Chapter 5 Rose
ROSE
Icleared my throat and flipped open the folder labeled Phoenix Steele.
“Would you like some water?”
He lifted the bottle he’d helped himself to from my mini-fridge—under my desk.
“Okay, then. So. Have you been to a counselor before?”
“Is your last name really Floris?”
I blinked. “… Yes.”
“You’re Italian, then.”
“No, I’m American. My grandparents are Italian.”
“Both sides?”
“Just one.”
He plucked a green crystal from a decorative bowl I had on the coffee table. He turned it over in his hands.
“Vesuvianite,” he observed.
My brows raised. “That’s right.”
“A mineral found at the base of Mount Vesuvius.”
“Hence the name.”
“Hence.” He mocked me. “Have you been?”
“To Mount Vesuvius?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“To Italy.”
I shifted. “No.”
“So you just think they’re pretty, then.”
“Vesuvianite is said to have healing properties. To override the energy of the ego and aid in spiritual growth and forward movement.” Note to self to get an entire truckload for this guy.
“If you believe in that sort of thing.”
“If you believe in that sort of thing,” I repeated, rather condescendingly.
“Floris.” He repeated my last name as if deciding whether to believe me or not. The emerald green stone sliding through his fingertips. “Rose Floris?”
Where the heck was he going with this? “That’s correct.”
“Floris means flower in Italian.”
“Yep.”
“… So your name is Rose Flower.”
“… No. My name is Rose Floris.”
We stared at each other, one trying to deflect, one trying to rein in her impatience.
Turn the tables, I told myself.
“Anyway, as I was saying, or asking rather, have you ever been to a counselor before this?”
“I thought you were a doctor.”
Geez. “I am. Let me rephrase. Have you ever been to a psychologist before?”
“No.”
“Psychiatrist?”
“I don’t believe in Psychiatry.”
“Why not?”
“Throwing drugs at a problem only masks it.”
Narrow-minded macho male. Check.
“There’s a lot more to psychiatry than prescribing drugs.
” And little did he know, my evaluation was the only thing that was keeping him from seeing a psychiatrist. If I decided that medication would assist in his therapy, I had been advised to give the referral.
And from what I’d seen already, I was guessing this guy could use more than just a truckload of vesuvianite.
More like a steady flow of valium in the veins.
He leaned back, letting me know he disagreed with my comment, and had nothing else to say about it.
“So we’ve established that this is your first time visiting a psychologist. Good. Let’s review why you’re here first, and then—”
“I’m here because the local healthcare system saw an opportunity to pull a few more pennies from my pocket before leaving me alone.”
“Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I said.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “And let me guess, your next question is going to be ‘how do you feel about that’?”
“We won’t get into those questions yet, Mr. Steele.”
“Phoenix.”
I ignored him and began flipping through the pages of his file. “I’ll review why you’re here, according to your medical file, because it’s important that we start out on the same page. Will that work for you, Phoenix?”
The snarl of his lip told me if there had been any attraction on his part as well, it was long gone.
I grabbed my reading glasses from the drawer, slid them on, and focused on the file that I was ashamed to say I’d only skimmed when Zoey created his account. Typically, I’d take at least thirty minutes before an appointment to review notes, but that day had been, well, horse crap.
“According to Dr. Buckley at the Berry Springs Medical clinic, and your neuropsychological evaluation, you are suffering from mild PTA, or post-traumatic-amnesia, and PCS, or post-concussion syndrome, including a decrease in fine motor skills, intermittent confusion, and behavioral changes as a result of a traumatic brain injury. Does this sound correct to you?”
His gaze had drifted to the floor—the first time they hadn’t been fixed on me. His toe began to tap, tap, tap against the hardwood floor.
I continued going down the list. “According to your assessment, somatosensory issues include dizziness and occasional double vision. Motor issues include hemiparesis, or occasional weakness, as well as slowed performance,” he literally twitched at that one, “and cognitive issues include attention, concentration, judgment and reasoning. Finally, the behavioral issues noted are decreased inhibition, impulsivity”—another twitch—“inappropriate behavior, anxiety, anger, and irritability.”
Highlighted in yellow under the list read: List not exhaustive, patient participation unwilling and unforthcoming with any and all symptoms. In other words, Phoenix had continually told the doctors he felt “fine.”
I continued, “Due to this, Dr. Buckley referred you to a physical therapist to rehabilitate your motor skills, and referred you to me to address the behavioral changes you are experiencing. Does all this sound right?”
He’d picked a spot on the table to focus on. I was surprised the wood didn’t burst into flames.
“Does this align with what you understand to be true, Phoenix?”
“On second thought, call me Mr. Steele.”
“Mr. Steele, does this align with what you understand?”
He looked up, those blue eyes narrowed to slits again, but this time, a deep flush started working its way up his neck.
“Let me tell you what I understand. I understand that I no longer have a driver’s license or my concealed carry license, both of which were taken from me after I woke up from a coma.
I understand that in order to get these things back, I need you to check a little box that says I’m cleared. That’s what I understand, Miss Flower.”
“Doctor Floris,” I growled back.
We glared at each other like two boxers about to throw down.
Be the one in control. You are in control. Focus on the facts.
“Your driver’s license has been suspended by the DMV at the recommendation of Dr. Buckley until you complete therapy, your gun license—”
“—concealed carry.” He corrected.
My head was officially about to explode. “Your concealed carry license was suspended because federal law prohibits possession of a firearm by a person who has been adjudicated as mentally defective, whether temporary or permanently.”
“You think I’m mentally defective, doctor?”
And that was my first little alarm with Phoenix Steele. Behind that tone, an anger began to simmer. One that my gut was telling me only released into a volcano of fury. There was a feral look in his eyes now that had goosebumps prickling my skin.
Unstable? Without question. And I did not like loose cannons.
I cleared my throat. “Based on your medical file, I think it was a wise decision to place you in therapy, Mr. Steele.”
His hands curled into fists on his knees as he stared back at me. It was the first time the nerves of the little bunny looking at the big bad wolf turned into a trickle of fear.
I shut his file and switched angles. This man would not scare me.
“Okay. Fine. Let’s cut through the pillow talk, then, shall we?
You were shot in the head, Phoenix. A traumatic experience for anyone, and something that warrants a little couch-time for anyone.
” I nodded at his file. “Even a former special ops Marine, current CEO of Steele Shadows Security, and a stand-in father to three younger brothers—”
He surged to his feet, a wild expression contorting his face that had me scooting back in my chair. I remained calm, still, with an impassive expression on my face even though my heartbeat had just skyrocketed.
Phoenix stalked to the front of my desk, gripped the edge and leaned forward, inches from my face.
“You don’t know anything about me, Dr. Flower.
” He seethed. “You don’t know anything about my family.
And I’m not going to talk about me getting shot in the head, or about them.
If you want to know what happened, feel free to ask ol’ Jenkins next door, or have breakfast at Donny’s Diner where the topic is served up like the daily fucking special.
” His grip on my desk had his knuckles turning white.
“Let me make one thing clear. I’m not here to talk about the past. I’m here to get my independence back. ”
“You’ve made that very clear, Mr. Steele.” My tone was calm, but my nails were digging into my thighs under the desk. “And you’re in luck, because the therapy I do is based on CBT—Cognitive Behavioral Therapy—and does not focus, or dwell, on the past. It focuses on the now.”
He blinked and I swear I caught a flash of relief on his face. Only a flash.
I continued. “It’s also clear that your independence relies on my final evaluation, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can have it back.
We have the same goal here, Mr. Steele. I’m just trying to get you, your life, back to normal.
To do that, I’ve got to take a look under the hood—and I need you to let me. ”
“If that’s the case, Miss Floris…” My name rolled off his tongue like a taunt. “I’d be more than happy to give you a look under my hood.” His gaze dropped to my breasts, lingering, while he licked his lips. A lump caught in my throat as my pulse roared in my ears.
He reached into his pocket and slid me his wallet. “Or, you can take a look in there, if you’d like, doctor.”
My eyes rounded in total, complete shock.
A bribe.
A bribe. A freaking bribe. The audacity. The insult. That he thought I’d even consider it. That I was that desperate. That easy to buy. That weak.
That controllable.
Rage burned through me, but I forced my hand not to tremble as I slowly, deliberately, shoved the wallet back across the desk. Then I leaned back, arms crossed, gaze locked on his like a loaded gun.
And then—
Like a lightning strike, he exploded. One savage sweep of his arm and my entire desk shattered into chaos. My phone, files, monitors—everything—went crashing to the floor in a violent clatter.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Frozen in place, I stared at the wreckage, stunned into silence.
Chest heaving, he resumed his grip on the now-bare desk and leaned in, this time, so close I could feel his breath.
“No money?” His voice was low, menacing. “Okay. How about I give you a look under my hood right here, right now, on this desk?”
One hand began undoing his belt, the other slid over my hand.
My mouth dropped. Unhinged.
Rage mixed with adrenaline shot through me like liquid acid. My body trembled as I rose from the chair, facing the bastard nose to nose.
A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
“There’s not enough money in the world for me to take a look at what you’ve got in your pants, Mr. Steele. And if you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll personally remove your balls, shove each one down your throat, and ensure no woman ever takes a look under that hood again.”