Chapter Fifteen
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gage
A n hour and a half before Zarah’s supposed to arrive, she texts and asks if I like lasagna. I tell her I do, and she responds with a See you soon! and some kissing emojis.
I clean up the best I can, but trying to make my place look any better than it is, is like washing a rusted car hoping it will turn into something brand new after it’s dry. Not gonna work. I’ve been satisfied with this place since I moved in and I’m not going to get self-conscious now, but I do change the sheets for her this time and light a couple of candles though it’s against my lease agreement. Baby glares at me, like she knows what I’m trying to do, then rests her snout on her paws and pretends to go to sleep under the table.
Most of the day I spent helping Pop track down that jewelry B & E. To my surprise, we found the bastard fencing his take at a pawn shop not far from here. Gave chase and burnt off some pent-up sexual energy. Tackled the son of a bitch in a dirty alley, and he knocked me around pretty good. I hope my scruff covers the bruise along my jaw where his solid right hook landed. Zarah doesn’t need to see that, but if she does, it will be a good conversation starter in any case. I don’t want to lead in with a, “Hey, did my brother ask you to marry him, and by chance did you say yes?”
That’s been bugging me all day, and it’s going to, until I ask. It will be my own form of purgatory if she can’t remember if he did, or what she said.
Fuck.
I hear her footsteps up the metal stairwell, and I have the door open and I’m leaning against the doorjamb when she tops the stairs.
Something happened today. I can see it on her face, in her demeanor. Her shoulders are hunched, and she won’t meet my eyes.
Usually, that’s not a good sign with any female, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Her medication could be the culprit and have nothing to do with me.
Yeah, right.
She sets a thermal bag onto the floor, the silver aluminum lining peeking out the top, but she didn’t bring an overnight bag like she said she would, and that’s the first clue she won’t be spending the night.
“Hey, is everything okay?” I ask, helping her take her jacket off.
“I brought Lucille’s lasagna and some garlic bread, I hope you don’t mind I took care of dinner.”
She looks nice in tight black leather leggings, an oversized white shirt, and black leather vest. She unzips and tugs off black knee-high leather boots, and her feet are bare. That appeals to me in kind of an earthy way, and if she was in a better mood, I would have commented on it. Now I feel like I don’t want to say anything in case I make her bad mood worse. Never in my life have I minded if I’ve offended anyone until I met Zarah.
“No, that’s great.”
“It needs to go in the oven for a few minutes,” she says, wandering through the living room to the kitchen. “The bag kept everything pretty warm on the way over.”
“Got it.”
She runs her fingers over the table, the silver specks in the black glittering in the overhead light. “Do you like it? You said you did, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Yeah, I really do, thanks. I worked in the kitchen last night. It was a nice change of scenery. Baby gives it her seal of approval, and that’s the most important thing.” I try to be light, chase some of the dark out of her eyes.
I’m not successful.
Zarah crawls on the floor next to Baby, and seeing a billion-dollar heiress under my kitchen table, her shoulders shaking, her hands trembling, is the saddest thing I’ve seen in a long time.
I drop to my haunches. “Zarah. What is it?”
She shrugs.
It’s going to be like that then. I’m going to have to pry it out of her.
“Can you tell me what it is? It can’t be that bad.” I clutch the edge of the table and rest my head against the side of my arm.
“Zane talked to me today, and I saw my therapist this morning.”
“Okay. They said something you didn’t like? Don’t agree with? About me.”
Excuse my language, but it fucking sucks shit that there are so many people involved in our relationship. A mentally healthy woman, maybe I’d have to impress her parents, but that’s a given, you know? Zarah, she’s got her brother, Stella, her therapist. Probably Lucille, and I’m sure her driver is a trained assassin and can kick my ass before I can even say “I’m sorry.”
She sighs. “The problem is, I guess I do agree. That’s what hurts. I can’t dismiss what they told me because it makes sense.”
I know what they told her, and I gnash my teeth together. I’m not going to let her off easy. She’s going to say it, and I won’t dry her tears after it’s done.
“Gonna share with me?” I ask.
“They want me to see other people. They think since I’m just starting to date, I shouldn’t attach myself to you. That I should keep my choices open.”
She’s in a situation where she should date other men. If I had a sister, I would want her to do the same. It can only help her to realize not every man out there is an abusive prick. Zane and her therapist wouldn’t have suggested it if they didn’t have Zarah’s recovery at heart.
Do I want Zarah for the rest of her life? For the rest of mine? I don’t feel like Max did. At least, not yet. She’s doing me a favor by breaking it off now, and that’s another story I’ll take to my grave.
“Okay.” I straighten and shove the lasagna pan into the oven. We’ll eat, and then I guess maybe I’ll see her again someday.
She scrambles out from beneath the table, her eyes wild. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What do you want me to say? It’s a good plan. If you feel safe, you should date and get to know other men. Hell, you might find someone you like spending time with.”
“I like spending time with you.”
“I’m glad you do, but did you really think this was going to be it?” I wave my arms around my kitchen. “That you and I would hook up and that would be it? For the rest of your life? Zarah, you have years of recovery ahead of you.”
“And you don’t want to be with me while I go through it, is that it?”
“No, that’s not it. Your recovery should involve dating. Learning not to be afraid of other men. Not every guy on the planet is an asshole, and you need to learn that for yourself. Zane understood it, and so did your therapist. Besides,” I add to hit the ball home, “the last thing I want is to be your rebound guy after Max.”
Her lips pop open. “You think that’s what this is?”
“I know it’s exactly what this is. Max wanted to marry you. Did you know that? Did he ask? Did you say yes?”
She freezes. “He what? How do you know?”
“He left me his diary and I’ve been reading bits and pieces. Last night I got to a part where he said he wanted to marry you. Did you say yes? ”
“He didn’t . . . he didn’t ask.”
“Okay.” He didn’t ask, so it doesn’t matter to me what her answer would have been had he lived. It’s a moot point and torturing myself over it won’t do any good.
“So, that’s it then?” she asks, inching toward the door. Can’t get away from me fast enough.
“Yep, I guess it is. Go date your rich guys. I’m sure Tate’s just dying to take you out again. You’ve had some pretty shitty years, Zarah. I hope you can find some happiness.” I turn away and brace my hands against the sink. The scents of oregano and basil fill the kitchen from the pan warming in the oven. And to think I had our evening all planned out. Ha. It’s just like a woman to shoot a man’s plans all to shit.
Crap. “Wait.”
She looks up, hopeful. “Yeah?”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“Oh, no. I, ah, I told Douglas to wait.”
“Sure you did.”
I don’t look when I hear my closet door open, or the rustling when she puts her jacket on, or when my apartment door opens and closes. She can run downstairs to Douglas, run home to her safe place. Date men Zane chooses, double date, I guess, with him and Stella, like the night at the gallery. Eventually she’ll marry someone steady and solid. Maybe she won’t feel squishy inside, but she’ll never have to be afraid of him hitting her, getting angry over something she’s done.
Me, I have a temper. I’ve never hidden it. Would die a million times before I ever did anything to her, but she doesn’t know that.
Won’t get to know it, either. Zane made sure. The son of a bitch got his way after all.
I pull the pan out of the oven, fasten the cover on it, and put it in the fridge. My appetite vanished when Zarah walked out, and I’ll give it to Pop and he can bring it home. It would be illegal to let something that good go to waste.
Baby noses at the door, but I ignore her. It’s not time for her to go out yet, and I flop on the couch and turn on a football game.
She starts whining, and I sigh. There’s a cute little golden retriever that lives in the building next door, and his owner’s probably downstairs taking their own evening turn around the neighborhood. “Fine. We’ll go out.”
In a mood I usually don’t get into, I jerk on my boots and jacket. I open the door, and Zarah’s sitting on the top step, shivering, sniffling, wiping her nose with a crumpled tissue.
“What are you doing out here? Go home.” My voice is gruff, and I try to rein it in, but I can’t. It’s not her fault her life is run by committee, but it affects me and I’m angry.
I sit down next to her.
“I don’t want to go,” she whispers, and her eyes are liquid in the hallway’s auxiliary lights.
“No one is saying you have to leave.”
“You got mad at me.”
“Yeah, I got mad. You think I like the idea of you dating other guys? I’m only human, Zarah, but I’m not dumb. I understand why Zane and your therapist want you to try new things. Life’s a buffet. It’s better to sample everything than choosing your favorite dish after only tasting one meal. Do you know what I mean?”
She kneels on the step in front of me, putting us at eye level. “What if I want dessert?”
I laugh. “You can’t live on dessert. It tastes good for a while, but eventually it will give you a stomachache. Try again.”
“What if I just . . . want . . . you?”
She lifts my hand and presses it to her breast, her skin warm through her blouse and bra. I rub my thumb over her nipple and her breath hitches.
“What are you doing?” I know very well what she’s doing. Tempting me, bribing me, hoping she can convince me to let her stay.
Leaning forward, she licks at my lips until I open my mouth. She doesn’t taste like anything but her, soft and sweet, an innocence that is far from safe. Especially if she thinks she can start using sex to get what she wants.
I shove her hand against my cock. I’m hard—I’d have to be a eunuch not to let Zarah’s touch turn me on—and she moans under my mouth. A shiver runs through her, and it might be desire, but I’m betting it’s more from fear.
“Do you wanna fuck?” I murmur against her lips.
She rears back, and I grab the collar of her jacket before she takes a tumble like poor Marci Grayson.
“Why do you have to turn it into something ugly?”
“Because a lot of men will. Don’t offer it if you can’t follow through. Scratch that. Don’t offer it if you don’t want it. I know you don’t. Not yet. Play games like this, and before you know it, you’re up shit creek without a paddle. Come inside.” I let go of her and shoo Baby back into the apartment.
“Wh-what are we going to do?”
I look over my shoulder, and she’s standing on the step, her eyes bigger than a cow’s and full of the same terror as on slaughter day.
Christ.
“We’re going to eat. Then we’re going to watch a movie. Then, because you don’t have clothes, I’m going to drive you home. Send Douglas on his way. I’ve got it.”
She grins and smacks a kiss to my lips. “You’re a good guy.”
I scowl. “For God’s sake, don’t tell anybody.”
Zarah sets the table and I shove the lasagna in the oven for a few more minutes. It had been in the fridge just long enough to cool down.
She hums as she putters, and I grit my teeth to keep from snapping at her. As far as I’m concerned, our conversation in the hallway didn’t change anything. After tonight, she’ll still go on to date other guys, men who can afford to bring her fancy places and buy her nice things. That’s not to say we can’t still see each other, but eventually she’ll find someone she likes, and I’ll hear from her less and less until one day while Pop’s scouring the paper for jobs, he’ll see her engagement announcement.
I pick at my food, and she watches me, her look guarded. “You’re still mad.”
Shrugging, I shove a forkful of lasagna into my mouth. I shouldn’t be taking this so hard, so personally. Zarah would do this no matter who she was seeing. I know that, and I should appreciate it. The last thing I need is to start thinking about forever then she decides she wants to date other people after all, meets a hedge fund manager or some shit, and they run off to Tahiti.
“It’s fine. I hate the idea, but it’s the best thing to do. Have fun. Try new things, whatever, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you want to watch that movie, or do you want to go home?”
“I’d like to stay if you don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t. I’ll clean this up later.” I set my plate on the floor and let Baby eat my leftovers. I don’t have the appetite to appreciate Lucille’s cooking.
Zarah scrapes her plate into the trash, sets it in the sink, and joins me in the living room. I choose the Netflix app on my smart TV and turn on a chick flick she says she hasn’t seen.
We both sit on the couch, stiff, awkward.
The movie starts, and I turn off the light.
Baby lays on the floor in front of the couch.
Awareness crackles around us, and if it had been any other woman, I would’ve been halfway into her panties by now. My cock throbs picturing Zarah spread out on my couch, her pussy ready, a come-hither look in her brown eyes begging me to do what I want.
I’d cover her body with mine, gently, slowly, push into her, moan as I consume her. Show her what love is. How it’s supposed to be between a man and a woman.
I shift, wishing I wasn’t wearing jeans. Not much room in the fly.
“When was the last time you had sex?”
I noticed whenever she refers to intimacy it’s always sex, never making love. “Why do you always call it sex? Why don’t you say making love? That’s usually what it is between two people.”
She props her feet on my flimsy coffee table. “Because I’ve never made love.”
“Not even in high school?”
She shakes her head. “Ash took my virginity. He wasn’t nice about it.”
“I’m sorry.” I pause. I don’t want to bring it up, but I don’t have the patience to hunt for it in Max’s diary. I’ll die of curiosity if I don’t ask, though it’s going to hurt like hell hearing it from her. “What about Max?”
She turns her huge eyes to me. “What about Max?”
“He loved you. A lot. I believe what he wrote in his journal. He would have shown you. That way.” I clear my throat.
“Max and I . . . didn’t have . . . make love.”
“But—”
“He wanted to, but there was something about his voice in the dark. It triggered me. He tried to touch me, down there, but I freaked out. He didn’t try again.”
The back of my neck burns. “I thought all this time you and my brother were lovers.”
She wipes tears off her cheeks. “I hadn’t been out of Quiet Meadows for that long, and I couldn’t have, even if I had wanted to.”
The movie’s light flashes across her face.
“I loved your brother, Gage, in a way that I could. Zane’s been so good, consulting with my doctor every week, getting me off these damned drugs as quickly and as safely as possible. I’m a different person now than I was before Max died.”
“He loved you, Zarah. I hope you don’t think poorly of him for wanting to show you that. Physically, I mean.” I don’t know why I’m defending him except I know Max wouldn’t have intentionally hurt her.
“No, I know that. I just wasn’t the person I needed to be to accept it. I’m different now. Will you show me?”
My heart stops, and I try not to choke. “Show you what?”
Her cheeks turn bright pink. “This is so hard for me to ask, but I keep telling myself it’s part of my recovery, and I want to be normal. I’ve never...”
She fades off, and I wait her out.
“Sex has never felt good. I’ve never . . . come.”
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
Twenty-seven years old, and she’s never had a positive sexual experience.
“I don’t think I’m—”
“Please, Gage. I trust you.”
I blow out a breath. I’d rather be the one to do it, than her giving herself to some asshole who might not care.
She boosts herself up onto her knees and leans into me, wrapping her arms around my neck. She’s going to give me a heart attack by the time this is over.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” I finally say, and I turn off the TV casting the room in almost complete darkness. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah. It helps.”
I’m sure it does. Dirty things are done in the dark...Ash taught her that. Now I need to show her the not-so-dirty side of sex.
The making love part of it.
She presses her breasts against my shoulder and my cock surges. Don’t know if he’ll see any action, but it took a lot of courage for Zarah to ask me to do this and the least I can do is respect her needs and show her a good time despite her past experiences.
“Come here.”
I drag her onto my lap and nuzzle her lips with mine. She tastes of tomato sauce and garlic and oh, yeah, I want to eat her up.
“What are you doing?”
“We need a little foreplay.”
“Stella told me about it.”
I choose to ignore that. I don’t need to picture Stella when I have a vision of my own wet dream sitting in my lap.
“Sex, making love, feels a lot better when you’re wet. Excited. When you want it. Anticipation. Foreplay.”
I kiss her again, wrapping my arms around her, and she adjusts her position, straddling me. She crushes her perky breasts against my chest.
“Mmm,” she hums against my mouth. “I love the feel of your whiskers against my skin.”
I move my lips down her jaw and to her neck.
She gasps and rocks, wiggling closer. With that small movement, her cleft cradles my cock and it’s all I can do not to grind against her.
“How do you feel?” I ask, raising my head.
“Squishy.”
“Is that how you describe being turned on?”
“Kind of.”
“Are you wet?”
“I think so.”
Kissing her, I lightly touch her breast, and she doesn’t pull away. She lets me touch her, and taking it a step further, I undo the tiny buttons of her blouse. “You gotta tell me if I go too fast. We aren’t going to make love tonight, but I want to look at you, okay?”
“Okay. Can I look at you too?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I didn’t consider she’d want to undress me, but she slowly unbuttons my flannel shirt. I’m wearing a t-shirt underneath, and she shoves her hands under it, bunching it up under my arms until I pull both off. Her touch sends a shudder through me.
“You’re strong.” Her fingers trace my abs.
“Yeah.”
She goes higher, and her fingertips graze my nipples. I’ve never considered my chest to be an erogenous zone, but anywhere Zarah touches me feels like it’s on fire.
“What happened?” She lightly flutters her fingers over the bullet hole that reminded me I wasn’t Superman.
“Someone didn’t like me.”
“Did it hurt?”
“A little. It was a few years ago.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
“Later.”
Her tongue laps at the scar, and I splay my hands over her back, under her blouse. Her skin is so smooth and soft, I don’t want to scratch her with my callouses.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, checking in. Not very romantic, but I don’t want to be a trigger like Max was, either.
“Good. My heart feels like it’s going to explode.”
“Mine too.”
“Now what do we do?”
I blow out a breath. “You want to come, but no sex.”
“Can I do that?”
“Yeah. Your pants are tight. Do you feel comfortable taking them off?”
“Yes.”
She crawls off me, and I have to adjust. The zipper teeth rasping as she unzips her leggings scratches along my skin. She has to peel them off her legs, and standing in my living room in a leather vest, her blouse hanging open, and black panties peeking from the hem, she’s the fucking sexiest thing.
I lie on my side and pat the space on the couch next to me. “Lie on your back.”
She lies next to me, her head on my arm, and I curl my body around her. “Put your leg on my hip, and spread your legs, baby. You’re going to make yourself come,” I say, holding her hand. “Your first time should belong to you.”
“How?”
I whisper into her ear. “I’ll help you. Find your clit.”
I ease her hand under the waistband of her panties, and heat permeates from between her legs.
“Do you want to have sex with me?” she asks.
“No. I want to make love to you, but not now.” What Zarah and I do together will never be just sex.
“Okay.”
“Find your clit, Zarah. Is it big? Are you excited?” I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“Yes,” she whispers.
My hand is on top of hers, and I guide her fingers between the lips of her pussy. I push my cock into her hip.
“Feel yourself. How wet are you?”
I let her explore without my help.
She whimpers. “I’m really wet.”
“Is that good? Do you feel safe? Desire with someone you lo— trust should always feel safe.”
“I trust you, Gage.”
“I’m glad. Wet your fingers and then touch your clit in a way that feels good.”
She rubs her middle finger in gentle circles. Her body tenses, then relaxes, then tenses again.
It’s fucking hot to help her get herself off. I’ve never helped a woman before. They’ve all wanted me to be in control, and I was, happily.
I kiss her, our tongues swirling together, mimicking her finger between the lush folds of her pussy.
“I need more,” she whimpers. “What do I need?”
“Do you want me to push one of my fingers inside you?” I ask, my cock throbbing hopefully.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? I’ll be touching you down there.”
“Please, Gage.” She looks at me, and I’ve adjusted to the lack of light enough that I can meet her gaze and know she understands what she’s asking.
I slide my hand out of the top of her panties and find her slit through the leg of her satin underwear.
She tenses.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
I push my middle finger inside her, and my fantasies never came close to how she feels. So tight and hot. She lifts her hips, moaning, inviting me in.
I’m going to explode in my jeans, and I hope to hell she either doesn’t notice in her own pleasure, or she doesn’t care.
Slowly, I ease my finger out and push it back in. She rubs her clit faster and faster.
I kiss her, our teeth gnashing together, our urgency bruising her lips, and I think I’ve gone too far but she cries out wanting more. A jagged sob tears out of her throat, and she comes, her pussy hugging my finger. Cum gushes out of her.
It’s too much for my dick, and I shoot off, the orgasm shaking my body from head to foot.
Zarah turns and cries into my chest, wetting my skin.
I slip my finger out of her and hold her close, the smell of sex weighing in the air.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. It’s gonna be okay,” I breathe into her hair.
She cries for a long time, and all I can do is hold her. I’ve had women cry after sex. Sometimes in regret after a one-night stand, but that hasn’t been for a while. Some because after a good orgasm, they’re tired, emotional. Sometimes they’re happy, but that’s only happened to me with the woman I told Zarah about in the woods. She’d been the love of my life, and for a little while, I’d been hers.
“Sorry, I’m—”
“Did I hurt you?” I ask.
“No. You did everything perfectly. I didn’t know sex could be like that.”
“You mean should be like that. Sex, making love, should never hurt. Unless you like it. Some people do, but that’s a lesson for another time.”
She finds my lips in the dark, and she kisses me, pressing her entire body against mine. She’s so small, so tiny, a man could go insane trying to keep her safe.
I’m reluctant to tell her we need to go, but my arm is starting to fall asleep and it’s getting late. “You can clean up in the bathroom.”
“Did you come, too?”
“You are so fucking sexy, Zarah, my dick didn’t stand a chance.”
She laughs. “Crass.”
“True.”
I kiss her again, wrapping my arms around her and tangling my fingers in her hair. I’m grateful after what we shared she kisses me back, not a second of hesitation in her touch. She rolls off the couch and scampers into the bathroom, the hem of her blouse showcasing her slim thighs.
I use a kitchen towel to wipe up the damage in my pants. It’d been a while, and the gallons of cum in my boxers and all over my groin is proof. I need two hand towels to dry off completely, and I change my boxers in the bedroom. When I come out, Zarah’s in the living room pulling on her leggings.
I flop onto the couch, and Baby lifts her head to check everything is okay and falls back to sleep.
Zarah crawls into my arms, and she fits like my lap was made for nothing more than holding her. “Thank you for that.”
“Anything you need from me. I mean it. If you ever need something, tell me, and I will move heaven and earth to give it to you.”
“That’s sweet.”
It’s stupid. Her brother will be the one to give her what she needs. I’m never going to be good enough. Sorry, Pop.
It doesn’t even have anything to do with money, not really. Fate, destiny. The roads we travel have already been chosen for us. From the minute I was born, I wasn’t meant for the kind of life Zarah will eventually live having her billions. I wonder how difficult it was for Stella to fit herself into Zane’s world or if she still struggles to find a sense of belonging.
“It doesn’t change anything. Zane and your therapist are still pushing you onto the right path, whether you want to see it or not. You should explore.”
She runs her fingertips over my scruff, the bruise twinging under her touch. “But if I do, then you will.”
“I never dated much before I met you,” I say. “You don’t have to worry about me finding anyone while you’re on your adventures.”
Zarah holds one of my hands, and God, it’s a giant’s compared to hers. She traces my ink. Her voice trembles, but she says casually, “All it takes is one woman.”
“And all it will take for you is one man.”
She rests her forehead against mine, and her fingers dig into my hair. “You were that man when you didn’t let me run away and ordered me a coffee.”
“And you were that woman when you asked me to pick you up and kiss you in the woods. Fuck.” I say it good-naturedly, but she doesn’t laugh.
“Fuck,” she whispers, knowing this isn’t going to be as easy as we want it to be.
“We’ll go slow, and I’ll talk to Zane.” And hope to God he listens to me. “It will be okay.”
“I’ll talk to him too, and promise we’ll go slow.”
I cup her face in my hands, her silky hair brushing my arms. “You’re mine.”
She sighs and snuggles into my chest. “There’s no one else in the world I want to belong to.”
We sit like that for a lot longer than we should.
I drive her home around midnight. No use getting Zane angry. He wants what’s best for his sister, but he’s going to have to understand that I want what’s best for her, too.
The only problem is we may not agree on what that is.
She kisses me, lingering, and then she hops out of the truck, a scrub of Baby’s fur to say goodbye.
It’s bittersweet, as all our goodbyes are. I’ll see her again, I just don’t know when.
I spend the drive home worrying Zane will be disagreeable and unwilling to bend.
That was the last thing I should have been worried about.
JodiAnne Donnelly’s therapist miraculously doesn’t cancel our appointment, and bleary-eyed, I’m awake and driving downtown with Pop by seven. It was the only way we could speak to her, she explained, before her last day of appointments and the holiday break.
A perky receptionist greets us and offers us coffee. Surly, I decline, but Pop accepts. We wait for the psychiatrist of the rich and famous to say she’s ready to talk to us, and I’m jealous, watching Pop sip the miracle elixir I desperately need. I only got four hours of sleep last night, and they sure as hell weren’t enough.
Pop’s almost down to the bottom of his mug when Jerricka Solis opens her office door. “I can speak with you gentlemen for a few moments now.”
I shuffle into an office that would fit my entire apartment and resist whistling. The view from her window is worth a cool million easily, and as Pop steps deeper into the office, I watch the city wake up to face another day.
“What can I do for you? You said this is concerning a patient of mine?” she asks, annoyed.
“I’m Linc Davenport, and this is my son, Gage,” Pop says, unaffected. We irritate people all the time. “Polly Donnelly hired us to look into her daughter’s death.”
Dr. Solis hears my name and her eyes widen. Her gaze jerks to mine. She knows me from somewhere, but before I can question her, the mask slips back into place and she’s the calm, cool doctor who let us into her office. I tuck her reaction into the back of my mind. Jerricka Solis is hiding something. My bullshit radar is off the charts, and she hasn’t even started flapping her jaws yet.
Pop perches on the edge of a wingback chair that looks brand new.
“Remind me what happened, Mr. Davenport?” Dr. Solis says, leaning a slim thigh against her desk. I’m not sure which of us she’s aiming her question at.
Her platinum blonde hair is twisted into an elegant chignon, and her suit is, I don’t know, I guess it would have a fancy name because nothing is plain and simple in the world of the rich. White has no place on the color wheel. It would be an eggshell or something just as ridiculous. Discreet gold jewelry completes a sophisticated picture. Oh, and she’s wearing fancy framed glasses like an eyewear model on an advertisement in an optometry shop.
Pop fields the question, though she doesn’t need us to remind her what’s going on. She wants us to reveal how much we know. That’s one of the advantages of looking like street rats—we’re always underestimated.
“JodiAnne passed away due to cardiac arrest two weeks ago. Her funeral is tomorrow. Will you be attending?” he asks.
He leans back, looking like a man who lost his way to a fishing expedition. Baseball cap low on his head, almost hiding his eyes. Black leather bomber jacket, worn jeans, and work boots. I’m a bit better dressed in jeans and a plain black flannel shirt, but I didn’t shave and I’m wearing my own annoyed expression. I need to go back to bed, and I wouldn’t turn down a little brown-eyed brunette sleeping buddy.
“Possibly.” She shrugs.
“Before she died, she said someone was after her. That they wanted to kill her. Did she mention anything to you of that nature during her sessions?” Pop asks.
The question’s a stretch. Jerricka Solis is a classic ice queen and she’ll never volunteer that kind of information without a court order—something we can’t get. I wonder how her clients are comfortable enough to talk to her.
She tsks . “You know I can’t tell you that. Even in death, her patient records are confidential. JodiAnne Donnelly was a classic schizophrenic and suffered with bipolar disorder. When Quiet Meadows closed, it disrupted the treatment programs of over a hundred patients. I’m sure you can understand that recovery requires consistent, quality therapy. I spoke with Paula Donnelly at length about the kind of care she should provide her daughter.” Dr. Solis spreads her fingers. “Hiring a caregiver couldn’t possibly begin to match the therapy JodiAnne was receiving in a top-notch facility, but I understand the Donnelly’s predicament. Nothing was available in the city that offered the kind of treatment her daughter needed—the waitlists were miles long and still are. I helped them search, tried to pull whatever strings I could, to no avail.”
That doesn’t endear her to me, and I ask, “Did you go to her home for therapy sessions or did she come to your office?”
“Both, though she did better, responded better, when she came here. I believe the professional atmosphere soothed her.”
“We spoke to Dr. Krout, the medical examiner at the hospital, and he said her cardiac arrest was induced by the amount of medication she took over the years. How do you decide which drug cocktails to prescribe your patients, and for how long?”
She barely smiles at me. “Medicine is continually evolving. Changing. We find new facts about the human body every single day. Some of these findings can turn what we previously thought on its head. You can imagine how a discovery like that can impact us. It’s devastating and rocks the entire psychiatric community. Years of treatment we thought were helpful might have been harmful or even detrimental. We can only do as well as we are able using the information we have at the time. JodiAnne’s doctors at Quiet Meadows were treating her in the best way they knew how, and for the past year, I did the same. I won’t apologize for that.”
“Then you have nothing to say in regard to JodiAnne’s suspicions that someone was trying to kill her.”
“No, I don’t. She was delusional and had hallucinations. She belonged in a care facility. Living at home without consistent therapy did not do her treatment any favors. If that’s all, gentlemen, I need to see to my patients. My living patients, whom I can still be of some comfort and assistance.”
“Just one other question,” Pop says, standing and holding the empty coffee mug loosely in his hand.
“Yes?” Any warmth Dr. Solis might have had for us is gone.
“Do you keep up to date with the latest studies? Do you collaborate or consult with colleagues about your patients?”
“I wouldn’t be a very good doctor not to open myself to new ideas, therapies, or medication. I frequently read and publish in psychological and psychiatric journals, and I consult with Dr. Martin Pederson quite regularly. He was the lead psychiatrist at Quiet Meadows before the fiasco involving Zarah Maddox closed the entire facility.”
I frown. I don’t like Dr. Solis blaming the woman I’m in love with for the demise of a care facility that could have been mistreating their patients.
“I don’t think Zarah Maddox is to blame,” I say coldly. “We’re well aware Ashton Black deserves the credit for that.”
“The Maddoxes took a personal feud against the Blacks public. They ruined the lives of hundreds of patients who were displaced when the FBI closed Quiet Meadows. If anyone is to blame for JodiAnne’s death, look at Zane Maddox.”
I open my mouth to tell her off, but Pop sets his empty mug on her desk and grabs my arm. “Not now.” He turns to Dr. Solis. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. Enjoy the holidays.”
Narrowing her eyes, she meets mine. Goddamn it, she knows me from somewhere. “You as well.”
Pop drags me out of Dr. Solis’ office, and he only lets me go in the elevator, the doors sliding closed. I’m trembling with rage. “What did you do that for? We didn’t even mention Marci Grayson.”
“She wasn’t going to give us anything,” Pop says, rolling his shoulders as the lift carries us down to the lobby. “All she cared about was Quiet Meadows closing and sticking someone with the blame. She didn’t have anything to give us, anyway. Medicine is a crapshoot, she admitted it. JodiAnne was a casualty, and it’s not like there aren’t thousands of those every year. We’ll write up the report, send it to the Donnellys, and wash our hands of it. That woman gave me the creeps.”
“What made you change your mind? You wanted this case.”
Pop’s mouth quirks. “Yeah, I did. It sounded like a good, 0ld-fashioned murder, but talking to Dr. Krout turned me off. You can’t argue with an autopsy report. She had a weak heart because of years of prescription drug use. Can’t get any more cut and dried than that.”
“I don’t like Solis consulting with a doctor who used to treat patients at Quiet Meadows.”
“Like you said, all the doctors except for the one Black was bribing were cleared. It’s been over a year. There’s talk that a private physicians group purchased the facility and is going to reopen it.”
I don’t like the sound of that much, but there wasn’t anything going on at Quiet Meadows outside of Ashton Black drugging Zarah to keep her under his thumb. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t reopen.
I run my hands over my hair, and we trudge through the gleaming lobby. “I guess that’s it, then.”
“Seems like it. Ross gave us a couple of good leads the other day. Let’s see if we can get a head start on another one before the world shuts down for Christmas.”
We head out to the parking ramp where I had to park my truck.“She was a piece of work,” I grumble.
Pop scoffs. “Rich people can be an incestuous bunch. All the Quiet Meadows patients still in the city probably see her or one of her partners. She’s got a lock on the one percent, that’s for sure. She doesn’t accept medical assistance.”
Pop sounds a little bitter, but self-employed, we’re on a state insurance plan. Paying the premiums on a high-deductible policy sucks, and we only have the coverage we do in case we get hurt on the job.
“Ever look up her rates?” I ask, using my fob to unlock my truck.
“Sliding fee scale,” he says, chuckling. “Sliding fee scale my ass.”
“It still doesn’t feel right. She knew my name from somewhere.” I navigate out of the tight aisles.
“Zarah was a prisoner, I mean, a patient , at Quiet Meadows, and you’re hung up on that. I get it, but the way you feel about her, you’re too close to it. Her psychiatrist was charged, and he’s in prison. What they did to her was unethical, illegal, and downright cruel, but not everything is going to lead back to that sanatorium just because Zarah stayed there. Now, I might have some questions if Jerricka Solis is Zarah’s therapist?” He looks at me.
“I don’t know who she sees.”
“It might be worth asking her. The way Dr. Solis blamed Zane for Quiet Meadows closing didn’t exactly give me the warm fuzzies.”
“No,” I murmur.
“You’re in love with her, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Bound to happen sometime.”
“You make it sound so bleak.”
“Things will get worse before they get better.”
“Things aren’t bad now.” I think about her soft body molded to mine, the noises she made as she came. How she cried because someone finally showed her how sex could mean pleasure, love, and trust. Not violence, hate, and revenge.
“What’s your plan?”
“Date her, stand by her while she goes through her recovery. Hope like hell after she has her mind back she still wants me.” I pause. “She and Max never slept together.”
“That’s some weight off.”
“Yeah.”
“Speaking of Max, your mother called, and next month the King’s Crossing Chronicle is holding a dinner in his honor. Giving him a posthumous award. They’d like you to accept it on his behalf. She’s been trying to get a hold of you—again.”
Scowling, I pull into the office parking lot. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because he loved you. Was proud of you. Wanted to be more like you. Why do you think he went sniffing around the Blacks?”
“To win a Pulitzer?”
“Because he wanted you in his life.”
“If that’s the case, he could have called and asked me to go out for a drink.”
Pop scowls. “Gonna be like that?”
I’m off my game. I’m usually not like that. I just don’t want to admit what Pop said is true. Things will get worse before they get better. Zane could prove to be a huge pain in my ass, or Zarah’s recovery and drug withdrawal, which seem to be going smoothly so far, could hit a bump. Those two things are pretty much a given and wouldn’t surprise me. Other circumstances, though.
Yeah, I signed up for a load of shit falling in love with Zarah, but I’d do it all over again.
“Fine. I’ll go if you go, too. I’ll bring Zarah, and we’ll honor Max and make a night out of it.”
“Now you’re sounding like the son I raised.”
I don’t answer, just jerk my shoulder and unlock our office. Baby looks up hopefully wanting breakfast that isn’t dog chow. We should have hit a drive-through and grabbed a bag of breakfast biscuits. Those sound damned good, and I’m about to tell Pop I’m heading back out but he flips on the TV that sits in the corner of the room. A local news channel has interrupted a morning talk show program.
“Thirty-one year old Savannah Mesa was found dead of apparent suicide this morning in her home. Her father, financier Cyrus Mesa and mother, socialite and former model, Audrey Mesa, were not available for comment. No further information is available, and the family asks for privacy at this time.”
The gritty footage plays, and two of King’s Crossing police cars are parked in front of a mini mansion that looks eerily like the Grayson’s. A lucky cameraman filmed an EMT pushing a gurney down a walkway covered in snow. Long, strawberry blonde hair escapes the sheet and blows in the wind. A suicide prevention hotline number flashes across the bottom of the screen.
Pop boots up the computer, already looking for what the news didn’t say. “Well,” he says, sighing, “Savannah Mesa was hell on wheels. In and out of county for possession, intent to sell. Parties, clubbing downtown, and before it closed, was a patient at Quiet Meadows.”