Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
MCKINSEY
B e a good girl, and get in the car…
It’s one of the first things Draven ever said to me. The command lit something inside of me the first night we met. It was dull but unusual. Exciting yet dangerous.
And despite fighting to keep it buried in the deepest pit of my mind ever since, it’s what played over and over in my head last night as I pictured him pressing me up against my car, culminating in one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever given myself.
I lean my forehead on the cabinet as I watch the slow stream of coffee drip into the pot beneath it.
I can’t believe I allowed it to happen. I absolutely have no control over my dreams—which we’re heavily populated by him last night—but I do have control over my conscious thoughts. When I was awoken by pleasure, I should have pushed thoughts of him from my mind, taken a cold shower, and gone back to sleep.
But I did none of those things.
Instead, with the dream still fresh in my mind, I slipped my hand between my legs and lost myself to the memory of our first meeting.
It was so incredibly over the line and out of character. But fuck, it was hot as shit.
I didn’t want to come downstairs this morning. I could barely look at myself in the mirror, let alone face Draven after what I did.
While he was asleep in my house.
But it turns out I worried for nothing.
He left sometime during the night.
I’m not sure if it was before or after I shamelessly gratified myself. But regardless of whether he was or he wasn’t here, it still doesn’t make my indecent thoughts toward a patient okay.
Nothing about yesterday or last night was okay. I should have woken his ass up and sent him on his way. But … I didn’t.
After I left him sleeping in my office, I went about my day. I thought he would have awoken after a short nap, but he was out like a light, not even moving to roll over or to get into a more comfortable position.
Yesterday evening, I called Royce and Delilah to give them an update. I should have asked them to come get him, but— again —I didn’t.
Why? What the hell is wrong with me?
And was he at my window, watching me? Or did I imagine the whole thing? I clench my thighs tightly, thinking about it. My head may not like the idea, but my body has a different opinion on the matter.
Stop it, now , McK.
Surely, I would have heard him walking over the creaking floorboards? I had my white noise machine on—which does an incredible job of blocking sound—but I can’t imagine it would fully mask the aching cry from the old wood.
At least I stayed silent… Mostly. If he was here, I pray to God he didn’t hear my needy moans.
I’m dying to know when he left. I’ll feel better about it if I know he wasn’t here at the time.
Liar.
When I woke up this morning, my house looked as if he’d never been here at all. He was gone almost without a trace. The blanket I covered him with was folded nicely and draped over the back of the sofa. His boots were no longer sitting next to my shoes by the front door. My cell phone was unplugged from its charger, though, which was the only thing out of place.
Speaking of phones, I need to get a hold of Draven so we can come up with a schedule that works for both of us. I’ll have to ask Delilah for his number because with him sleeping the entire rest of the day, I never did get a chance to have him fill out his intake forms.
Scoffing, I shake my head.
I swear, it’s like I lost my fucking mind the moment I picked him up from the police station. Disappointment in myself weighs heavier than it does when I’m disappointed by someone else. I have control over my own actions… Usually. I can’t help what others do.
Tugging my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, I start a new message to Delilah.
Me:
Good morning, Delilah. I forgot to get Draven’s phone number while he was here yesterday. Is there any way you can send it to me so I can schedule our next appointment?
Before I get a response from her, my doorbell rings.
Who the hell could that be?
It’s Sunday, and I never have appointments on Sunday.
Shit. I hope it’s not another drop-in from my mother.
Pushing myself off the counter, I tiptoe to the front door, reluctant to deal with whoever’s on the other side. But when I open it to find Draven on my doorstep, my adrenaline kicks into overdrive.
“Draven, h-hi. What are you doing here?”
His eyes quickly rake up and down my body before landing on mine again. He’s not avoiding my stare. That’s good. Hopefully it means he didn’t catch me last night. Though if he did, he should be the one flooded with embarrassment for snooping around in a house that isn’t his.
But I only see confusion on his face.
“I thought I had to be here as a condition of the deal Royce made?”
“Everyone gets the weekend off. Yesterday’s session was more at the … request … of Royce.” He opens his mouth to say something, but I continue. “But I’m actually glad you’re here. I need you to fill out some paperwork that we never got around to yesterday. Come on in.”
Stepping aside, I hold the door open for him as he enters my house. Catching a whiff of him mixed with a hint of leather from his vest does things to my senses I don’t want to admit.
Damn it.
I need a minute before closing myself in a small room with him again.
“I just made some coffee. Do you want any?”
“I’m good, but thanks.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want you falling asleep on me again.” I laugh nervously, but the unamused stare I get from him cuts me off quickly. “Ooo-kay, follow me.”
I lead him into my office before grabbing the packet of paperwork I need him to fill out along with a pen.
“Go ahead and get started on this.” I hand everything to him. “I’ll be right back.”
I’m thankful for the excuse to have a moment to collect myself.
I feel my phone vibrate against my ass as I walk back to the kitchen. Pulling it free, I open my awaiting message.
Delilah:
It’s (717) 555-5971. He actually left a little while ago to come see you.
Me:
Thanks for sending. Yes, he just got here.
I don’t wait for a response before leaving my phone on the counter and pouring my coffee. I enjoy my first sip alone before heading back to my office. When I get there, he holds out the stack of paperwork for me.
“You finished all ten pages already?” Shocked, I place my mug on the table and sit in my chair. Flipping through the forms, I realize he’s only given me his name and his phone number.
When I look between him and the paperwork, his unfaltering, steely gaze makes it apparent he isn’t going to be filling out any more of it.
Whether I demand him to or not.
“All right, then. Well, I don’t want you to have wasted a trip, so I guess we can pick up where we left off yesterday?”
“You’re flying this plane, Doc.” He rolls his eyes. He doesn’t want to be here any more than I want him to be.
Yesterday, I didn’t want to deal with him because he’s part of the MC. Today, however, I don’t want to deal with him because I’m not comfortable with my highly-inappropriate, growing attraction to him.
Turning around to grab the notepad off my desk, I tear my eyes from him. My brain is trying to convince me to ask him what time he left last night. But I manage to contain my curiosity, intent on forgetting all about what happened. If I ask him, it could bring attention to my unfortunate behavior and that’s the last thing I want to do right now.
“Okay.” I clear my throat and look through the notes I took yesterday. “We were talking about your brother and how you aren’t close any longer.”
When I look back at Draven, his arms are crossed, and his head is tilted back, resting on the top of the sofa. His features are pinched, like he’s in absolute agony, as though therapy is the worst thing that could ever happen to him.
It pisses me off.
He could be in jail or dead because of what he did. I was forced into a situation I really don’t want to be in because of what he did.
A situation that brought forth one of the most intense, erotic orgasms I’ve ever had.
Suddenly, I’m back in that parking lot the night we met. His command for me to get in the car like a good girl plays on a loop in his low, sexy rumble.
Clearing my throat, I flick away an invisible speck of nothing on my pants in an effort to distract my thoughts in a way that appears totally and completely innocent.
I catch a flash of something in his stare, leading me to think he noticed. And I’m not happy about it.
Don’t lose yourself, McK. You’re here to help him, not to catch feelings and drive him away like you’ve done with every other guy in your life.
We need to focus on a topic that will keep my mind from the continuous replay of my orgasm. And I need to realize that he came here for a reason. Regardless of whether I want to help him or not, he needs it. And the oath I took when I became a therapist, as well as my conscience and my desire to help others, are rooting me to this seat right now.
“Let’s back up for a second. Tell me a little about your adolescence. What kind of kid were you? What were you into? Yesterday, you mentioned you were good in school, and you worked hard at home on your family’s farm.”
“Yeah.” It’s the only answer I get.
“What about for fun? What did you like to do?”
I have a feeling I’m going to have to lure the information I need from him somehow. This happens with patients from time to time. Some who are uncomfortable opening up and being vulnerable will come back almost more tight-lipped than the first time. They often feel regret over divulging information about themselves. Especially when it paints them in a negative light.
“I don’t know. I used to play baseball. Ride my bike.”
“I guess some things don’t change. Only now your bike has a little more power.” I smile, trying to lighten the vibe in the room, but it doesn’t work.
“Currently, my bike has no power. But I guess I don’t have anyone to blame for that but myself.”
“While yes, you are responsible for your own actions, I’m hoping I can help you understand why you resorted to the behavior you exhibited. But it’s also important for you to realize that no one was hurt. The situation could have been worse.”
His arms still crossed and his eyes on me, the only reaction to what I just said is a slight puckering of his lips. As though he’s skeptical about my position. As though he thinks I should be saying something to shame him into feeling guilty for his actions rather than giving him any measure of reassurance.
“Are you still a baseball fan? Do you go to any games or anything like that?”
“No.”
“What about friends? Did you have a best friend growing up?”
“Tommy Holt.”
“What did you and Tommy used to do together?”
“Play baseball and ride bikes.” Finally unfolding his arms, he huffs out an irritated sigh. “What does this have to do with anything? I can’t see how talking about dumb shit I did when I was twelve will be instrumental in my recovery. ”
He runs his hands over his legs, as though he’s wiping sweat away before rubbing his thumb back-and-forth over the seam of his jeans. That and the way his leg starts bouncing screams of anxiety. As though there is something in his past he doesn’t want to unearth.
“We have ninety days together, Draven. That’s ninety hours of deep diving into your life to figure out the crux of the reason you went on a death ride through this town. To help you figure out safer, smarter ways to handle your grief so your actions don’t force someone else into the grieving process when you kill yourself or others next time.”
I grip the pen tightly in my fist as I work to calm myself down. It won’t do any good for me to get angry or irritated. I just need to keep moving forward and get this assignment done and over with so I can go back to a life that’s mostly free from the MC.
“I was working my way toward understanding who you have in your life that you can lean on right now. But if you don’t want to go back that far yet, it’s okay. We can get there later.”
“You’re insinuating that I can’t lean on my family?”
“With both of your parents gone and your brother out of the picture…”
And with me too afraid to pry into the relationships he has with members of the MC, I thought I’d stick to any he may have outside of the club.
“They aren’t my only family, Doc. My brothers in the MC have been more like family these past fifteen years than my actual brother.”
“Okay, that’s fair. So tell me... Who are you able to count on when you’re in pain?”
He’s quiet while he thinks.
“Royce. And Atticus.”
The little bit I know about Royce doesn’t give me much assurance that Draven is getting the emotional support that he needs right now. And I don’t know anything about Atticus.
Draven needs to be able to lean on someone who he can find comfort in. Someone with a bit more of a softer side. It leads me to wonder whether or not Draven has anyone special in his life.
My curiosity is unsettling for two reasons.
First, I shouldn’t be jealous of the thought of him having a special someone in his life.
Second, I most definitely should not be picturing Draven sprawled across my bed with my body wrapped around his the way that I am.
“What about a significant other?”
He stares pointedly at me before answering. His eyes flare, and I convince myself it’s nothing more than agitation coming from him.
“Don't have one.” Raising his hand, he runs his fingers through his hair before wiping his palm down his face. His leg continues bouncing furiously.
Yes. Definitely agitation.
“Oh, okay.” I look away from him, pretending to refer to my notes just to break the objectionable connection between us.
When my eyes meet his again, he’s looking at me through slightly narrowed lids. His brows furrowed and his head tilted a little to the side.
Curious. Questioning. Absolutely catching on to my undesired relief at learning that he’s not attached to anyone.
“I was going to suggest blowing off steam or working through your emotions in other, healthier forms.”
When I don’t register understanding in his features, I restate my words a bit more transparently than before.
“I asked because sometimes you can get a different, deeper type of support from someone like a girlfriend or wife... An ol’ lady.”
His leg finally stops bouncing. The lines of his face relax, as does his jaw which opens slightly before he catches himself and slams it shut again. Clearing his throat, he answers me.
“Well, I can't say that that's something I have any interest in.”
His leg begins to jump again, but more reserved than before. The movement of his thumb and forefinger rubbing a lock of his hair between them catches my eye. It takes more power than I care to admit to tear my eyes from the motion and refocus on the conversation.
“Um, so… No interest in an ol’ lady?”
“No interest in a relationship,” he answers quickly.
Does he push people away like I do? I have my reasons why, but I wonder what his are. Is he just like me?
“Do you mean you don't want one at this time? Or that you've never had one?” My line of questioning is quickly morphing from innocent to interrogative. Before I have a chance to try to turn it back to morally acceptable, Draven forces a deviation of his own.
“Is this really relevant?”
Yes.
No.
I don’t know.
What the hell am I doing? I need to fucking snap out of it.
“Well, it could be.”
Or don’t snap out of it and try to spin this as totally and completely acceptable behavior.
Good job, McK.
“We're talking about loss. I'm trying to figure out if you've never had a relationship because you're afraid of losing someone, or if you have been in a relationship and lost someone. If it's the latter, it could be contributing to your recent reckless behavior.”
He tears his eyes away from me before I can even finish my sentence. Crossing his arms again, his head falls as he drops his chin to his chest.
He’s hiding something. Something he’s ashamed of.
Unable to keep my curiosity in check and fully launching myself off the edge of the cliff of morality, I press further.
“Or is it something else? What's keeping you from getting close to someone, Draven?”
In a blink he stands, towering over me. His honey eyes are hard behind his narrowed lids as he works frantically to keep the emotion from his face.
“Look, Doc... Thanks for your time, but I don't really think this is going to work out.”
He turns and leaves the room. And if I wasn’t so terrified at my own behavior… If I didn’t think he deserves better than what I just pulled with him, I would have gone after him.