Chapter 15 Phoenix
PHOENIX
Let’s start now.
Well. Great.
I hadn’t planned on that. I’d timed my trip to Kline and Associates to hit just before five o’clock—strategically ensuring a quick in and out. Minimal risk of another meltdown. Minimal time to be around her.
Honestly, I thought she’d tell me to take a hike.
Maybe even slap me. I definitely didn’t expect her to let me back in, much less invite me to stay.
And if, by some miracle, she did agree to another appointment, I figured she’d schedule it for later in the week.
Give us both time to pretend yesterday hadn’t happened.
But now?
I was locked in.
And backing out wasn’t an option—not when I already felt like she had me by the balls.
And not the way she had in my dreams last night.
During my one pathetic hour of sleep, Rose Flower had done things to me that would’ve had most people calling their priest.
The woman was completely throwing me off.
Everything about her—her voice, her face, the way she stared at me like she already knew what I was hiding—twisted something deep inside me.
And just being in a therapist’s office? That didn’t help.
Why are these rooms always so damn small?
Like talking about feelings wasn’t suffocating enough already.
Still, I reminded myself this was why I came back. Therapy. Progress. Freedom. That little paper with my name on it that said I could be left alone to live my life like a functioning adult.
I just… wish I’d had a minute to prepare.
But prepare for what? What was I so afraid of? I was a grown man who’d spent half his life in high-stakes combat. I’d faced things most people couldn’t stomach. Why couldn’t I sit on a stupid couch and answer a few questions?
Because Rose Floris rattled me. That’s why.
And because deep down, I knew I wasn’t ready.
Not to be seen.
Not by her.
I clenched my jaw and sat up straighter, silently coaching myself. You’re here for one reason: to prove you’re not intellectually or emotionally deficient. Cool. Calm. Collected. No blowups. No threats. No unraveling.
Just get through the hour.
Get the signature.
And get out.
I glanced around the room.
God, I hated this place.
“Let’s begin,” Rose repeated, pulling me out of my racing thoughts. She nodded to the couch, those big, almond eyes alert, ready. Not wary like she’d been the day before. Or, scared like she’d been after I flipped out.
No, Rose Floris was ready to stand toe to toe with me, and dammit, I admired that. There was strength behind her eyes, the kind that came from picking yourself up over and over again.
A strength I knew very well. A strength that, in all honesty, I didn’t know that I had anymore.
“Please, sit.”
I did as I was told and sat on the edge of the couch.
“Can I get you some coffee?”
“No.”
“Okay,” She settled behind her desk. “Yesterday we spoke about why you’re here—”
“Because the doctors demanded it.”
She shifted. “Okay. To get a bit more detailed, the fact of the matter is that certain parts of your life have been restricted until you complete your therapy.” The tone of her voice was authoritative but not as cold as yesterday.
“Therefore,” she continued, “sessions with either myself, or someone else, needs to be completed to give you those restricted items back.”
“My freedom.”
“Your driver’s license and concealed carry license. And, by all intents and purposes, your pride.”
My jaw twitched.
“Are we in agreement here?”
“Yes.” The answer came out in more of a growl than I intended.
“Great,” she said, pleased with this response. “Now, I want to start by asking, what is it exactly that you would like to get out of this therapy?”
“My driver’s license and concealed carry license.”
“Is that it?”
I flopped open my right palm. Did she not hear the last ten seconds of our conversation?
“Your only goal out of hours and hours of therapy is to regain your licenses?”
“Which is my freedom.”
“Really? To you, freedom equals only your drivers and gun licen—”
“Concealed—”
“Stop, Phoenix.” She gave me a sharp look. “Do you think that freedom is going to be the same as it was before your injury? You get your licenses back, and all of a sudden your life is going to go right back to the way it was?”
I looked away, because honestly, that hit home. Hard.
“How about this?” Rose pushed away from her desk and crossed the room to a large dry erase board on the wall.
I straightened, watching her walk, the long, confident strides, the scent of something flowery following a moment later.
Her weird, wide-legged pants flowed against her legs like silk, brief moments of outlining long, toned legs, and a popping ass.
Focus, Phoenix.
After removing the top from a red marker, she scribbled #1 at the top of the board.
“Let’s set three goals.”
She turned to me, a marker in her hand and a gleam in her eye, sending me into some naughty teacher insta-fantasy. It was humiliating how she could do this to me. It’s got to be related to my injuries. Because Phoenix responded to no woman like this.
“Yesterday I told you that the type of therapy I do centers around CBT, or Cognitive Behavior Therapy. Are you familiar?”
“I’m familiar with CBD.”
“Right.” Apparently not her first time to hear that joke.
“This isn’t that. CBT focuses on changing problematic patterns of thinking.
It centers on the idea that over the years our brains develop automatic think patterns that are either productive or destructive.
These thought patterns affect our feelings and behaviors, thereby affecting our entire life.
What we do, how we do it, our choices, how we feel about ourselves, who we hang out with, etcetera.
CBT focuses on breaking down the destructive thought patterns and re-training our brains how to react to situations in a more positive, productive way.
What I think you’ll like about this, Phoenix, is that we step outside of ourselves—so to speak—and look at our thoughts as a separate entity that we can control.
Just as we control situations, we can control our thoughts.
You are powerful enough to do it. You just have… to do it.”
The passion in her voice was palpable.
She turned back to the board. “So, we start with three goals. Only three. Every time I see you, our torturous discussions,” she winked over her shoulder, “will be geared toward these three goals, only. Everything we do, talk about, everything will focus on these three goals. That way, when you draaag yourself in here, you’ll know what to expect and what the conversations will be focused around. ”
I straightened. Goals. Three. Clear expectations set. I could do that.
“What do you want the first one to be?”
“Driver’s license.”
She rolled her eyes then pretended to write on the board, “Improve Phoenix’s sense of humor, okay.”
A grin tugged at my lips.
She winked. Again.
“How about goal number one will be to not destroy my office again?”
“Done.”
“Good.” She began scribbling, squeaks on the board matching each stroke. “Goal number one will be to work on your impulsive aggression. Alright, onto goal number two. What would you like it to be, aside from your concealed carry license?”
“For you to not shove my balls down my throat. Like you threatened to yesterday.”
She smirked, thought for a moment, then drew a little box in the corner of the board. “Okay, fine, we’ll make three goals for me, too. Number one, no ball shoving—”
“Number two can be—”
“Oh, no, no, no. This isn’t a one way street, Mr. Steele. You’re up next.”
It was the first time ever that I liked the way Mr. Steele sounded rolling off someone’s tongue.
“Number two… let’s see…” she tapped the bottom of the marker on her chin. My gaze slid down that long, lean neck the color of porcelain.
“Ah, I know,” she said. “You went to great lengths to let me know you were sorry for destroying my desk. Above and beyond. Over the top. This leads me to believe you’re struggling with a heavy dose of guilt, and aren’t sure how to contain it.
So, goal number two will be for you to recognize and then release the guilt you carry. ”
Guilt. The woman had no idea.
I picked up one of her vesuvianite stones and began flipping it through my fingertips.
She continued. “Whether the guilt be from a perceived failure from letting your family down, or from having to be on the receiving end of care. You don’t like it. You don’t know how to handle it.” She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, number two—release guilt.”
I watched her scribble the second goal on the board and found myself already wondering what my third goal would be.
Rose Flower was calculated, no doubt about that.
She was using my military background to get to me.
Lay out clear goals, one by one, black and white, no fluff, no ‘tell me how that made you feel’ bullshit.
Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky. But regardless of her tactics, I liked it.
It resonated with me. Reminded me of when my team and I would gather in a situation room listening to our orders before a mission. Felt good.
It felt doable.
“Your turn,” I said.
“Fine.” She moved to her box. “Okay, goal number two for me should be…”
“Work on that annoying, condescending tone that comes so easily to you.”
Her brows raised. Nerve, hit.
Her lips pursed as she seemed to search for words. I’d made Rose Flower uncomfortable. Not pissed, but uncomfortable.
She turned back to the board and began writing. “Fine. Work on my tone—”
“Condescending tone.”
“Thanks for the example,” she muttered as she wrote.
I couldn’t fight the grin that time. She wrote the word bigger than the rest, a subtle touch of sarcasm to let me know my Rose Flower had her own way of deflection—Wit.
“Okay, number three for you?” She turned and stared at me.
The silence dragged out while she strategically waited for me to come up with my own goal. I stared back. We were in an official stare-off. Who would get so uncomfortable that they’d look away first?
I crossed my arms over my chest, leaned back against the couch, and kicked my cowboy boots onto her table, edging the box of tissues to the very edge. Dangerously close to teetering off.
She heaved a sigh with a roll of her eyes that was so dramatic I was surprised they didn’t roll right onto the floor.
“Fine…” she said as she stomped over and replaced the tissues to the perfect ninety-degree angle that they had been, then stomped back to the board.
I won.
“Goal number three.” Her eyes narrowed with a mischievous warning.
“You destroyed my office, then you replaced everything with equipment five times its value, then showed up exactly two minutes after it was delivered—just enough time for me to see what was inside each box. This tells me you personally arranged the delivery and worked it into your schedule, oh, and, you had to arrange some sort of transportation to get it all set up for me—and just in time to sneak out at exactly five o’clock.
Yet, after all this effort, you never actually verbalized your apology.
You never—not once—said the words, ‘I’m sorry. ’”
I squeezed my arms tighter around my chest.
“This tells me you have trouble with communication—”
My feet hit the floor. “I do not—”
She held up her hand. “I don’t mean that you physically have trouble forming words and sentences.
I mean, emotionally. You have trouble expressing your emotions.
Talking things out. Addressing anything that might involve the slightest feeling.
So, Phoenix, goal number three is going to be your biggest challenge.
Number three is going to be for you to open up to me.
This is very important. You can’t go through life—”
I leaned forward and slid my forearms onto my knees. “I’ve got your number three, Dr. Flower…”
She stopped mid-sentence.
“… To relax.”
Her chin jerked back. “Relax?”
“Yep. Loosen up.” I nodded to her desk. “To not have to have everything on your desk at perfect, ninety degree angles. Not to have the pictures that line your walls exactly six inches apart. Six because it’s an even number that you can split down the middle.
Because five is odd—three on one side and two on the other—and well, that just doesn’t sit well with you does it? ”
Her gaze shifted to her wall of accolades, then back to me. She blinked.
I continued. “Some people might think your desk is placed at an odd angle. No, not to you. Your desk has been set up where neither the morning sun, or late afternoon sun would reflect in your monitors. That plant you have in the corner? Pruned to perfection with exactly ten elephant ears. Ten, because five and five. Your books? At first I was going to say alphabetized, but nope, you’ve got them lined up according to ISBN number.
Now that’s impressive. Your post-its, color-coordinated and spaced exactly an inch apart.
The floor, top of your file cabinet, desk, windowsills, not a speck of dirt.
You, Rose, are what some might call a total control freak, and if I had to guess, you’ve got a hefty dose of OCD.
There’s your diagnosis, Doc… but the question is, why? What’s the root of all this?”
She stood frozen, staring at me.
I grinned. “So, Miss Flower, goal number three for you is to relinquish control. To recognize that it’s okay not to be perfect. To loosen up.”
Her eyelids fluttered as if coming back to life after a stun gun.
She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and gave me the full weight of her disapproval—cool and clinical from behind long lashes.
Then, with a dramatic pivot that somehow managed to look both annoyed and elegant, she turned to the whiteboard and began writing.
“Goal number three for me: Accept chaos.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, as thick as the strokes of her marker.
I pushed off the couch, crossed the room, and gently pulled the marker from her hand.
Without asking.
She didn’t stop me.
I erased ‘Accept chaos’ and wrote Loosen up in its place, scrawling it neatly beside her #3.
Then I added a #4.
To both of our lists.
Beside each, I wrote: Don’t deflect.
We stood there, together, staring at our weakness spelled out right there on the board in front of us.
She exhaled, looked at me, and I’ll be damned if a smile didn’t cross her face.
“Okay, then. It looks like we both have a few things to work on. Together.”