“Thirty-six. How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
My enjoyment of this game is rapidly dwindling.
“Fourteen,” I say rigidly.
“Does that bother you?”
“Why should it?” I snap. “It was my choice. I was curious, so I went to the beach in a tiny bikini and found a surfer to take me home. He lasted five minutes, then yelled at me about the blood on his sheets.”
The thing about secrets—receiving them is sheer pleasure, but offering them holds none. Not even when the desired result of eliciting a response from the unflappable doctor is achieved. But what I see in Dr. Chastain’s eyes isn’t disgust. It’s pity, and it’s maddening.
“Have you ever fucked a patient, Doc?”
His nostrils flare. “Absolutely not.”
His anger sways the balance of power back in my direction. A warm cloak of satisfaction surrounds me.
“How did you end up in this shithole?” I ask mildly.
“My turn,” he says, the dark tone fracturing my superiority. “Did you think not wearing a bra would affect me?”
Against all efforts of will, I blush. “I don’t know, maybe,” I say, then flinch at the vulnerability I’ve exposed.
He pulls off his glasses, tossing them atop the notepad in his lap. In a now familiar gesture, he rubs his forehead with his fingers.
“You asked me how I ended up here, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability.” His dazzling eyes find mine. “The short of it is that someone helped me once, and I come here once a year to pay back the debt.”
“Once a year?” I ask, confused.
“There are generally six of us who rotate throughout the year. There’s some overlap with patients, obviously, because inpatient schedules are on an as-need basis.”
“How long have you been here this go-around?”
To my surprise, he answers without hesitance. “Four weeks. My time is almost at an end. When Kinsey leaves two weeks from now, my rotation will end.”
I mull this over. “So you’ll be leaving eight days before I do.”
He nods. “Dr. Reynolds will be taking my place, but we’ll have extensive meetings prior to the transition.”
“Meetings about me and the others.”
“Yes.”
My face feels weird. Cold or numb. What is this feeling? I know only that I don’t want to talk to anyone else. Bemused by my own reaction, I tell him the truth.
“I don’t want another doctor.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, Amelia. Dr. Reynolds is very skilled.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want another doctor. I want you.”
He looks down at the notepad. Though he doesn’t move, tension radiates from his frame. Another man might run his hands through his hair. Sigh or fidget.
I hit a nerve. Only I have no idea which one or why.
“We should end here today,” he says finally.
“What?” I blurt. “It’s been twenty minutes.”
He nods, still not looking up. “I apologize, but today’s session is over.”
I will myself to move, to pull together the pieces of my dignity, but I can’t. How can such simple words have a physical impact?
Jameson’s face floats through my mind, his features flinching as I swore on our mother and Phillip that the car wreck had been an accident.
Was this how he’d felt?
“Amelia,” says Chastain, a warning note in his voice.
“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “Fuck no. What kind of therapist are you?”
His head whips up, the fire in his eyes so unexpected—astounding, beautiful, magnetic—that I gasp.
“A good one,” he says rigidly, “who knows his own limitations, can process complex emotion, and make healthy choices.”
“I’ll talk about my mother,” I say without thinking. “I’ll tell you why I jumped off the roof the night she died.”
He springs to his feet, notepad clenched in one hand. His glasses slip to the floor, landing on the carpet. That he doesn’t seem to notice or care is proof of how much I’ve unsettled him.
“Either you leave, or I call security to escort you.”
Who is this new version of Dr. Chastain? For certain, he isn’t a robot anymore, his chest heaving, eyes glittering with anger and frustration.
What have I done?
I stand on shaky legs. There isn’t much space between our chairs; less than a foot separate our bodies. I lift my chin to stare at him. Blazing blue eyes. Ticking jaw.
I feel small. Weak. But I don’t have enough fight left to remedy it. He’s too overwhelming, the smell of him dizzying.
Unable to help myself, I gaze at his lips, which soften and open. “Leave, please,” he whispers.
My eyes burn. Am I going to cry? Why?
What the hell is wrong with me?
“I’m sorry,” I say, ducking my head as I step unsteadily past him.
I make it to the door and am reaching for the knob when he speaks.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Amelia. The fault is mine.”
Why does that make me feel so much worse?
I leave his office, walk blindly into the Fish Tank, and sit down on one of the couches. My skin crawls. My heart pounds. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and swallow the knot in my throat.
“What’s the matter with you?”
I look up at Kinsey, who sits with a magazine on the couch opposite mine. Her breasts and ass are barely contained in a pink halter top and white shorts. Platinum hair is piled high on her head, and the smell of peach body spray is overpowering.
As hard as she is to miss, I hadn’t noticed her in the room.
“I’m losing my mind,” I answer.
She frowns—or at least, I think she does. It’s hard to tell with all the Botox.
“Shouldn’t you still be in therapy? Or did you run away?”
“He kicked me out.”
Her eyes widen. “Holy shit, really?”
I nod, and she smirks.
“I’m actually kind of impressed. No one’s ever seen Leo anything but, you know, all ‘I’m a superhuman shrink unaffected by everything.’ Bravo, chiquita.”
I don’t know what to focus on. Perhaps the fact she’s never spoken so many words to me before, or that she sounds almost nice? But only one word sticks between my ears.
“Leo?” I echo.
Kinsey nods, her attention back on her magazine. “Leonardo. Hot name for a hot man, right? I’d do him for sure.”
My chest squeezes and I eventually recognized the urge to laugh. So I do, chuckling as I drop my head back to stare at the nearest glassy black bowl on the ceiling.
I tell the cameras, “If I wasn’t crazy before, I definitely am now. Good work, Doc.”
Kinsey giggles. “You’re funny, Mia.”
I eye her skeptically. “Why are you being nice to me?”
She glances up from her magazine. “Nix said you’re actually pretty cool. Do you want me to do your makeup for his going-away party tonight?”
Nope, definitely not.
“Sure,” I force out.
7
drowning, not waving
day 8
Kinsey doing my makeup transitions into her doing my hair, then insisting I borrow some of her clothes because according to her I dress like a slob. Unlike my small wardrobe of basics—mainly T-shirts, tanks, and shorts—she has everything from sequined minidresses to designer jeans crammed into her narrow closet.
The result? I look like a high-end hooker.
I sit on Kinsey’s bed squirming in my miniskirt as she curls her hair and prattles on about how much she misses the outside world. Topping the list: Brazilian waxes, pedicures, massages, and her teacup Chihuahua, aptly named Teacup.
I listen with half an ear, offering Yeahs and Rights at appropriate times, while the rest of my thoughts spiral in darker directions. If what Nix suspected is true, then Kinsey and Dr. Cha
stain screw on the very bed I’m sitting on. A repulsive line of thought, but one I can’t extinguish.
I wonder if he’s a missionary man, always in control, or if he loses his mind and body to passion. Does he talk dirty? Use his teeth? Does he like his woman meek and obedient or feisty?
“Why is your face red?”
I bury my thoughts and meet Kinsey’s curious eyes. “We’re in the desert in the middle of August. Are you ready?”
I watch her struggle not to point out that the cabin’s small air conditioner is on, but apparently she really wants to be my friend.
Bully for me.
“I’m all set,” she says with a grin. “Do you like my outfit?”
I make my lips stretch in a smile. “You look amazing.”
Kinsey chats the entire walk to the facility, her topics ranging from the dry air that’s wreaking havoc on her cuticles, to the temptation of a night swim—against the rules—to Callum’s incredible abs, to how excited she is that we’re hanging out.
I continue my shtick of pretending to listen. The bulk of my focus is split between not tripping in the ridiculous stilettos she made me wear and the evening sky. The western horizon still clings to a weak memory of sunlight, but overhead, millions of stars twinkle like tiny diamonds.
“It’s really beautiful here,” I say.
Kinsey, momentarily silent, shoots me a look of disbelief. Clearly my comment doesn’t dignify a response, because she keeps walking. I follow with a sigh, around the pool and into the Fish Tank.
Frank and another of the group facilitators, Charlene, stand near one of the couches, heads bent together as they speak quietly. When they hear the door, followed immediately by our pointed heels, they jerk away from each other.
“Hello, ladies,” says Charlene with a fake smile. “You both look lovely this evening.”
I’m not fond of Charlene; she runs the group on Mondays and Wednesdays and always comes across as condescending. I think she’s thrilled to be in a perceived authority role over people like Kinsey, Nix, and Callum. People like me.
There’s a calculating gleam in Charlene’s eyes as they fix on my face. I open my mouth to praise her for squeezing her gargantuan thighs into her stockings, but sharp nails bite into my forearm.
Kinsey drags me across the Fish Tank with a cheery, “Thanks, see you at the party!”
Once we’re out of earshot, I yank my arm away. “What the hell?” I hiss.
“You were going to say something stupid. I was just saving your ass. You insult Charlene and that bitch will make your life hell.”
My mouth gapes.
Kinsey smirks. “I’m not as stupid as I look, chiquita. Come on, let’s go drink sparkling cider and pretend it’s champagne.”
“Just when I think shit can’t get any weirder…”
She laughs. “This is going to be so much fun.”
I think we have different definitions of fun, because the second we walk into the room where our group sessions are held, I almost bolt. Not because of the decorations, which are of the recycled, dollar-store variety, or the supermarket sheet cake on a table. What fills me with panic isn’t even the number of people. Pretty much every staff member is here, including the two onsite nurses, kitchen and cleaning staff, and several security guards I’ve seen prowling the grounds.
The reason my knees lock, freezing me near the door as Kinsey squeals and traipses toward Nix, is that not once had I contemplated Dr. Chastain’s attendance. But he’s here, standing with one of the nurses, Nora, near the table with beverages.
“Close your mouth,” Callum whispers, his arms coming around me from behind.
I’m so numb that his presumption doesn’t bother me like it normally would. Turning in his arms to make them fall, I whisper back, “I wasn’t prepared to see him. He kicked me out of his office today.”
Callum’s lips twitch. “Kinsey told Nix, who told everyone else after you left group today.” He laughs at my disgusted expression. “By the way, what the bloody fuck are you wearing?”
I growl at him. “Not a word, Rivers.”
His tawny brows rise. “Not even to tell you how hot you—”
I smack his hard chest, dancing back when he reaches for me, and run smack into someone. “Sorry, I—” My mouth snaps closed.
Dr. Chastain nods. “Amelia.” He glances past me. “Callum.” Blue eyes flicker back to me, landing and flying away like a butterfly kiss. “Enjoy the festivities.”
As he strides toward the door, Nix calls, “Dr. C, you’re leaving?”
His suited frame pauses and turns, and on his face is an expression I’ve never seen him wear. Pride. Happiness. A grin that transforms him into a man I’ve never seen before, with the gravitational pull of a damn sun.
“Congratulations again, Jason,” he says warmly. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
Kinsey squeals and Nix hoots, picking her up by the waist and swinging her around the room. When I look back at the doorway, Chastain is gone.
I’m a stupid, stupid woman. Only someone stupid, or crazy, would sneak out of a party at their rehab to stalk their therapist.
Not that my decision is surprising. Not to me, anyway. And as I approach the closed office door, wreathed with light from within, I realize it probably won’t surprise him, either.
My brain screams at me to turn around, but my hand lifts and knocks on the wood.
“Come in.”
Stop, you idiot. Run.
I walk inside, then close the door and sink against its support. I’m out of breath, like I just sprinted a mile.
Holy shit, I’m a mess.
On the other side of the room, Chastain leans against his desk, slim hips squared. His suit jacked is tossed across one of the leather chairs. My chair. His tie is loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. Stubble shadows his jaw, drawing dangerous attention to his full lips.
My mouth goes dry.
I want to destroy him.
“Amelia,” he says wearily, “what do you need?”
A dangerous question. But I’m not so far gone that I’ll tell him the truth.
“I don’t know. I never do. I just… act.”
His brows lift over the slim, dark frames of his glasses. “Were you hoping to catch me dozing? Maybe so you could shave my head?”
Smart doctor. When I don’t say anything, he answers my silent question. “You stare at my hair quite frequently. The way I comb it irritates you, doesn’t it?”
I snort, then slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. Giggling is inexcusable. Little girls and women like Kinsey giggle. I do not.
Dr. Chastain’s lips curve a tiny bit, his eyes challenging.
I fucking giggle.
Waving both hands in the direction of his immaculate hair, I ask belligerently, “How do you even get the part so straight? Do you spend an hour every morning with a comb?”
To my shock, he chuckles, lips parting in a soft smile. And dammit, it’s a gorgeous smile.
“And how long did it take you”—he waves a hand in mirror of my action—“to get like that?”
I glance down at the sparkly top and miniskirt. “It’s better you don’t know.”
“Kinsey’s clothes, I’m assuming?”
Why, does she play dress up for you? Have you peeled this skirt off her?
I nod, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“Amelia,” he says mutedly, all humor gone. “Why are you here?”
My eyes bounce around the office, avoiding his piercing stare. “Callum said you stay on the property somewhere.”
His brows draw together in confusion. “Yes, there are staff cabins.”
I nod jerkily. “That’s great. I mean, convenient.”
“Amelia,” he begins warningly.
Staring at the carpet before my feet, I bite my lip to halt the word-vomit. It spews out anyway. “Will you let me mess up your hair? Please?”
He doesn’t move, but I feel the razored edge
of his focus. “What does it feel like, that urge?”
I shake my head wildly. “Like an itch. Inside me. My bones. This need to do something dangerous.”
“Messing up my hair is dangerous?” he asks carefully.
Touching you would be dangerous.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Ten feet separate us—a paltry distance—but I’m held tenuously in place by his eyes. They aren’t kind or guileless, but they’re familiar. Too familiar. Like some part of my psyche recognizes some part of his. We’re alike. We have secrets. We keep parts of ourselves hidden.
I wonder if anyone has seen those hidden parts of him, and whether I want to.
Oh, I want to.
But I also know, without doubt, there would be a heavy price to pay.
The door at my back reverberates with a light knock. Through the wood, a female voice asks, “Leo? Are you still here?”
My lips shape his name. Leo. His gaze drops to my mouth. Then he clears his throat.
“Yes, Nora, come in.”
I step away from the door as it opens, a smile plastered on my face for the pretty redheaded nurse.
“I was just leaving,” I say before her surprise turns to suspicion.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, nervous eyes darting to Leo. Leo. “I can come back.”
“That’s quite all right,” he confirms.
Nora blushes. It’s not a good look, her blotchy cheeks framed by red hair. Immediately, I feel petty for the thought. She’s never been anything but kind to me.
“Good night, Dr. Chastain,” I say brightly. “Thanks again for your advice.”
He nods, stone-faced. “I hope you’ll think about what I said.”
What has he said? Nothing. Everything.
I have no idea what he’s referring to, but I nod back and make my escape. Halfway across the Fish Tank, a thought barrels into me. Leo touching Nora. Making her blush all over, making her cry out his name.
“Mia?” questions Callum.
He and Preston stand on the other side of the Fish Tank. Beyond them, voices and music drift from the party.
“Are you okay?” Preston asks softly.
No.
“I will be,” I say and kick off my shoes. “Come here, Preston.”
The Fall Before Flight Page 4