Scooter

by Marie James

  After this last trip, I don’t even know which direction I want to go.

  Frigid air bites my face as I ride my bike in the direction of the hospital. Kincaid wasn’t joking about my evaluations, and he hit me with the news that it was happening today on the way back to the clubhouse yesterday afternoon.

  I don’t even have time to pause, time to take stock of what I feel or how I want things to turn out. I know I don’t want to leave Cerberus, and being forced out would leave a mark not only on my employment history but also on my sense of self. I don’t want to be known as the man that would compromise his brothers for the sake of his own retribution, but that’s how I’m being treated. Most of the guys have talked to me when I spoke to them, but none of them are open and willing to strike up a conversation with me themselves.

  I’m nearly frozen solid and just grateful to be feeling something other than numb anger as I make it to the parking lot of the hospital. I have an eight o’clock appointment with Dr. Alverez on the fourth floor. I’ve been to her office before. Every potential Cerberus member travels to New Mexico prior to getting hired to undergo a battery of testing and interviews. They have to make sure that we’re sane and capable of doing what is asked of us. They have to make sure that we’re a good fit with the rest of the team before we sign our contract.

  I have ten minutes to kill before my scheduled appointment, and I hate that I decided to quit smoking. It wasn’t exactly a conscious decision, but I haven’t gotten much of a chance since Mia came into my life. I never wanted to smell like smoke when she was against me, and we’re always together.

  I mark that under the pro column of my mental list of things where Mia’s concerned and climb off my bike. Maybe if I get to the appointment early, I can get out of there faster.

  My leather cut catches a few eyes as I walk across the parking lot, but no one scampers away. Cerberus is known to help people in this community, and even though most people stay out of our way, they aren’t usually afraid of us either. Kincaid has spent decades fostering a relationship with many businesses in the area, and he takes pride in the positive reputation our club has.

  The same disappointment I felt when Kincaid was talking to me in Venezuela weighs on my chest again, and I get the sense that people can see my shame as I walk inside. I receive a few nods, and one kid staring up at me the entire ride in the elevator, but no one says a word to me.

  As usual, Dr. Alverez’s office is silent as I enter. I check in with the receptionist, but before my ass can hit the chair in the waiting room, Dr. Alverez is walking toward me with her hand extended. Her grip is strong for such a small older lady, and I know from experience that she’s a hardass who doesn’t have a problem calling grown men on their shit. It’s why she’s the best fit for Cerberus. I won’t be able to bullshit her, but at the same time, minus the issues I have keeping Mia out of my thoughts while I’m working, I don’t have any problems.

  Let’s see if Dr. Alverez comes to the same conclusion.

  Testing lasts all day. She starts with an IQ test, which is ridiculous. I think she only does it to make me feel stupid or to piss me off, so I flounder on the other tests. After a fifteen-minute break, where I spend the entire time pacing around a small room wondering how I got so bad at math since my last IQ test, she shows me to a small room and gives me a personality test.

  This test is nothing like those stupid quizzes in a women’s magazine. I’m talking about over five hundred questions meant to really pick apart my brain and check for psychopathy, and since I entered the test already agitated from the IQ test, I’m now certain Dr. Alverez has it out for me, which only makes me want to answer the questions with how I’m feeling right at this moment. I may end up in a padded room before the day is out, and that’s even worse than ending up in prison for shooting Agent Butler without hesitation.

  When I’m done, Dr. Alverez comes into the room, smiling like a fool as she takes a seat across from me.

  “Really?” I ask when she holds up a card the size of a piece of notebook paper.

  She cuts her eyes to the card and back to me.

  “Butterfly,” I mutter, feeling ridiculous.

  She lays that card down and shows me the next.

  “Butterfly,” I mutter again.

  “I need you to take this seriously, Mr. Gabhart.”

  “I didn’t know the psychiatric community even used Rorschach anymore.”

  “We use lots of things. What do you see?”

  “A gorilla?”

  We go through the black and white and the colored inkblots, and every time she jots something down on the paper beside her, the crazier I feel. Just when I think it’ll never be over, she asks me to wait in her office while she compiles some scores.

  I feel like this is another test. She has numerous manipulatives on her bookcases, things she may use when treating children, and even as tempted as I am to go pick them up, I sit statue-still in the chair across from her desk.

  It seems like an eternity before her office door opens and she walks in.

  She doesn’t say a word as she takes the seat behind her desk and rifles through some paperwork.

  I’m the first one to speak up. “Am I crazy, Doc? Unfit for duty?”

  There’s humor in my voice, but I don’t find anything funny about today at all.

  It’s clear she doesn’t either when she glances up and gives me a chastising look. It’s reminiscent of the way my own mother would look at me when I did something stupid as a kid.

  “Tell me about Mia.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the room as I stare at her.

  “I’m here for psych testing, not a therapy session.”

  Finding what she’s looking for, she jots a few notes down, covering the notebook back up when I angle my head to see what she’s writing. This is psychological warfare at its finest, and if I were in a better headspace right now, I might actually find it a little comical. Only there isn’t a damn thing funny about being here. My career with Cerberus depends on the outcome of today.

  “You’re here so I can determine if you’re fit to return to work after your suspension is over,” she clarifies. “Tell me about Mia.”

  I clamp my jaw shut, unsure if she just wants the macro details of how I know Mia or if she’s interested in knowing that I’ve pretty much named myself her champion and protector.

  “Take your time,” she says with a soothing voice. “I cleared my schedule for today.”

  The last part is a warning. She’s letting me know those stall tactics won’t work. We’ll be here until the sun rises tomorrow if that’s how long it takes.

  I narrow my eyes at her, but she doesn’t look back at me with smugness. It’s a battle of wills that she knows she’s going to win, and clearly, she’s got the patience of a saint.

  Sighing, I settle further into my chair, just barely staving off asking her if I should lie down to be analyzed. I don’t think humor will earn me any points, not considering the gravity of the situation that brought me here today.

  “I pulled Mia out of a compound in Miami right before Christmas. She’d been in captivity for seven weeks.” I close my mouth again, looking at the doctor and deciding what I can tell her. “This isn’t my story.”

  “This is your story,” she says as she drops her pen. “This is about what Mia is to you. Tell me about the things as they pertain to Ryan Gabhart. You aren’t betraying her trust. If you hurt because she was hurt, that’s what we talk about. If you’re angry because of what happened to her, that’s what we discuss. This is your story.”

  In what seems like one long breath, I tell Dr. Alverez everything.

  I tell her about Mia’s attachment to me, and how it not only makes me feel useful but scares me because I’m terrified of being responsible for her mental health recovery.

  I confess my fears of losing her, and my fears of loving her, of pushing too hard and not pushing enough.

  I speak of my distractions and my need for blood f
rom the men that hurt her. I explain that even though they’re dead, I still don’t feel like Mia was avenged to the magnitude she deserves.

  I confide my disappointment in myself for the way I handled things on our last mission, letting her know that although in the moment my life wasn’t a concern, putting Jinx at risk isn’t something I’ll forgive myself for anytime soon.

  I bat at the angry tears streaming down my face when I realize that caring for Mia may cost me what I’ve loved most about my life, but also acknowledging that Cerberus was only meant to be a stepping stone until I got bored. Yet, I’ve been with them for years, re-signed my contract twice already, and I’ve never questioned leaving before. I tell her I don’t want to leave now.

  I also admit that my distractions stem mainly from not knowing where I stand with the woman whom I share a bed with every night. It’s the uncertainties that plague me. It’s the doubts and fears that keep me from being able to compartmentalize my life the way Kincaid insisted that I need to.

  When I walk out of her office, I feel somehow lighter and even more burdened, so I don’t go back to the clubhouse immediately. I don’t call Mia on the phone and discuss things like a damn adult, as Dr. Alverez instructed.

  I jump on my bike and ride around until I can no longer feel my face or my fingertips.

  Chapter 24

  Mia

  He held me all night last night, yet it still felt like goodbye.

  Without a word of rejection, he asked me to leave by not asking me to stay.

  When I found his side of the bed cold and empty, I got up myself with renewed determination.

  Broken isn’t sexy.

  Broken takes too much time to heal.

  Broken isn’t worth the time.

  I pack the things Jasmine brought for me right back into the bag she used, leaving the handgun in the bedside table and text Max.

  Mia: I need a plane ticket home.

  Max: Dates?

  Mia: Now. Today, please.

  Max: What’s going on?

  He doesn’t give me time to respond before my phone is lighting up with his name. I send him to voicemail, not trusting my voice to carry a conversation.

  Mia: Just get me the ticket, please.

  I grab a quick shower, hoping I can get out of here before Ryan returns. He avoided me for hours yesterday, and I don’t expect today to be any different.

  By the time I’ve showered and gotten dressed, there’s a text from Max on my phone telling me that he’s gotten me a plane ticket and he’s on his way to pick me up to take me to the airport.

  He asks a million questions when he first arrives but grows silent ten minutes into the hour drive to Durango when he realizes that I’m not going to answer a single one.

  I’m adding my deceptive twin brother to the list of people I need to have long, hard conversations with, but today isn’t his day. Today and for however long it takes, I face my demons in Louisiana.

  He parks the SUV he borrowed from Kingston and insists on walking me to the security checkpoint. I don’t argue with him, and honestly, it takes everything I have not to ask him to accompany me all the way back to Louisiana.

  “Ma and Pa will be at the airport to pick you up,” he tells me as he pulls the strap of my duffel bag off his shoulder.

  I take the strap, shouldering the weight, and really look at my brother for the first time since I was rescued. He’s older than I remember, my memories from over ten years ago still trying to accept this new man in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I tell him.

  He lifts his arms like he wants to hug me, and I really need that from him, but his arms drop as a weak smile tugs up the corners of his mouth.

  “Be safe,” he says as he takes a step back. “Text me and let me know when you land, and also when Ma and Pa find you.”

  I nod my agreement, but I have to turn around and walk away when I feel tears burning the back of my eyes. If I start crying now, I know I’ll never stop, and I don’t think United would let a hysterical woman on their plane.

  I make it through security without issue, and even though I’m starving, I arrow to my gate, unable to stand in a food line with people behind me. I find a quiet corner at the empty gate across from mine and settle in. My phone burns in my back pocket with the need to text Ryan and tell him where I am, but I’m sure Max will give him all the details. What scares me the most, what keeps me from reaching out to him is fear of hearing the relief in his voice when I tell him that I’m going home. I’ve impeded on his life too much as it is, but it doesn’t stop me from missing him. It’s only been twelve hours since I’ve seen his face, but it feels like a million years.

  The plane ride is smooth, other than the shaky takeoff and landing, and I mentally commend myself for handling it as well as I did while I walk through the New Orleans airport. My face is stoic, and I refuse to look anyone in the eye as I make my way to the pickup area. I fell for a smiling face once, and I’ll never make that mistake again, even if it means sacrificing pleasantries and common courtesy.

  Airport traffic is thankfully calm, most people having traveled for the holidays are already back home and working on this Wednesday afternoon.

  I fake a smile when I see my mother waiting by the curb when I exit.

  “Where’s Pa?”

  People swarm around us, and I should feel safe in public, but I don’t. Any one of the people walking around us could mean to do us harm, so I press my back to one of the huge concrete pillars and keep a vigilant eye on the crowd.

  “He had to drive around. I got out because I didn’t want to miss you,” she explains.

  I want to scoff and tell her that it’s not like I’d leave with someone else if they weren’t there the second I walked outside, but I can see her actions for the blessing that they are. The old me would’ve called her crazy, but the old me hadn’t been taken and tortured for seven weeks.

  “Thank you,” I tell her.

  She wraps her arms around me, and as much as I want to sink into her embrace, I keep my eyes open, all the time wondering what I look like to strangers. Most likely, they see me as an unappreciative asshole. I know I would’ve thought that if I saw a daughter getting hugged by a loved one who is looking anywhere but at the one with her arms around them.

  I smile down at her for a brief moment when she steps back and brushes something off the shoulder of my jacket.

  My dad pulls up to the curb and blares the horn. I know he thinks that acting impatient and hustling us along will look good to the airport security guard directing traffic and making sure people aren’t sitting and waiting for their passengers to step outside. He’s been a United States citizen for decades, but he still fears that ICE will pop out of nowhere and cart him back to Mexico.

  An unplanned smile stretches across my face when my mother mutters curse words about impatient men under her breath. My dad’s thumbs are tapping on the steering wheel as we climb inside, and I know every other second, he’s darting his eyes toward the security guard. I chuckle as I belt myself in, knowing he won’t pull away until we’re all obeying the law.

  If only his diligence had kept me from being taken.

  I clear my throat, pushing thoughts like that away.

  I want to do what Ryan insisted in our first conversation before the last raids. I want to forgive myself fully. I want to believe that getting taken wasn’t truly my fault, but I know that’s going to take more time.

  “Gonna drop you and Ma off at the house, and then I’ll go grocery shopping. We didn’t have time to get all of your favorite foods. This was an unexpected visit,” my dad says, never taking his eyes off the road.

  “I’d like to go to my apartment first,” I tell him as I watch other cars zip past us, going at least ten miles over the speed limit.

  “Oh,” Mom snaps. “We forgot to tell Jason you were coming.”

  I start to tell her that she doesn’t need to, but her fingers are working over the keys on her cell phone like sh
e was born with it in her hands.

  It’s only a ten-minute drive to the apartment I shared with Jason, and I insist they stay in the car while I go up to grab a few things. I realize my mistake when I get to the third floor. I don’t have keys. I didn’t even have my ID when I was found, but somehow, I ended up with a new copy. The only cash I have is what Max shoved in my hand before we went inside the Durango airport.

  Taking my chances, even though it’s still too early for Jason to be home, I lift my hand and knock.

  Surprisingly the door swings up. Only it’s a woman with a smile melting from her face instead of Jason.

  She’s gorgeous with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and she’s clearly comfortable in this space because she’s not wearing shoes.

  “Mia?”

  My brows draw together when she says my name. How does she know my name when I’ve never seen her before in my life, and that’s saying something because Jason and I have been together for many years.

  “Is Jason home?” I’m surprised when no emotion marks my tone.

  I feel nothing standing here looking at her in what I used to consider my own home.

  “He’s not back from work yet,” she says as she steps to the side. “Please come in.”

  I waiver for a while, not sure if I’d be safe closed in the apartment alone with her, but I shove it all down and step inside anyway.

  The TV plays a sitcom in the background as I walk into the living room. She lives here with him, and that’s clear from the change in décor. There’s a woman’s touch here that is different from my own.

  “I’m Cynthia,” she says as she holds her hand out.

  I take it, shaking it like a normal person does when a hand is offered, but inside my mind is spinning, wondering why I don’t care that she’s in my space, and then it dawns on me. This isn’t my space. It hasn’t been for months.

  But this does explain why Jason was so eager to get home when I was hospitalized.

  “Mia, but you already know that.”

  She gives me a weak, guilty smile.

  “I’m here to get my things,” I tell her.