19
Out of the rubble
Rafferty stood just inside the office door, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, eyes making a slow sweep.
The spacious room was quiet. No diplomas on the wall.
No books arranged by color. Just a worn leather couch, a couple of matching armchairs, and a man in his fifties who looked more like a college professor than a shrink seated in one of them.
“Rafferty,” the man said, rising and extending a hand. “Trent Sykes.”
He knew the good doctor had pulled his file from rehab. Knew about the jungle, the torture, the drugs, the forced injections, the half-dead shell of a man Essie had stumbled across. The man knew too much already.
But not everything.
Not the worst of it.
Not what had led to the jungle. And what he’d done to survive.
Still, he understood that if he wanted to claw his way out from the rubble of his life, if he wanted a shot at something real, he had to take the next step.
Strip himself down.
Speak it aloud.
Even if it meant baring his soul to a stranger with a notebook and a practiced calm.
Rafferty dragged in a breath, stepped into the office, and forced himself to take the man’s hand. “Thanks for fitting me in,” he mumbled, gaze drifting from the armchair to the couch.
And then to the door.
He willed his feet to stay put, but his mind …
Fuck, his mind was already halfway out.
Because he really, really didn’t want to talk.
A quick side-eye to the shrink caught the man’s measured look. It held neither condemnation nor pity. “You showed up. That’s more than most manage on day one.”
Rafferty gave a sharp nod and dropped into the chair like he was bracing for an interrogation.
Trent sat back down, placing his hand over the closed notebook resting on the armrest. “So … what pushed you through the door today?”
A silence stretched between them.
Rafferty glanced at the window — the bright sun streaming through felt like a fucking insult. Too clean. Too warm. It spilled across the floor like it had the right to touch everything, even the places that didn’t deserve light.
Inside him, it was still jungle-dark. Thick, choking. Cloying. The kind of dark that pressed in on your ribs and smelled like rot and old blood.
The sun had no business shining on that.
No business pretending the world was fine.
“Panic attack.” He looked away, throat working. “A couple of days ago.”
Trent remained still, giving him space to get his thoughts, his fucking emotions in order. Order . Hah. That was funny. And not the ha-ha kind. His feelings hadn’t been in order since … forever.
He gave Trent a short recount of the events leading up to him entering the grove of live oaks. “I hadn’t planned to stop, but I wanted to see the old tree house we used to go to as kids. I … I never figured on … falling apart.”
Trent didn’t speak. Just nodded once, a quiet invitation to continue.
The memory clawed back, sharp around the edges.
“The light changed under the trees … and the reek of rotting vegetation — thick, wet, and sour — just sorta … flipped something inside. One second, I’m looking at the wooden platform, seeing Brandy-Lyn touch the ladder. And then—
“Fuck,” he exploded. “Just like that, I’m in the jungle. Back there .” His fingers drummed against his thigh, annoyed again for being so fucking weak. “My heart raced. My vision narrowed. I couldn’t breathe.
“I’ve had the nightmares,” Rafferty continued, voice tight. “Since I got back. I figured I could handle them. But this was different. It wasn’t sleep. It was now . Like my brain just flipped and dragged me back.”
His jaw clenched. He wasn’t looking at Trent anymore. “I thought I was done falling apart,” he muttered. “Guess not.”
Swallowing hard, he said, “Brandy-Lyn guided me through it. Sat with me till I” — he gave a nervous laugh — “came back. With her holding my hand, I was able to go back into the grove, climb that fucking ladder, sit on that fucking platform, and … then … I told her. Everything. About the jungle. The cartel. Kamila. The drugs. All of it.” He lowered his eyes.
“I told her stuff I’ve never told anyone.
And bawled like a fucking baby. Like a chickenshit coward. ”
“That’s not cowardice, Rafferty. That’s strength.” Trent paused, his stare as calm as his voice. “And telling someone — letting them see you like that? Vulnerable. Real. That’s not weakness either. That’s survival. And it’s the first real step forward.”
“I … guess?”
Trent nodded slowly. “You let her see you when you were most vulnerable … and she stayed. Sat with you. Held your hand. Talked you off the ledge.” He paused for a beat. “What does she mean to you, Rafferty?”
“Everything,” he admitted. “She means everything to me. But … I can’t go there. Not yet. Maybe never.”
He gripped the horseshoe hanging from his neck.
A lifeline.
A reminder of why he was here. In this fucking office. Talking to a stranger.
Baring his fucking soul.
Because beyond the danger stalking his heels, the greater threat came from the darkness inside him. Kamila was out of his hands. For now. But facing the ghosts inside him? That was something he could fix.
Trent studied him for a beat. “What do you need from me. From this process?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Tension ticked through his body as he stared at the floor, searching for words that wouldn’t sound like bullshit or weakness. This wasn’t about pride anymore. It was about survival. About becoming the man he wanted to be — not the broken one hauled out of the jungle.
“I want to stop flinching at shadows,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “I want to stop waiting for the jungle to follow me home.”
He lifted his eyes to Trent, not hiding anymore. “I want to be someone who deserves a woman like …” His voice faltered for half a second. “Like Brandy-Lyn.”
Trent didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.
Just held the silence open like a door.
Rafferty stepped through it.
“I want Brandy-Lyn in my life. I want to build something with her — real, solid. I want to wake up beside her every morning and kiss her goodnight each night. I want to be there when Amelia gets picked up for her prom. I want to scare the shit out of Livvie’s first boyfriend.
I want Preston to come to me when he needs guy stuff — razors, advice, condoms, whatever.
I want to be there for the boring stuff.
The breakfast-making, the bad movie nights, even the Fast and Furious flick filmed in Brazil. ”
His voice broke slightly on the last word, but he powered through. “I want a life that isn’t just about surviving. I want to live, Doc. Really live. Without feeling like I’m one breath away from cracking open.”
Trent gave a single, measured nod. His voice stayed even. “Then that’s where we start.”