.
“Why can’t I move on? It should be easy now. They’re accusing me of something I had nothing to do with.”
“So you’re coming here for insight?”
“Yes. You can explain why people are so fucked up, right? I need answers.”
“You had nothing to do with Magnum and Damara?”
Oske rolls her eyes. “Of course not. Magnum might be a dick head, but I learned my lesson after Keyshawn married Deacon. I thought she planned on getting a little extra cash and disappearing. I didn’t know I was full on trafficking her!”
She groans and leans her head back. “I swear, Dr. Yancey. Trouble finds me. Can I call you that, Amanda? I need to act like you don’t know me in real life so I don’t explode.”
“You can call me whatever makes you comfortable, Oske. We’re here to process.”
Process. Heal. Whatever you want to call it. Oske might not have participated, but maybe her understanding of the bikers will help discover who came up with this plot indirectly. I can be patient – good things come to those who wait.