Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“Sawyer, I want you to think about what I said. Be ready to talk about your thoughts next time.” The prison social worker waited for him to respond.
Sawyer Ware scowled. What the hell did the woman want anyway? He’d fucked up his life—nothing new there—and his screw-up had killed his best friend. He didn’t need counseling to acknowledge his guilt and to know he wasn’t worth shit.
Never had been; never would be. His abusive asshole of a stepfather had made that clear.
If he hadn’t learned the lesson, Mr. Dickwad Slidell had ground it in further.
The counselor had told him repeatedly he deserved to be in prison, shouldn’t be alive, should have died in the crash instead of Ezra.
His nightmares said the same. Night after night.
Sawyer would hear his best friend yell, would jerk his attention back to the dark highway, squint into the glaring oncoming lights.
Wrong lane. Rip the wheel to the right—overreacting.
Car fishtailing, tires screeching, losing traction.
At the edge, the tires caught only gravel, lost traction.
The car slid right off the road—and rolled down the steep mountainside.
The memory had his fingers clamping onto the chair arms. Why couldn’t it have been me who died? Every minute he lived was a minute Ezra should have had.
He shoved up out of his seat.
The pretty counselor watched him with concern. “Sawyer—”
“Done here.”
Where Slidell hadn’t hesitated to tell him he deserved every moment of misery, this one worried about him.
She’d even asked if he’d considered suicide.
He’d thought about it, truth be told. There was no way he could pay back what he’d done, although, at one time, he’d had a forlorn hope of doing something to settle up.
But now…exerting the effort to off himself would take more energy than he could summon.
Slidell was a shit therapist, but at least the bastard hadn’t nagged at him for answers. This one wanted too badly to help him.
On the plus side, Ms. Virginia was nicer. Smelled better. And her slow, southern drawl was soft on the ears. Yet, as he nodded to her, he realized how far gone he was. Even after this long in prison, a curvy female rang no bells.
After regarding him steadily, Ms. Virginia rose.
“All right.” He vaguely remembered how she’d set out her guidelines…
including saying if he needed a session to stop, he could tell her.
Considering how Shit-for-Brains Slidell had kept him there no matter what, always hammering at him, Sawyer did appreciate the chance to escape.
Escape, hell. There was no escape. Not for him.
As the correctional officer fell into step to escort him back to his cell, Sawyer felt as if he were walking through sludge, through a world of shadows and despair.
Gin chewed on her lower lip as she watched Sawyer Ware depart. His self-hatred had him mired so deep he wasn’t seeing any light. His previous caseworker had made it worse.
Howard Slidell. Bless his heart, the counselor himself needed therapy. He had some serious issues. Maybe making his caseload feel guilty was effective with some, but inmates like Sawyer already had enough guilt to drown them.
Ex-military, suffering from PTSD, he’d not adapted back to civilian life well, then he and his best friend had overindulged and the friend had died. Sawyer’d barely missed felony charges, but, as if to compensate, the judge had given him the middle sentence of two years in a state prison.
Unlike many inmates, Sawyer felt as if he deserved incarceration and anything worse the world could throw at him.
If only she could get through to the man. His despair was tangible…and worsening. He sure wasn’t listening to anything she said. Maybe because she was female; maybe because she’d never been to war. Who knew?
She frowned. Who else might have an impact on him? Did he have family she could call in for a session? Or maybe a friend?
The mental health secretary could do some research and find someone since there’d undoubtedly be paperwork Gin didn’t know how to do. The warden was a bit of a slacker, but the California Department of Corrections & Rehabilitation did like its regulations and rules.
Typing quickly, she sent the secretary an e-mail with the request. If having a family member in didn’t work, she’d figure out something else.
Giving up wasn’t in the job description.
Truly, these inmates were quite a test of her skills—some had diagnoses she’d only seen in textbooks—but she’d always liked challenges.
But this might not be the best place for her. She could now see that her years working with adolescents might have had a greater impact on them than she’d realized. Her inmates were showing her how a youthful intervention might have set them straight and kept them out of prison.
She wanted to go back to that. And, oh, she really did miss working with children.
Then again, some guys here could simply break her heart. Like Sawyer Ware. She wanted to scold him like a big sister, to ask him, “What were you thinking?” then slap him upside the head and tell him to get over it.
He needed help so badly—and she would darn well get through to him somehow—yet, true healing would have to come from within him.
Just like she had to bring about her own cures.
Homesick? She was pretty well past that.
Lovelorn? She studied her hands, watching how they flattened on the desktop. At least the BDSM weekend had given a fast shove to getting her over her ex-fiancé.
Lonely? Well, in only three days, Trigger had relieved much of the loneliness, which had been the main reason she’d missed Preston. Her lips quirked.
Sad to say, the dog was far better company.
If only Trigger didn’t remind her of Atticus.
If only she could stop dreaming about the sexy, commanding Dom and that amazing night of stars and crisp mountain air, of wood smoke and his piercingly blue eyes.
Of rough rope and her inability to move away from hard hands intent on giving her pleasure.
If only that night hadn’t been followed by a morning of harsh words and open dislike.
When she’d talked with Kallie and Becca on Monday, she’d told them how much she’d enjoyed the BDSM lessons. She’d spoken the honest truth. Thank goodness they were still new friends or she wouldn’t have managed to dodge their questions about Atticus.
She shook her head. Watching Westerns made a girl believe that the heroic cowboy was supposed to fall head over heels in love, win the heroine, and ride off with her into the sunset.
Instead, her big cowboy had got shed of her like he’d discovered a booger on his boot. So much for romantic tales.
At least she wouldn’t have to see him again. Considering his antipathy to prisons, Dom Atticus Whoever probably avoided this facility like the plague.