Chapter Nine
Haizley
“I am telling you, Haizley, the man is certifiable. Who tells his wife he is sleeping at his accountant’s?”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mary. It certainly does sound questionable. How did you respond to that?”
Mary Yearwood was a middle-aged woman who had been married for nearly forty years. She was convinced her husband was cheating on her, and after this conversation, I had to admit, I think she might be right.
We spent the entire hour of her appointment discussing ways Mary could communicate with her husband, as well as ways she could be prepared for if her husband was in fact having an affair.
By the end of her session, I was mentally exhausted. That was the downfall of being a therapist. It was emotionally draining, taking on other’s problems and helping them to work through them.
I had three hours until my next appointment. Lunch, maybe some reading, and of course a little housekeeping should fill up that time.
I had just finished my dishes and was wiping my hands on a towel when there was a knock at my door. No one ever knocked at my door. Well, Indie had been over a few times, but she didn’t show up unannounced. So I stood there, staring at the wooden barrier between myself and the person on the other side.
Answer the freaking door, Haizley!
Shaking myself out of my sudden paralysis, I slowly made my way toward the front of my house. I opened the door and stared at the beautiful woman standing on my steps.
“Hi, Can I help you?”
“You’re Haizley Walker, right?” she asked. Her eyes looked haunted, and she had trouble meeting my gaze.
“I am. Are you ok?” I reached out to touch her arm, and she flinched.
“Sorry,” she said when she finally looked up. “My name is Amber Marks. I live at the clubhouse.”
“Did someone hurt you? Do you need help?”
All the guys in the MC seemed nice, if not crude and angsty. I had assumed they wouldn’t hurt women, but maybe I had read them all wrong.
“Yes, I mean no. I mean...” Amber took a deep breath and asked, “Could I come in?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course, come in.” I held the door open, allowing her room to enter, and then closed the door behind her. “Do you want a drink?”
“No, thank you.” She looked around my living room and smiled. “It’s nice in here. Peaceful.”
It seemed an odd word to describe a room, but I imagined the clubhouse was loud and anything but peaceful with the number of men that lived there.
“Please, have a seat.” I led her to the couch, and I sat in one of the chairs opposite her. There was no television in my living room. I didn’t watch much, so I only had one in the bedroom. Because of that fact, the focal point was the center of the room. The furniture was arranged in a way that you could talk to another person regardless of where you sat.
Amber placed herself in the corner of the couch. She slipped off her shoes and brought her feet up under her. I smiled at the way she made herself comfortable.
“What can I do for you, Amber? How can I help?”
“Well.” She picked at the hem of the faded T-shirt she wore. I knew she was nervous. “Everything I tell you is confidential, right? You won’t tell anyone?”
“Absolutely. Unless you ask me to share it with someone, and as long as you don’t tell me you are contemplating a crime or hurting a child, then everything you tell me stays here.”
“Ok, King gave me permission to talk with you. He thought it might help.”
Permission?
“Amber, are you at the clubhouse against your will?”
Her eyes rounded and she sat forward immediately.
“Oh no, not at all.” She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she dropped her face into her hands. “God, I’m screwing this up. I don’t know how to begin.”
I reached out my hand and gently touched her arm. “Take a deep breath and start wherever you feel most comfortable. There is plenty of time.”
Amber inhaled deeply and sat up straight. “I’ve been having nightmares. King thought it might be good to talk to someone and when he learned you were a therapist, he suggested I meet with you. I should have called and made an appointment. I’m sorry. I just needed to get out of the clubhouse, and this was the only option for leaving.”
She stood and moved to put her shoes back on.
Leaping from my seat, I stopped her. “Amber, stop. Sit down. Take a breath and try to relax. I have two hours until my next appointment. I have nothing going on. Let’s just talk, and you can share as much or as little as you like.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” I smiled at her the way we were taught. A smile filled with compassion but not pity. A warm token to help the client feel heard but not judged.
“Ok, I guess I should start at the beginning. It really isn’t as bad as it sounds. I never knew my mom. She died when I was born...”
As Amber told me her story, I listened and did my best not to cry. The things she had been through, not only at the hands of her father, who should have protected her, but the men who exploited her in the name of safety and freedom, made me want to scream.
Why did so many men believe they had the right to make decisions for others? Decisions that not only harmed them but scarred them for life. Both physically and mentally.
“...So last month, some men showed up. I recognized two of them. One of them helped rescue me in Louisiana. The other helped me escape from Louisiana.”
“I don’t understand. Did they frighten you?”
“Not exactly. Neither said a word to me, in fact. Or acknowledge they knew who I was in any way. I’m sure they both assumed I hadn’t told any of the brothers what happened, but when I came to the clubhouse, I shared almost everything with King.”
“He knew what you had been through and still allowed his men to use you?”
Amber stiffened.
“They don’t use me. If anything, I use them. I have strict boundaries they all respect.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”
Amber looked away, and I saw a brief sense of shame cross over her expression.
“Amber, you are a very strong woman. I have never met anyone who has survived what you went through and gone on to live such a selfishly empowered life. And I use the word selfishly on purpose, because you have made a life where you put yourself first and that is not only remarkable, but incredibly awe-inspiring.”
Amber quickly swiped at a tear that slipped from the corner of her eye.
“How can I help you, Amber?”
“Well, like I said, I’ve been having nightmares. I think seeing Vicious here in my home brought up some things I thought I’d dealt with. Things I thought I had gotten over.”
“Despite working through trauma, it can still be triggered. You could go twenty years without an issue and then the smallest thing can trigger a memory. It doesn’t mean you haven’t dealt with the trauma; it just means that you remember what happened. The same as a happy memory can trigger a warm feeling. A scary memory can trigger a traumatic feeling.”
“So, I don’t have to go through it all again? Will it just resolve on its own?”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t hurt to have help. You don’t have to work through your trauma alone.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“And the other man?”
Amber exhaled and the sound was sad.
“When I was rescued in Louisiana...”
Amber gave me a brief description of what happened after she was rescued, skipping over details she clearly wasn’t ready to talk about yet. Something that was drilled into us in school was to always let the patient go at their own pace. Learning their cues to know when to gently push them to say more without adding to their trauma.
We spent the next hour going over what things might trigger her trauma. Making a list of ways she can work through it right now and things she can share with the men and women living at the clubhouse.
We made a plan to meet twice a week until she felt comfortable enough to space out her sessions. I assured her nothing we talked about would ever be shared with anyone, including things she might share about the club. She expressed there might be things she would have to get permission to speak about, but she was confident King would help in any way he could.
By the time we said goodbye, Amber hugged me tight and expressed how happy she was to have someone to talk with about not only her past but things in her present and possibly her future that she was wary of.
People like Amber were the reason I became a therapist. To help people work through the things that haunted them. The difference between the woman who stood on my step, anxious and troubled when I opened my door and the one who walked out, calm and carefree, had refreshed my mind and renewed my purpose.
My final two appointments of the day had me frustrated all over again.
Adam Langston had severe OCD; except he gave me pushback on every plan we made to work through one of his compulsions.
Clarissa Thompson was dealing with anxiety that stemmed from consistent bullying as a child. Clarissa was making progress, albeit extremely slowly. But as we were taught, slow progress was still progress.
The emotional toll of the day had me venturing out to allow someone else to make me dinner. The Diner and the bar were my only options, unless I wanted to drive to one of the surrounding towns.
As I locked my front door, I still hadn’t quite decided which I wanted; they both had their pros and cons.
Walking toward my car, I felt it again.
For the past few weeks, almost every time I left my house, I felt like I was being watched. Looking up and down the street, nothing looked out of place. Maybe it was just my paranoia. Word had gotten around about Gunner telling Brian I was his woman.
The looks I received varied from envy to pride. The older women in town smiled and nodded as though I had completed some impossible feat, whereas the younger women glared as though I had stolen something precious.
Don’t get me wrong, I wanted the man. I just didn’t want everything that came with it. Namely, the property label that would be expected to hang on my back for the whole town to see.
No thank you.
I wasn’t property someone could own. Sure, I wanted him to own my body. To abuse it the way I surmised only he could. As I thought about the way he scorched my hip with a simple touch and a pull. Good Lord, I wanted that man to ruin me.
Nope.
I refused to even consider allowing him to own my soul. That wasn’t what I wanted in a partner. Not that he was even offering to be my partner. I was sure he thought of me the same way I thought of him. A willing participant in a night or two of hot scorching sex.
That was it.
That was all a biker offered.
Then again, Blade was completely devoted to Beck. But they grew up together; they were connected long before he joined the club.
Jack was head over heels for Sam. But they had a child together. They would forever be tied together, so why not make the best of it?
It was obvious Ryder thought Ellie was his everything. But he just joined the club. He hadn’t had time to fall into the trap of being a Neanderthal.
Then there was Cash. Rachel’s death had devastated him. Yet, if the rumors were true, he was now off sleeping with anyone with a hoo-hah. And although I knew it was a coping mechanism, it certainly didn’t help the biker stereotype.
But Gunner wasn’t like them.
He wasn’t looking for a partner or a spouse.
And to be honest, neither was I.
I was content in my life the way it was.
Are you sure?
With a heavy sigh, I pulled into The Diner. I hadn’t realized I’d subconsciously chosen a destination while I ranted inside my head. But the food was good, and it gave me an opportunity to see and be seen so people didn’t forget I was in town.
Not that they ever did. I frequently had people ask me for advice, but the moment I mentioned making an appointment, it was always met with the same response.
I don’t need a shrink.
We all needed to have our heads shrunk at times. Everyone had empty space that was filled with doubts and worries. We needed help shrinking that empty space, preventing those damaging thoughts and feelings from filling it up.
Like me right now.
That empty space in my head was quickly filling up with all the reasons Gunner was an asshole. After telling Brian I was his woman, knowing it would spread through town like wildfire, he had the audacity to sit in The Diner, where everyone could see him, with Penelope Ridgefield.