Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
MCKINSEY
D iscreetly, I press deeply into my temple, trying to alleviate some of the pounding from my headache as Mary—my standing Wednesday, two-o’clock appointment—struggles to describe her newest anxiety to me. The last thing I need her to worry about is whether or not she caused my pain.
Migraines are nothing new to me, but it’s been a while since I last had one.
“I remember when you brought this up last year. We went over some techniques to help you get past the anxiety. I know you struggled with them at first, but with practice, they ended up being mostly successful. Have you been utilizing those techniques? If so, do you know what’s changed that they are no longer effective?”
Tapping her forefinger against her cherry lips, she ponders the question I already know the answer to.
Nothing has changed.
Honestly, I don’t think she suffers from anxiety. Her previous therapist was the one to diagnose her—only a few months before electing to end her sessions. When she first started coming to me, Mary was distraught. She suffered feelings of rejection, and rightly so.
She told me her therapist gave up on her because of Mary’s reluctance toward all forms of medication that could help her, and because she doesn’t put much stock into things like meditation or relaxation techniques.
If anything, I’d diagnose her with a very mild factitious disorder. But even that doesn’t fit perfectly. She’s not purposely harming herself or making herself sick in order to gain attention. She’s just lonely and looking for a friend. She’s not really against medication, she’s just smart enough not to take anything she knows she doesn’t need or that could harm her. She makes up the excuse of not believing in meditation and other methods like it because she needs a reason to come back to therapy week after week.
She’s wasting her money coming here, but some people simply need someone to talk to.
“Oh, yes. Um, well…”
Her eyes dart around the room as she searches for a reason why this anxiety has resurfaced, and I struggle over whether or not to keep seeing her. Am I doing her more harm than good by playing an active role in her farce?
“I guess I’m just having a relapse of sorts. Maybe it was brought on by a dream I had. Something must have triggered it.” She always works hard to convince me.
I nod in agreement, but before I’m forced to think up some bullshit to go along with hers, my alarm sounds, signaling the end of her session.
“Sorry, Mary. That’s all the time we have today. Try using the thought redirection tactic we’ve worked on in the past to help you the rest of this week, and I’ll see you next Wednesday.”
“Okay.” With a wistful sigh, Mary reluctantly stands and walks out of the room. I follow her through the foyer of my home, closing the door behind her.
I bought this stunning, historic Victorian knowing it was large enough to serve two purposes. Why pay rent on a small office somewhere when I can save money and write off part of my house on my taxes every year?
Shortly after moving in, I had a portion of the main floor renovated to close off the office space from the rest of the house. It’s important that I maintain my own privacy as well as make sure I separate the two areas of my life as much as possible.
I watch Mary through the glass panels at the top of my front door as she walks down the sidewalk toward the center of town.
What am I going to do about her?
I’ll talk to Marissa, my mentor and one of my closest friends, about the situation. She’s always given me the best advice.
I start to turn back toward my office, but my attention is drawn to the road by an increasing roar I’ve come to associate with chaos and fear. One that stirs my own anxiety and causes goose bumps to break out over my skin. My heart beats rapidly as my eyes follow the two bikers cruising down Buxton Avenue, straight toward my house.
Oh shit. What the hell do they want now?
Usually when I’m needed, they’ll send one of their members to retrieve me. Sometimes I get a warning call.
On my personal cell phone.
No matter the hour.
Other times, they just show up and expect me to go with them. They usually bring a car, though, rarely making me ride on the back of one of their bikes.
About a decade ago, before I started my own practice, I began working with a girl named Harleigh. I didn’t know it at the time, but Harleigh has ties to the Royal Bastards, a local motorcycle club who likes to play by their own set of rules. Harleigh is one of their Harlots or club whores. It’s a moniker she wears proudly, despite its degrading meaning.
Little did I know, treating her would lead me down a path I would never be able to escape. I realize how dramatic that sounds, but it’s the truth. While I’ve never been outwardly threatened by the club, they’ve certainly impressed upon the fact that I belong to them.
They expect me to be available. Whenever. Wherever.
Within two years of meeting Harleigh, I was asked to work with another girl—Delilah. God, the shit those two have been through. And I’d thought I had a painful upbringing. My childhood was like a fairy tale comparatively.
It’s admittedly hard for me to sit through some of their sessions, listening to them talk about the unspeakable things they’ve endured in their lives. They swear the Royal Bastards take good care of them, but I can’t help but wonder if the men are also the reason these girls go through some of the shit they do. It’s a dangerous lifestyle to be a part of. Even if the club members aren’t the ones hurting them, just the girls being around them opens them up to a world of trouble.
As the men get closer, I recognize them as Royce and Draven.
I’ve spoken to Royce—the club’s president—at length a couple times over the years. The first time was about eight years ago when I initially met Delilah. She was fifteen, and Royce had just taken over her guardianship after her father mysteriously disappeared. At the time, I commended him for wanting to get the girl some help. But she ended our sessions after only a couple months, before I was really able to do any good for her.
Then about three years ago, I was ordered to return to their compound to resume her therapy. At that time, I learned that Delilah had become his ’ol lady. I was flabbergasted, to say the least. I’d thought for certain he’d forced her into the relationship.
The age difference. The role he played as her “father figure.” Both are nothing short of inappropriate. She assured me that she understood my line of thinking and admitted she doesn’t fully comprehend how she came to love Royce quite the way she does. But she promised me her affection was genuine and formed of her own accord, not something forced upon her by Royce.
He even agreed to attend a few couple’s therapy sessions. At the end of which he hadn’t won me over completely—he still scares the shit out of me—but I couldn’t deny that the love I saw between them was real.
After that, Delilah and I focused solely on her recovery following the traumatic experiences she’s faced throughout her short lifetime. It’s more than one person should ever have to endure, but she’s nothing if not strong.
Draven on the other hand… He’s their VP and the one who comes to pick me up most often when I’m needed. Each time, he’s presented himself like someone who has … values? A conscience? I don’t know, none of those characteristics fit quite right, but he’s the only guy I’ve met from the club whose stare doesn’t make me fear for my life.
Well, not since the first time we came face-to-face.
But he annoys the shit out of me.
Not only because I cannot stand being summoned, but especially because he makes these little jabs at me during the ride to their clubhouse.
Stupid shit too, like the kind of stuff a dumb teenage boy would say.
He teases me about my unruly hair. My wavy-brown locks are something I’ve grown to love and appreciate in my adult life, thank you very much. He comments on my necklaces because according to him, I have so many that he’s never seen me wear the same one twice. He called my earrings cute once, too. But it wasn’t in a complimentary way. It was sarcastic, because there’s nothing cute about them.
I mean, I like them, but they’re just simple 00-gauge black plugs.
So I usually just throw shit right back his way. Like about him being a degenerate criminal. Or about his car—he drives a ’77 Firebird Trans-Am. I tell him I’m perfectly capable of driving myself, and I’d feel more comfortable in a vehicle that wasn’t older than I am.
But in secret, I love his car.
And no matter how I feel about him in my head , my body lights up a little each time I’m in his presence, damn it.
Of all the guys in the world I could feel any kind of attraction to, why does it have to be him?
I begin to breathe a little easier, watching as the men continue past my house and out of view. It’s enough that they require me to come when they call, but it’s not just me they’re affecting. My patients take a hit each time I have to cancel on them. I do my best to stand up to the club, to tell them I can make it when I have a break in my schedule, but it’s not always that easy.
As much as I wish I could go back and do everything in my power to keep myself from getting entangled with the MC, I'm glad I’ve been able to help the girls.
But I certainly don’t miss having them as full-time patients any longer.
I don’t think I’ll ever understand the dynamic between the men and women of the Royal Bastards MC, no matter how many times someone tries to explain it to me.
Hopefully, I’ll never have a reason to.