by Isabel Wroth
“So, it's not that you want to hold my hand, so much as make Cher feel insecure.” Dillon bit into her cheek, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Oh, I definitely want to hold your hand,” Nasa admitted with a big wolfish grin. “There's nothing but side benefits for me in this scenario, but I'm also hoping it'll make you feel a little steadier today.”
There was no attempt to hide his ulterior motive, which ruled out Dillon's suspicions that Nasa was manipulating her into holding his hand.
He would get something out of it, but he was also giving something in return, and it was much more than simply a hand to hold.
It felt important, and it felt big. Not his hand, but the intention behind it. At a loss now for words, Dillon agreed with a nod, and saw the honest, open flash of happiness that warmed his gaze.
“Good. That door opens to the rear hallway that runs the length of the building. We're going in and to the right, Elka can run ahead to lead the way if you'd prefer, but the security here is every bit as tight as at the compound, and I've got eyes everywhere.
"Well, almost everywhere. I tried to put cameras in the therapy rooms, but Teague and Collette both refused. So, wear this.”
This was a smart watch Nasa pulled from one of the many pockets inside his vest. He showed it to her, but didn't hand it over for her to put on.
He waited patiently for Dillon to extend her arm, and then clasped the cobalt blue band around her wrist.
“There's a GPS tag synced to my phone, so you won't be able to go more than a thousand feet away from me without the watch giving me an alert.
"There's a sensor that measures your pulse, and if it doesn't pick-up your heartbeat—say you were grabbed and someone forced you to take off the watch—an alarm is programed to go off.
“It also maps, so if by some miracle whoever grabbed you could get through both gates, I can track where you've been and hack whatever satellite is closest to find you.”
“You can hack a satellite?” Dillon asked incredulously, her body starting to relax with the assurance she was still safe. Nasa had taken steps to ensure it.
He chortled wickedly and shot her a wink. “If it has a computer, I can hack it. Can't stop the signal. Everything goes somewhere, and I go everywhere.”
“Mr. Universe,” Dillon said with a short laugh. “I get it now, but why Nasa? Surely that's not the name your parents gave you.”
Nasa shook his head and deliberately searched the area around them before unfolding himself out of the truck.
“It's not. Hang on. Let me get the door.”
His long legs had him around to her door in five strides, standing close enough to use his body as a shield, but not so close that she and Elka didn't have room to exit the vehicle.
As he set his big hand on her waist and gently guided her toward the building, he briefly glanced down at her before returning his attention to their surroundings.
“It says Viktor Magnussen on my driver's license, but I haven't been that person in over a decade.”
Nasa paused at the steel door and pressed his palm to what looked like a flat piece of metal. Once the machine recognized his hand print, he still had to input a ten-digit code to unlock the door.
A loud buzz and a heavy click sounded, and Nasa pulled the door open, poking his head past the threshold to look up and down the hallway before moving aside to let her enter.
Once the door shut, he curled his enormous hand around hers. It struck her as odd, having not held hands with a man in... way too long to recall how good it felt.
Nasa's palm was enormous, big enough to grip a basketball with no problem, but was the perfect size to curl around hers.
Just as he'd said, he turned right to walk down the nondescript hallway with only a door at either end of the long hall, and two more doors set close to one another in the center.
The signs painted on those two doors identified the men’s and women's locker rooms, which struck her as odd. The building was huge. How many patients did Dr. Thompson and Dr. White have?
It was a question Dillon put aside as Nasa continued the story of how he got his nickname.
“When I was filling out my paperwork to join on as a prospect with Perdition, I was a smartass and put 'Space Camp' in the box that asked for my highest level of education.
"Pike was the first one to read the application and immediately started calling me Nasa. From then on, that became my name.”
Natural as breathing, Dillon briefly wrapped her free hand around Nasa's wrist.
“I'm sorry I won't ever get to meet him.”
Nasa twisted his palm to lace his fingers between hers in a clasp that felt far more intimate, his words wrapped in a thick blanket of unashamed emotion. “He would have liked you.”
Dillon didn't know what to say in response or if she should say anything at all, so she simply squeezed his wrist, and let go. When they reached the end of the hall, Nasa punched in another passcode to open the door that led to the main foyer.
The sweep of Nasa's thumb up and down the side of her wrist felt so nice, it almost distracted her from the sour look on Cher's face.
In the lovely sage green foyer—with its copper counter tops, dark wood floors, dove gray couches, and elegant black pots filled with frothy ferns—Cher stood out like a sore thumb.
The outfit Cher had on was somethin' else. Skintight red capris with artful tears dangerously close to her vagina and a leopard print top that left her belly—from the waistband of her pants to just beneath her ribcage—bare.
The matching leopard print heels were tall enough to boost Cher up to Dillon's natural six-foot height, her long brown hair curled in thick, silky waves.
Dillon had nothing against strippers, but between her outfit and the incredible amount of makeup on her face, Cher looked like one.
She had beautiful blue eyes, a lovely heart-shaped face, and lips like Marilyn Monroe, which were currently painted the same shade of red as her BMW.
If she wasn't such a nasty human being, Cher would have been one of the most gorgeous women Dillon had ever seen.
Currently, those big eyes of hers were narrowed with distaste and no small amount of annoyance, focused on where Dillon held Nasa's hand.
“Miss DeLoughrey, your service dog is not on a leash,” Cher announced imperiously, as though Elka were doing zoomies in the pristine lobby instead of standing calmly by Dillon's hip.
“Would you like to continue working here, Cher?” Nasa asked shortly, still stroking his thumb up and down Dillon's wrist.
Cher lifted her chin and gave a little toss of her hair. “Are you threatening me because I'm enforcing the policy of this clinic?”
Curious to see how this was going to go down, Dillon kept quiet. Nasa did that guy thing where he braced his feet shoulder width apart, tucked his free hand in his front pocket, shoulders back, totally nonchalant while assuming the bored expression of an arrogant asshole.
“Pretty sure I was just asking you a question, but now that you mention it, I sure would love to see where it says service dogs have to be leashed in the policy handbook.
"I had no idea there was a policy about animals, aside from the rule that clearly states no donkeys or bestiality of any kind is allowed on the premises.”
Cher opened her mouth to no doubt say something sassy, but instead, the voice of an incubus echoed through the entry way and slithered across Dillon's skin like liquid velvet.
“There is no policy regarding service animals, nor a handbook as you well know, Nasa.”
The man who stepped from the shadows was immaculately dressed, oozing sensuality, command, and calm.
His black hair was a bit on the long side, curling gently around his ears, framing a face worthy of immortality via marble.
His eyes were as green as emeralds, cool and sharp, so thickly lashed it appeared he had eyeliner on. He could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty; his face was smooth with youth, he had an air of ice-cold elegance arou
nd him, and the cultured flair to his words made him seem wise beyond his years.
He wore a dark charcoal colored suit with a crisp white shirt beneath and a steel-colored tie knotted smartly around his strong throat.
His eyes seemed to take in everything in a quick flash, and he continued to speak, making Dillon's heart race in her chest.
“That's two lies you've told in the space of so many days, Cher, and should a third pass your lips, you will be immediately fired, as per the terms of your contract. Am I understood?”
It was a testament to the level of her embarrassment, or perhaps her anger, because despite the thick layer of makeup on her face, Cher's cheeks were as red as her pants.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Miss DeLourghey, I'm Dr. Thompson, and I sincerely apologize that you were so rudely dismissed yesterday.
"So you are aware, there is and has been for some time, a notation in your file that clearly states you are to be given an appointment no matter how long it's been since your last session.”
Feeling a bit starstruck by the power Dr. Thompson could wield in a conversational tone, all Dillon could say was, “Thank you.”
Dr. Thompson gave a regal dip of his head. “Of course. Dr. White is finishing up with a patient. Please come through to the waiting room.
"Your service dog is more than welcome here, with or without a leash. Clearly, she is an extremely well-trained female.”
Dillon couldn't help but glance at Cher, who seemed to be staring holes into the floor with her hands clenched tight at her sides.
If someone had delivered such an intentional barb about her like that, Dillon would have been both mortified and furious.
Cher certainly looked furious, but considering the way Cher's nipples strained the skin-tight material of her shirt, the flush on her cheeks didn't appear to be caused by embarrassment.
Nasa started forward, drawing Dillon along in his wake to follow Dr. Thompson. Dillon caught Cher's gaze and the hostile look of loathing in the other woman's eyes. If looks could kill, Dillon would have been six feet under and pushing up daisies.
Just to piss her off, Dillon winked and puckered her lips in a kiss for Cher, which made Cher give a silent snarl before spinning on her heel to return to her desk.
“Nice,” Nasa murmured, giving Dillon's hand a squeeze of approval.
Unbelievably, Dillon found herself on the verge of skipping in response to his praise.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Soft spa-like music drifted through the open hallway, accompanied by the louder splash of the fountain dominating the center of the far wall. Framed on either side by white river pebbles, a vertical stripe of vibrant green moss and ferns grew wild.
In a very modern Japanese style, the pebbles flowed down the wall and across the floor to create an L-shape.
A flat piece of black granite shot through with iridescent flakes seemed to hover over the white rocks, the shine enhanced by the spill of water trickling continuously over all four sides of the fountain. In the center of the black square, a milky white sphere the size of a beach ball spun in hypnotic circles.
It was arguably the most relaxing room Dillon had ever been in. Though there wasn't a single window in sight, whoever designed the space made sure the lighting was bright enough to chase away any deep shadows but soft enough to give an air of tranquility.
“It's beautiful, isn't it?” A smile curved Dr. Thompson’s sensuous lips.
Dillon wasn't ashamed to admit, she was stunned by how beautiful he was. Handsome and extremely masculine, but beautiful.
The sort of attractive that could have graced the silver screen to sell billions of dollars in movie tickets, and he wouldn't have needed very many speaking lines. Just a few phrases in his cultured, velvety voice, and women would melt into puddles of goo.
No matter how good a therapist he might be, Dillon would struggle to tell him all her dark, ugly secrets. She'd be too distracted, too embarrassed, to be seen as anything less than perfect by such a stunning creature.
Flustered, hoping her nipples weren't on high alert the way Cher's were, Dillon nodded.
“The living wall is amazing, but the crystal ball is breathtaking. It looks like a gigantic moonstone.”
“The designer was a complete monster to work with, extremely exacting regarding the details, and insisted on placing the largest chunk of moonstone he could find at the center of the fountain.” Pride lit Dr. Thompson's face as he turned his gaze to the fountain.
“I had no idea he was so knowledgeable about crystals, but apparently, moonstones represent new beginnings, inner strength, and growth.”
Dillon nodded, wanting to get closer to the slowly spinning stone but not enough to let go of Nasa's hand.
“They're supposed to soothe stress, instability, and promote calm. Kind of ideal for a therapy waiting room.”
“In another life, Nasa would have made a fortune as an interior designer,” Dr. Thompson said with amusement.
Stunned, Dillon looked up to find Nasa giving Dr. Thompson a narrow glare. Not sure why, Dillon bumped her elbow against Nasa's to get his attention.
“You designed the room?”
The cutting hardness in his jewel-bright eyes softened when he looked down at her, a cocky smile quirking his lips.
“You sound surprised that a hairy biker who lives in a basement could come up with something like this.”
“You're not that hairy, and I'm not surprised. I'm amazed. I think if I spent enough time in here, I'd forget what the real world looked like. Did you do the interior of the compound too?”
Nasa gave a careless shrug, as though his talent for interior design was no big deal. “I took suggestions from everyone about the shit that would make their lives easier, and I let the girls pick the decorative stuff and do the layout of the kitchen since they're the ones who cook in there the most, but I did the rest.
“I like the way you strategically put concrete planters in front of your entry and exit points around your house in Dallas. It was to prevent a car from blasting through the front door, right?”
Dillon discovered she really liked it when Nasa complimented her efforts to fortify a house.
Oddly enough, it turned her on to the point where she could feel her temperature rise.
“Right,” she murmured, clearing her throat when she heard how breathy her own voice sounded, scrambling for something else to say that wouldn't make it obvious how affected she was by Nasa's interest.
“The well to hold the dirt and plants was only two-feet deep, the rest was solid concrete formed around scrap pieces of steel framing and boulders I found on the property.
“There's only enough space in between each planter for a human to comfortably walk through with an arm-load of groceries, so there was no way a car could get through even if they had the pedal to the metal.”
Nasa made a sound to accompany his look of appreciation. “You'll have to show me the design you used to form the concrete. Putting up defensive barriers disguised as planter boxes will get Athena off my back about putting in garden space, save the gorilla playground, and provide some extra cover if anyone got caught outside.”
Nasa turned his attention back to Dr. Thompson, and without hesitation, the therapist firmly said, “No.”
“Why not? You could have all kinds of fancy shit planted inside, plus an extra layer of privacy and protection,” Nasa insisted with no small amount of belligerence.
Dr. Thompson heaved a sigh, as though this type of disagreement was commonplace, and shook his head in exasperation.
“I already conceded to the biometric locks and the prison-worthy fencing. This is a therapy clinic—”
“And a private, exclusive club with members who would appreciate the extra security,” Nasa argued.
“Every single person who walked through the doors when we first opened said they hated the antler-laden lobby, appreciated the double-gated entry, and what you claimed were over the
top security measures.”
Like she was watching a tennis match, Dillon's gaze bounced back and forth between the two men, and now it was Dr. Thompson's turn to serve.
She saw the calculating gleam enter his green eyes, and the challenging smirk that transformed his smile.
“Fine. You can put up as many defensive planter boxes as you want around the entry and exit points, but each planter will cost you a two-hour session on my couch.
"Not two hours of random, unimportant minutiae or arguments centered around fantasy football or coding.
"A real session, at least once a week, discussing feelings and this deep-seated paranoia you have about satellites.”
Nasa didn't even hesitate when he stuck his hand out to shake on it.
“Deal.”
“What?” Dr. Thompson's jaw slackened briefly, unable to school his expression quick enough to hide his surprise.
“You heard me. There are eight doorways vulnerable to a breach; I figure you want some elbow room between the planter and the door itself, so four planters per door which adds up to sixty-four hours of you listening to me talk about my feelings.”
Dr. Thompson rapidly blinked like an owl, so stunned he was momentarily speechless.
“Who are you, and what have you done with the man who has refused any and all therapy with extreme prejudice, who believes real men express their feelings through violent first-person shooter video games?”
Dillon rolled her lips under her teeth and bit down to stem her laughter at the doctor's incredulity.
She felt rather surprised herself, having heard Nasa say only a short while ago that he had no interest in therapy because he knew exactly how to handle his demons. Surely, the concrete planters weren't that important.
“I feel very annoyed right now, doctor,” Nasa declared with great sincerity.
After a brief moment of silence, Dr. Thompson shook his head in amazement.
“Miss DeLoughrey, I will personally see to it that any future appointments you have with Dr. White are free of charge.”