2. Andrie
Andrie
“Ireally think I should go,” I whispered to Lessia, looking around with wide eyes.
When Alessia Accardi, a colleague, sometimes-patient, and someone I thought I might even be able to be friends with, had asked me to join her and some others for dinner, I’d thought we’d be meeting at a family-style restaurant or possibly an upscale one.
Lessia—as her friends called her—had been an in-demand model until her recent retirement and was still a part of one of the most wealthy and influential families in Texas.
Never in a million years would I have thought she’d bring me to Vik’s Bar.
Vik, my next-door neighbor, pseudo brother, and self-appointed guardian, had forbade me from going anywhere near his place of business unless I was with him.
Having seen the location—and building—when he’d purchased the falling down heap, I’d readily agreed.
I really should’ve known better. Lessia’s reputation for getting into trouble was legendary, even within the exclusive ranks of the men and women I counselled.
But I just didn’t think I’d get dragged into her plans.
I was a professional wallflower. As a psychiatrist who specialized in trauma studies, most of my time was spent working alongside elite military personnel and their families, trying to help them work through the mental fallout that was inevitable when honorable men and women came across the horrors of what other people could do to each other in the name of money, love, hate, or God.
Due to the confidentiality of not only my patients but their very existence, I kept myself under the radar of others.
After all, my files contained not only minimally altered documentation of missions, units, and other military information for the best and brightest the United States government had to offer—publicly acknowledged or not—but also patient files for those starting over, under new aliases, and trying to keep hidden themselves.
Typically, I didn’t even see my patients outside of the office—for both professional and safety reasons—but I’d known Lessia before I’d even become Andrie, and she was one of the very few who knew what had led me to the basement I’d been rescued from.
Besides, all of us who knew her were well aware that Lessia Accardi didn’t let rules dictate her desires.
If she wanted to meet up from time to time outside of the office, she’d damn well do as she pleased.
Sometimes I wished I could be like her, and at one point in my life, I was, but at times like now, I wished I wouldn’t let her cross those boundaries.
Everything about my life was understated and minimalistic, from my home to my chosen dress and even the car I drove.
No, Dr. Andrie Demming would never go to a biker bar in the most dangerous part of town to celebrate the engagement of a woman I’d never met.
And she’d never have a beer drawn from a tap, let alone two.
I frowned, looking at my nearly empty pint. Hadn’t it only been two?
Lessia, who’d squeezed in next to me at my table near the bar, caught me glaring at my glass.
“Come on, Andrie, lighten up,” she whispered, watching the small group of women she’d come in with dancing on an impromptu dance floor to some new hip hop song that was all the rage.
I looked over to Vik. I was surprised he’d allowed a bunch of women to invade a space that consisted solely, I was sure, of his MC brothers, the odd gang member or two, and some rough necks, if they were feeling confident.
Heck, Vik owned the bar and freely admitted that his customers were some of the worst humanity had to offer.
I couldn’t be sure, of course, but I was confident that at least a handful of people had killed or been killed right there in the building.
And I didn’t want to know how many had met their end in the parking lot.
Just last week I’d read in the paper that someone had been stabbed and nearly died after a fight that had started over who got to choose the next song in the jukebox.
At least, that was what Vik had said it was about when I’d asked him.
Seeing as the jukebox in question—and the songs it contained—was older than I was, I wasn’t sure if the outlandish reason was legitimate or not.
Honestly, the odds that Vik had told me the truth was probably fifty-fifty.
Vik, to my utter confusion and complete surprise, looked almost pleased at the group of dancers.
That was, until he caught me staring at him.
He immediately went back to looking down and polishing beer glasses.
My gaze narrowed. Vik was never a man of many words, and his poker face was excellent, but he had tells, just like most people.
And when he was nervous or on edge, he fidgeted.
Nothing super noticeable or high energy.
He wouldn’t jiggle a leg or flit from one room to another.
But he would keep his hands busy, and those glasses looked like they’d just come out of a brand-new box.
Lessia let out an ear splitting whistle, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Y’all,” she said pointedly at a few men who’d just walked in.
They looked bewildered at the show on the dance floor but cocky enough to enjoy the show—or want to join.
“That group of women right there”—she motioned at where her friends Paige, Kassie, and Claire danced—“belong to me.” Her tone left no room for argument.
“I don’t care if you think they winked at you, shook their ass for you, or so much as smiled in your direction.
None of them are up for grabs, and anyone who so much as bothers my best friend’s celebration will answer to me. Is that clear?”
Obviously, Lessia was a regular with a well-known reputation because the men gulped and slunked off to a corner, well away from the women.
“I’m engaged, y’all!” Paige shouted drunkenly, raising her hand in the air to show off a stunning engagement ring, totally oblivious to Lessia’s words or the men watching the group like a pack of wild dogs, debating whether or not the risk was worth the reward.
“What’s going on?” I whispered, starting to get suspicious the more I thought about it.
Lessia wasn’t drinking like the rest and seemed keyed up, though it’d taken me a while to realize it.
The therapist in me couldn’t help but track everyone in the room, noting body language.
I tried to turn it off when I wasn’t working, but it was hard to do.
“Can’t you just take a night off?” Lessia whispered back.
“You’re supposed to be living it up tonight.
You know, taking a break from the straight-laced you.
It’s not like Vik or I would let anything happen to you.
God, Andrie, you’re so prim and proper all the time, I’m worried you’ll turn into a robot. ”
I gasped, the world spinning ever so slightly as I whirled around to her. “You’re the one who called me a Stepford shrink,” I accused. I’d heard rumors but hadn’t been able to track it back to the source.
Instead of denying it, she raised an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”
Tilting my head to the side, I thought about her question.
“No,” I said finally. “But you hurt my feelings.” I tried to pout but felt a little ridiculous.
I wasn’t drunk enough to act like a total fool, just buzzed enough to feel the effects.
Maybe I’d been a little uptight lately if two glasses were hitting me that hard.
At one point in my life, I could hold my own, drink for drink, against any college frat kid.
It’s amazing how one can go from a free-spirited, living-large college student studying abroad to a boring, fade-into-the-woodwork woman, but I supposed being ripped away from the love of your life, stuffed into a shipping container, and forced into the life as a sex slave for a few months changes a girl.
Of course, considering what I’d gone through, I was pretty proud of just being normal …
relatively speaking. And while the abuse would always leave psychological scars, even the professional psychiatrist was amazed that the most lasting damage was being taken away from … him.
A snort brought me back to the present. Lessia didn’t apologize for the comment, not that I’d expected her to.
Lessia didn’t sugarcoat her words or take them back.
“You’re still mourning him, after all these years, Alex.
” Her voice was quiet enough that I could barely hear her, but I still gaped at her when she used my old name.
“All the sacrifices y’all made were so you could live.
Really live. Instead, you’re dwelling in a prison of your own making. He wouldn’t want this.”
My mouth opened and shut several times as I began to speak, only to stop.
Objectively, she wasn’t telling me something Vik and I hadn’t argued about—at length—on countless occasions.
But just because I didn’t have a good counterpoint didn’t mean my feelings weren’t valid.
I’d loved Demi for almost ten years, even though our time together had been brief.
As a na?ve twenty-two-year-old, I’d taken one look at Demi and fallen hard and fast. But despite my age, our whirlwind romance, or the events that had led to our separation, I’d loved him with every part of me.
Still did. My heartache might not be as fresh as it once had, but it was a wound that wouldn’t heal.
Being apart from him hadn’t just torn my heart in two …
It was as if one of the halves had been surgically removed.
I’d always felt as if I were missing a limb, knowing he was out there and not being able to reach him.