Bloodlust

Chapter 16 #2

Dylan looked at her watch, then signaled the waiter to bring her check. As though he’d been assigned to wait on her exclusively, he’d been hovering near her table throughout her dinner at Ristorante Italiano. He glided over now and asked if she would like a refill of coffee.

“No thank you. Just my check please.”

He gave her an unctuous smile. “You’re Mr. Malone’s guest.”

“A paying guest,” she said.

“I wouldn’t hear of it,” said Roland in his gruff voice as he came toward them. He dismissed the waiter with a negligent hand motion and sat down across from Dylan at the table for two. “How was your meal?”

“Delicious. My compliments to your chef. But I really can’t let you treat me.”

“Nonsense.”

“It’s compromising, Roland.”

“Compromising? Who makes these rules? Who’s checking to see if they’re obeyed? Say thank you, and let that be the end of it.”

Against her better judgment, she thanked him and left it at that.

He’d been her patient for a while, but this was the first time she’d come to his restaurant. He’d often issued her off-handed invitations. “You need to eat at my place,” or “What’s your favorite Italian dish? I’ll have it made up special for you.”

But yesterday when he’d called her after weeks without hearing from him, he’d been surprisingly insistent that she accept his invitation. “You’ve done a lot for me. Let me repay you. How about tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow? That’s short notice. You’re probably already booked to capacity.”

“I own the place. You’ll have the best table.”

He’d continued to press. She’d run out of excuses, and, when she finally agreed, he’d said, “I’ll send a car for you. Be ready at six-thirty.”

“I’ll drive myself, thank you.”

“Unnecessary. I have a car and driver on standby. Most of the time I’m paying him to twiddle his thumbs.”

“I’ll come on my own, Roland, or not at all.”

“Jeez, you’re stubborn. What time should I expect you?”

“I’ll be there by eight.”

Tonight when she arrived, she’d been escorted to one of the more secluded tables in a corner. On it were a white damask tablecloth, a leather-bound menu with a silk tassel, a flickering candle, and a crystal decanter of red wine. But only one place setting.

She’d been vastly relieved that her client wouldn’t be joining her for the meal. Last evening she’d shared a table with Mitch Haskell. There’d been no tablecloth, candlelight, or wine. On the menu was a stenciled blue crawfish instead of a tassel.

And look where that had led.

“Glad I talked you into coming?” Roland asked now.

“I am. Very. Your timing was good. I needed a change of scenery.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

He’d asked the question casually, but he leaned back against the tufted velvet chair as though to scrutinize her more fully. He also began turning his pinkie ring, a habit she’d noticed during their first session. She’d once asked him what significance the ring held for him.

“It was my old man’s. He’s dead.”

He hadn’t elaborated, but she’d thought it telling that while he often referenced his mother, he never again had mentioned his father. Whenever she had subtly tried to steer him toward revealing more about their relationship, he had just as subtly switched topics.

In answer to his question, she said, “I thought a night out would do me good, that’s all. No specific reason.”

Which was a bald lie. The reason was her longing to have sex with her patient, Mitch Haskell. With very little guile or persuasion on his part, she’d crossed lines with him that couldn’t be uncrossed. If her misconduct were found out, her professional reputation would be irreparably damaged.

And, on a personal level, she had spent years carefully establishing barriers against romantic involvement. To continue chipping away at those self-imposed restrictions could ultimately result in a broken heart. She’d had one. She didn’t want another.

After leaving Mitch last night, she had resolved that she must stay away from him. Not a parting, a severance. Which meant dropping him as a patient.

She just hadn’t worked up the gumption to notify him of it yet.

“You work too hard,” Roland was saying. “Hell, it would get anybody down to listen all day, every day, to people bellyaching about their plight in life.”

“I don’t think of what I do as work. It’s more like a calling.”

“You sound like a nun.”

Thinking of the way she’d moved against Mitch’s hard body in an effort to get closer, gain more ground, she said, “Believe me, I’m not a nun.

But it is gratifying whenever I help patients through a rough patch or enable them to see themselves from a different and emotionally healthier perspective.

” Softly, she added, “Such as yourself, Roland.”

“Yeah, you helped me look at some things different.” He guffawed. “Talk about hard work.”

She laughed.

Then he said, “Maybe you should cut back.”

“Cut back?”

“On your number of patients. Get rid of a few and don’t take on any new ones.”

At first she thought he was still speaking in jest. Then realized he wasn’t. “I have no intention of cutting back or turning away anyone who comes to me seeking help.”

“It would go against your nature? You’re a bleeding heart? A sucker for a sob story?”

She frowned. “No. Because I empathize with people who are struggling to recover from a problem or traumatizing experience that seems insurmountable.”

He must have sensed that she’d been put off by what he’d said. “Look, I meant no offense. But, you know, I’m used to chewing ass.” He waved his hand to indicate the busy restaurant. “I’m tough on anyone who screws up so they’ll be sure not to again.”

She could envision that, and was glad she was his therapist and not his employee. “This has been lovely. Thank you again. But I need to get on my way.” She picked up her purse and pushed back her chair. He came around to hold it for her.

“I have a car and chauffeur waiting to drive you home.”

“So do I, Roland,” she said with a light laugh. “I wanted to indulge in a martini and wine, so I changed my mind about driving myself.” As they made their way to the door, she said, “You haven’t made another appointment for a session.”

“I’ll give you a call.”

She looked at him askance. “It’s been six weeks.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I sensed an urgency when you called yesterday. Is there something specific you need to talk about? I would make time for you.”

“You would?”

“Of course.”

They had reached the door, but rather than opening it, he turned to face her. “Do all your patients get special treatment like that?”

“When I feel it’s called for.”

“Huh. Are any of them as interesting as me?”

Am I your most challenging patient to date? You’re in the running.

She gave another soft laugh, but it was over that tidbit with Mitch, not over Roland’s question. In answer to him, she replied, “None come close.”

“Come on,” he drawled in his Bronx accent. “I bet you’ve got some really messed-up characters coming to you.” He leaned in and spoke in a confidential tone. “You don’t have to name names. Just give me a hint of what ails them.”

“Even that would violate privilege, Roland. You know I won’t do that.”

His eyes held steady on hers. He didn’t even blink. “Good to know. Real good.” He held the stare for seconds longer, then pushed the door open, held it for her, and followed her out.

“That’s my car.” She waved to a black sedan parked at the curb some distance away. To signal that he’d seen her, the driver blinked the headlights.

Then her attention was drawn to the median of the wide boulevard where two men appeared to be in a scuffle, pushing and shoving, swapping insults.

When her hired car pulled up to the curb and blocked her view of what was happening, she went up on tiptoe in order to see over the roof of the car. By now the scuffle had escalated into a full-fledged fight. The two were going at each other with intent.

A young woman, who’d been walking across the median hand-in-hand with a small boy, screamed.

Beside Dylan, Roland began luridly cursing under his breath.

The woman’s child was now wailing with fright. She pulled the boy to the ground, protected him with her body, and yelled at the two fighters to stop. Her shouts and the child’s hysteria seemed to bring the fighters to their senses.

They broke apart suddenly, falling back from each other. But their stances remained combatant, and there was a moment when one of them seemed on the verge of attacking again.

But he must have reconsidered. He shoved past the other and streaked down the middle of the median until he saw a break in traffic and crossed the street in a dead run. When he reached the other side, he disappeared into the narrow, dark space between two buildings.

The other, who’d run in the opposite direction, leaped from the median directly into oncoming traffic.

He narrowly missed being struck by a delivery truck.

Horn blaring, it swerved into the median and crashed into a tree.

That didn’t slow the runner down. He made it across the street far down the block from Roland’s restaurant and disappeared from Dylan’s view.

The woman had stopped screaming, although her little boy continued to cry hysterically. Concerned witnesses ran to the median to see if they needed aid.

The driver of the delivery truck, apparently uninjured, had jumped from his cab and was attracting a growing audience of curiosity-seekers by gesturing wildly at the smashed grill of his truck while giving his account of the incident.

Roland, who’d been taking in all the action, turned to Dylan. “I’m sorry about this. It’s the fuckin’ homeless. We’re being overrun. They—” The high-pitched wail of a siren interrupted his tirade. “Jesus,” he hissed. “All we need.”

A police car rounded the corner, lights flashing. It screeched to a halt parallel to the median. Two officers charged out of the car and plunged into the thick of the increasing chaos.

Roland swore. “This is bad for my business.”

People who’d been having dinner in his restaurant were pushing through the door and spilling out onto the sidewalk.

She and Roland were soon encircled by people who were either frightened or merely curious and demanding to know what was going on.

Wild speculations about bombs and shooters were creating even more confusion.

Roland spotted his ma?tre d’ and pulled him aside. “There was a skirmish in the median. It’s over. Calm everyone down and get them back inside. I’m gonna go talk to the cops, smooth things over.”

The tuxedoed man responded without question and did his best to circulate and spread the word that there was nothing more to see. But not everyone was as willing to return to the dining room as others.

In the shuffling crowd, Dylan got separated from Roland, who was halfway across the boulevard by now, oblivious to motorists who were honking at him. When he reached the median, he plowed his way through the throng that had formed.

Dylan was jostled by Roland’s customers, who were either heeding the ma?tre d’s suggestion that they return to the dining room or moving in the opposite direction in an attempt to get a better view of the happenings.

She’d lost sight of her hired car because she’d been moved back so far from the curb and there were dozens of people now between her and it. As undignified as it would be, she’d have to push her way through.

Murmuring, “Excuse me,” she was attempting to step around a rather large man when her elbow was hooked from behind.

“This way.”

Before she was fully aware of what was happening, she was wheeled around and propelled forward. She immediately dug her heels in and tried to wrest her elbow free. “Let go of me.”

“It’s me, it’s me. Keep walking.”

She jerked her head up and looked into the face of a homeless man who had Mitch Haskell’s brilliant, unmistakable eyes. “Wha… What are you doing? What’s that on your face? Why are you dressed like that? Is that blood?”

“Yeah. The little fucker stuck me.”

“You were…” She braked again and motioned back toward the median. “You were… The fight…?”

“Wasn’t a fair fight. He had a blade.”

Suddenly she realized that his breathing was rapid and hot. Beads of sweat rolled out from under a stocking cap down his forehead and into his eyes. His right hand still had a grip on her elbow. His left was pressed against his left side. Blood was seeping through his fingers.

“My God, Mitch. You’re hurt. We’ve got to get you help.”

He shook his head. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

“You need a doctor.”

“I’ve got one, Dr. Reede.”