Chapter 9 Phoenix #2
I shook my head. What was done was done, and couldn’t say I wouldn’t have done the same for him. So, I sat and sipped, as he began scooping out the chili. We dug in like a pair of starved war prisoners.
“So. How was therapy?”
I swallowed the half-chewed bite, a fireball of chili sliding down my throat. I cleared my throat. “It was therapy.”
“Girl or boy therapist?”
“Female.”
“Was she hot?”
Rose Flower’s image flashed before my eyes, as it had done a million times since I’d acted like an idiot in her office. I took another bite of chili, her body materializing in my thoughts like smoke, until I realized I’d forgotten Gage’s question.
“Yo, bro. She’s hot, isn’t she?” Gage grinned around a mouthful of chili.
“Who said anything about her being hot?”
“You called her a female. Not girl. And you’re deflecting.”
“You don’t even know what deflecting means.”
“I know for a fact she’s hot, and I know you just failed that test miserably.”
“How do you know for a fact she’s hot?”
“I had Jagg look into her.”
Jagg, a former Navy SEAL turned homicide detective was as close of a brother to me as my real brothers, and apparently, willing to go behind my back for something that Gage had promised was in my “best interest.”
“How did you know I was going to see her?”
“The receptionist of Kline and Associates, Zoey, I think, called to confirm your appointment.”
“And then you had Rose Floris researched to make sure I was in good hands.”
“Yes, sir.”
I shoveled in the chili. I didn’t want to ask what he’d dug up about the woman. I didn’t want to know. So, I said—
“Tell me everything.”
“According to Jagg, Miss—I mean doctor—Floris graduated top of her class and even won some awards while she was in college. Definitely smart.”
Well, she sure as hell made sure I knew that part.
“Get’s better,” he continued. “In college, she started a podcast called Roseology—clever, huh?—where she talked about psychology, studies, books, you know, boring stuff. Anyway, she gained a huge following and her little hobby exploded. She started doing interviews, conducting her own volunteer-based psychology experiments. Her podcast gained sponsorships. Companies, authors, doctors, paid her to talk about their stuff. According to Jagg, Dr. Floris made six figures doing her podcast alone.”
My brows arched. That, I definitely did not know. So Rose Floris was a rich, domineering brain-analyzer. Pretty much my worst nightmare in a woman. Those lips be damned.
“You surprised?” He asked.
I shrugged and popped a cracker into my mouth. When I looked up, Gage’s face was inches from my own.
I jerked my head back. “What? Dude, back up.”
“Dude. She is hot as hell.”
I washed the crackers down with a gulp of beer, wishing it was pure grain alcohol.
“I saw a picture.” He sat back and continued, “She’s got that classy hotness. That book-smart librarian sexy thing.”
“She’s also as uptight and snotty as a librarian.”
He shrugged. “Still hot. And you dodging that fact makes me know you noticed.”
I ignored, kept eating.
Gage took a swig of my beer. “She’s also an upstanding citizen by the way—no criminal record. But…”
I stopped chewing mid-bite.
“She did call the cops twice in the last six months.”
“For what?”
“Two separate male clients of hers. One would sit in his car after his appointment and watch her for hours through the window. Got so bad she called the cops to escort her home.”
“Who was it?”
“Crazy Carl.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
Crazy Carl was the name given to a former drug addict turned carpenter who’d made quite a name for himself walking the streets at two in the morning singing the national anthem. Every. Single. Night.
“Who was the other guy?”
“Some tourist who saw her at the park. Found out her name, where she worked, started driving two hours every week just to ask her out face to face.”
“Desperate, much?”
“No shit. She called the cops when he wouldn’t leave the waiting room one day.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bennie Anderson, currently in jail for—”
“Let me guess. Stalking.”
“Nope. Third DWI. Anyway no charges were filed; looks like the responding officer just had a chat with both guys and that was that. Jagg talked to the officer that handled both calls, said he laughed it off.”
A twinge of anger popped. Why? I shoved it away… until he said—
“You know, your doctor is a hot commodity around town. Single. The town’s most eligible bachelorette. Anyway. All in all, I think you’re in good hands. Very sexy hands.” Gage sipped his beer. “So tell me about the appointment.”
“It was therapy. What do you want me to say?”
“I got that. I mean how did it go?”
I chomped on a pickle and washed it down with a beer. Winning combination, by the way.
“She threw me out.”
“She what?”
“Something wrong with your hearing, bro?”
“Relax.” Gage picked up his beer. “I’m going to need a bit more, bro. What do you mean threw you out?”
I stirred my chili, beginning to lose my appetite. And that was something. If anything, this new body of mine needed twice as much food as before. Three times, even.
“Feen—”
I huffed out a breath. “We had a little disagreement and she asked me to leave. That was it.”
“This disagreement didn’t involve the cops, did it?”
My gaze shot up. “No. Geez, what the hell do you think I am?”
The question went unanswered.
“You have to go back.” He said.
The snort that came out of me rolled into a full-blown laugh.
“Seriously, Feen, you have—
“Gage.” I set down my spoon, missing the edge of the table and sending it clamoring on the wooden slats.
Spirit snorted from her stall below.
I grit my teeth. “I don’t know what everyone thinks I’m supposed to get out of therapy. I don’t need it.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t need it every time the military mandated that I talk to someone after killing a dozen tangos.
Just like you didn’t then, either. Because that was our job, we understood that.
We were doing what we were supposed to do, and the military was doing what it was supposed to do by giving us a little couch time.
We played the game. Damn well, too. But this is different, Feen.
What happened to you…” My brother’s voice trailed off.
I focused on a knick on the table that needed smoothing out.
Gage continued. “… This is different, Feen. This isn’t just you and us shoving emotions aside like we’ve done all our life. This is physical. You need—”
“Gage—”
“No. Feen.” His voice raised, echoing off the walls.
“Shut the hell up and listen to what I have to say. What you went through—what your body went through—shit, Feen, you were an inch from death. Dr. Buckley tells us it’s a miracle that you pulled through; that most men wouldn’t have.
But you’re not just any man, brother. No man walking this earth would have survived what you did.
But there were consequences. Physical ones that need to be addressed… mental ones that need to be addressed.”
I scratched my chin, my skin suddenly feeling like it was covered in ants.
Gage continued. “I know it’s not fun, man, but in order to get you back to one-hundred, you’ve got to do this shit.”
“I am doing this shit.”
“No you’re not. You’re getting kicked out.”
I shifted in my seat, wanting to jump out of the loft door. Not the first time that thought had occurred to me.
“Why won’t you even give therapy a shot?”
I grunted, leaned back. “She’s… Dr. Floris is one of those… really smart, woman-empowered kind of women. And…” I exhaled, not proud of what I was about to say. “I might have bribed her…”
His brows popped.
“… With sex.”
The boisterous laughter that barreled out of him sent the horses shifting in their stalls below.
“You bribed your head doctor with sex? And how’d that turn out for you, hot rod?”
“She threatened to choke me with my own balls.” The corner of my lip curved.
Snorting, Gage wiped the tears from his eyes.
“I like this chick already.” He picked up his spoon and began eating again.
“Well, hate to break it to you, bro, but Rose Floris does have you by the balls. Because if you don’t go apologize to her and continue with your therapy, she’ll ensure you never see your freedom again. ”
Sighing, my gaze shifted to the rain falling outside.
Gage was right. My fate now rested in the hands of a five-foot-three brick-wall stunner named Rose Flower.
The thought of apologizing to her—to anyone—made my stomach twist. So I did what I always did when things got too real.
I deflected.
“What’s the score?” I asked, digging into my chili.
“Six to zip.” Gage wiped a string of melted cheese from the scruff on his chin.
Just like that, we shifted the conversation to sports—our unspoken agreement when things got too heavy. And while the old me would’ve been all in, stats and strategy and trash talk, this version of me was stuck.
Stuck on the image of Rose Floris with her fingers metaphorically wrapped around my pride.
It wasn’t the first time I’d made a fool of myself in front of a woman. But back then, it never mattered. We’d hash it out in bed, I’d make her forget whatever I said—twice, usually—and by morning, she was a memory.
That wouldn’t work with Rose.
She wasn’t like the others. She hated me now—rightfully so. And she had the upper hand, something I wasn’t used to, especially with a woman. She had me cornered.
Worse—she mattered.
And that left me with two thoughts I couldn’t shake.
One: apologizing to her wouldn’t just crush what little pride I had left—it would feel like surrender. To her. To my injuries. To the version of myself I didn’t recognize.
And two?
What if she didn’t take me back?