He smiles knowingly at me. “It’s the same look you had when I told you how I’d gone from the park straight to a stranger’s house for hot, meaningless sex. It turned you on. At least, I thought it did at the time. And now I know it did.”
“Daniel,” I say with as much reproach as I can muster. I do this instead of admitting to him that he’s right. That session where he told me about pursuing pure sexual gratification in his encounter with Jules had definitely intrigued me. That kind of unfettered passion is something I’ve always held at bay.
Until, that is, he had me go into the toilets at the pub last night.
And now that I think of it, it’s almost the very same scenario he encouraged me to try when he wanted to get a reaction out of me in that session.
I feel the heat rising in me all over again, remembering the way he pressed his body to mine, the way his jeans bulged at the crotch when he pulled away from me. It was sexy as sin. And I’m glad I got to “return the favor” this morning.
“And off you go again,” he says with a laugh. “I love seeing your dirty mind at work. Tell me what you were thinking just now.”
I shake my head and wave him off, hoping he’ll leave it be.
Thankfully, after a moment of examining me, he moves on from his query, saying, “I’ve confessed quite a lot to you, haven’t I?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that I poured my guts out to you in that awful green office of yours. You know everything about me, but I don’t know nearly enough about you. I’m playing major catch up here.”
The point is valid. I know all about his deficient childhood, his years of bounding around Europe with different crowds as he fed his addiction, his lack of any kind of meaningful relationship before Jules came along. I also know a lot about his toxic time with Jules. In comparison, he knows only the few things I’ve shared with him: that I have a sister who has a son I adore; I live alone with a cat named Alfredo (Alfie, for short); and that I’ve recently screwed up my career.
“What would you like to know?”
“Eh, where to begin?” He makes a show of thinking. “So, you’ve one sister?”
“Yes. She’s four years younger than me.”
“And the black sheep, I suppose.”
I attempt a dismissive laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Why do you say that?”
“There’s always one, isn’t there? And surely you’re not it.”
“You don’t know that. I could be incredibly twisted, you just haven’t seen that side of me yet.”
He gives me a dubious stare. “What’s the most deviant thing you’ve ever done?”
“Deviant?”
“Okay, if you don’t like that word, then rebellious. What’s the most rebellious thing you’ve ever done.”
I have to think about that, which says a lot. He can’t hold back a small laugh.
“It was coming out here, wasn’t it?” he says. “It was giving me your knickers and having a snog in the Jacks, right?”
“Well, I’ve never broken the law if that’s what you were hoping for.”
“No, I wouldn’t think you would have.”
“Is there something wrong with having lived by the rules? Of having gotten good marks in school and following a path right through university and into a career?”
“Nothing wrong, no. It just proves my point that you’re the proper one and your sister was the one to have all the fun.”
I start to protest this characterization but stop short. I shouldn’t be surprised by his shrewd calculation of the roles my sister and I played. It’s a reminder of his ability to be insightful.
“She did have her share of rebellion,” I admit.
“Did you then do you share of cleaning up after her?”
Nodding, I wonder at his interest. In therapy, we had worked on his challenges of connecting with others, so the fact that he wants to know me better like this is a sign of his progress.
“How bad was it?” he continues. “Was she the kind of trouble for you that I was for Shay?”
“No, it wasn’t all that bad. She wasn’t involved with drugs. It was much more a psychological concern. She was drawn to the boys who used and manipulated and hurt her. I was forever trying to pull her out of those situations. Forever trying to make sure our parents didn’t realize that she was skipping school and sneaking out of the house at night and helping her cover up the bruises on her arms from being handled too roughly when the boy she was with didn’t like her smart mouth.”
“You made sure your parents knew none of this?”
I nod. “She was desperate that they not know she wasn’t the angel they thought she was. We were both preoccupied with keeping up that image, actually.”
“What would have happened if they found out the not at all terrible truth?”
I smile at that, realizing he must think my sister’s “wild” ways incredibly tame compared to what he got up to.
“They would have sent her away to boarding school—or worse yet, to our cousins in Edinburgh,” I say.
He laughs at the faux horror of these “punishments.” But my attempt at a joke doesn’t distract him from trying to sort me out.
“It was a bit of pressure for you, then?” he asks. “And so, by contrast, you wanted to appear even more perfect? Didn’t want to disappoint your parents when your sister could do that all by herself at any moment?”
I suddenly feel like we’re back in my Dublin office, only the roles are reversed. “Are you analyzing me, Daniel?”
He smiles. “I wouldn’t dare. Just seeing a bit of where your anxiety over things comes from.”
“And where might that be?” I cock an eyebrow, trying for amused, but really fearing what he’ll say. Now I know how he felt when I’d “reveal him to himself” as he might say.
“You have set expectations of how things should be, don’t you? And if it goes astray, you get nervous.”
“Perhaps,” I say.
He laughs, seeing right through my attempt to hedge and amused by it. “So, why the fuck are you with me? Trying me on like this must be the ultimate cause for anxiety. I mean, what would your parents think of a bloke like me?”
I try to imagine how my parents would react to me bringing Daniel home to meet them. They’d probably think I was having a laugh at their expense. He and I are from opposite ends of the spectrum. I’ve spent my life creating order—for myself and for others. And he has spent his seeking chaos. Even though he has found some peace in the last couple of years, he’s still rough around the edges and radiates a kind of wild energy. I’ve always instinctively kept my emotions contained and sought out a quiet sort of life.
That is, until I hopped on a plane to come here.
“They might be a little surprised,” I say of my parents meeting him. “But only because I’ve never been attracted to someone like you before.”
“So what changed?”
“I don’t know. I guess, it was just that I got to know you. I got to realize that your unpredictability was something that I . . . craved.”
“That bad boy thing again, is it?” he asks, wincing.
“No, not exactly that. It’s more that you’re unlike anyone else I’ve ever dated. With the others, I knew how our conversations would go. I knew how the date would go. I knew what they’d say, even. There was no spontaneity. It was very safe. And dull.”
“And, so by comparison, I’m dangerous, am I?” he says, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
It’s interesting that he uses that word: dangerous. That’s what I had briefly viewed him as. But I can see now that we’re both wrong about that.
I tell him, “No, you’re . . . just uniquely you. There’s no one else like you.”
He considers this for a moment before seeming to take it as the compliment I intended it to be and smiling. “Tell me, what was the last fella you dated like? Besides ‘limp dicked,’ that is.”
I slap at his knee but laugh at the same time.
“
Seriously, tell me. I’m curious after what you said about how predictable it all was.”
“Let’s see,” I say, taking a deep breath, “the last man I was involved with was nice enough—”
“Nice enough?” he says with disdain.
“Yes. There’s nothing wrong with a man being nice.”
“Was he nice to you?”
“I, eh, yes, for the most part.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
“At a café near Trinity. We ended up trading parts of the paper as we had our morning cuppa.”
He rolls his eyes at this banality. “Go on.”
“Well, so he asked me out.”
“What was your first date?”
I remember that he has a keen interest in what “normal” people do for a date and realize my answer will bore him. I tell the truth anyway.
“He took me to a lecture on nineteenth century poetry.”
“Fuck’s sake,” he groans predictably.
I laugh because he’s right to be put off. It wasn’t the most scintillating first date.
“What did this guy do for a living?”
“He’s a literature professor at Trinity.”
“Oh, I see. So, on your first date, he decided to do something he was interested in, rather than do something you might like.”
“But it was interesting,” I protest.
“Not as interesting as getting fucked in the bathroom of a pub, though, was it?” he asks with a wicked grin.
My body tingles at his words. “No,” I agree. “But that’s not exactly what happened last night, either.”
“Good enough, though, wasn’t it?”
He eyes me with such open lust that I fall into a stupor for a moment. I can’t remember the last time someone was so obvious in wanting me. It is intoxicating. I’m sure it’s a big reason why I’ve loosened my inhibitions and disregarded my better judgement where he’s concerned.
Then, he switches gears, asking, “Wait, did he wear a tweed blazer with elbow patches?”
I laugh. “No, he didn’t.”
“Turtleneck?”
Now, I can’t help but shake my head, but it’s a weak denial.
“I knew it! No man who wears a turtleneck can be anything but a total and complete bore. I bet he wore black socks to bed, didn’t he?”
This is peak Daniel. He loves to take something he’s uncomfortable with—in this case, me being with someone else—and turn it into a farce. He’s always gotten a lot of pleasure out of this tact as he strives to both be amusing and amuse himself.
“You take pride in being entertaining, don’t you?” I ask.
“My best trait,” he replies with a grin.
“You have many good traits.” We lock eyes for a moment and I can see in his expression that he’s struggling to keep from disagreeing with me. Finally, as he is prone to do, he deflects.
“Well, you’ll certainly learn more about that later tonight.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, but his silly smile makes the whole thing comical.
“I do like how you make me laugh.”
“I do like how your laugh sounds.”
We stare at each other for a moment and it feels good. It feels like one of the rare moments we’ve had since I’ve gotten here where there are no complications, no hesitations. Just connection.
“Come here,” he says, his voice a sexy whisper. He holds out his arm to me as a further invitation.
I realize I had already been leaning toward him, so it’s easy to keep moving into his embrace. He fits my body easily against his, wraps his arm around my shoulders, and just holds me. There are no games. No requests for my knickers or attempts at any risqué PDA. It’s just contentment to be in each other’s arms. It’s lovely.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly release it and melt into him.
14
Danny Boy
* * *
After our nice little cuddle session, I take us on what ends up being an ambitious trek around the city. First up, we wander through the Palace of Fine Arts. The “Palace” itself is a wide pergola built around a rotunda and is surrounded by a lagoon. It’s a holdover from an International Exposition that took place in 1915 and is one of those quintessential San Francisco “must-see” spots.
After a good look there, we backtrack along Marina Boulevard before diverting up Fillmore Street and then onto Bay Street. Hustling up a couple of steep blocks, we arrive at Lombard Street, otherwise known as the “crookedest street in the world.” It’s lined with some beautiful homes and an enormous number of tourists.
Once done with that little novelty, I steer us back down to Bay Street where we loop around toward Pier 33. By this time, we’ve put in over two miles of walking and passed the time talking about the sights and sounds we encounter. I hold Roscoe’s lead with one hand, and though I don’t reach for Amelia, I do purposely graze her fingers with mine, or touch the small of her back occasionally. It feels like the right kind of connection. It’s unforced, natural.
We stop at Fog City for lunch, taking a table outside so Roscoe can sit with us. Once he’s received a bowl of water and we’ve ordered our meals, I sit back in my chair and sigh contentedly. It’s felt easy between us since our talk this morning. As a result, exploring the city together has been exactly the way I’d fantasized it’d be.
“How can you do that?”
I’m pulled from my thoughts by Amelia’s question.
“Do what?”
“Sigh like you’re perfectly happy, but yet your leg is bouncing like you can’t wait to be anywhere else.”
I hadn’t realized my leg was moving. It’s an unconscious thing, a result of energy I’ve never known how to funnel. The only time I gain control over it is with deliberate effort or when I’m high. I press my palm onto my thigh and am soon still.
“I’m exactly where I want to be, Amelia,” I tell her.
“I’m where I want to be, too,” she says with a genuine smile.
I want to lean over the table and kiss her. I have the feeling she wouldn’t mind. But since she put me off this morning with the excuse that we should spend more time together, I figure I’d better restrain myself. It’s not the worst thing. Not when it means I get to know her better. I’d spent all that time in her office spilling my guts and she’d revealed so little about herself, other than her unyielding generosity and insight where I was concerned. She was the perfect therapist for me. It’s funny that I never considered that she had other clients who she’s helped in the same way. Now that I have, though, it stokes my curiosity. I wonder what those other fuckups are doing without her while she’s on holiday.
“What happens to your clients while you’re away?” I ask.
Her eyes drift away and focus on leafy Battery Street. Though it’s not a natural state of being for me to keep quiet and be patient, I sense that I’d better give her time. The silence between us quickly turns unbearable and I’m about to speak when the waiter brings our drinks. A lager for me and coffee for her. After promises that our food will be up soon, we’re returned to silence.
“Is there, like, a substitute therapist or something?” I ask.
“Something like that,” she says with a small laugh. “I’ve actually transferred all my clients to new therapists permanently.”
“Which means you’re . . . unemployed?”
Her gaze falls on me with a mixture of amusement and discomfort. This odd reaction reminds me of what she’d confessed when she showed up unexpectedly at Shay’s.
“You said something yesterday when you first arrived about your career being in―what was the word? Flux? What did that mean?”
“It means I’m taking a hiatus. I’m stepping away from my practice.”
“Why? You’re so good at what you do.”
She smiles and takes the time to stir creamer into her coffee before taking a sip. “I need some distance from it. I lost my perspective―”
“That’s what you said about me. About us.
” Perspective. I remember that word so clearly. She had said that when she told me we couldn’t continue in therapy together. The sting of that declaration is still tangible.
“Did I?”
“Yes. You said you’d let yourself get too emotionally involved with me.”
She nods slowly, as if trying to remember whether that’s how she put it.
I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “So, you lost perspective again, yeah? Does that mean you’ve been getting emotionally involved with other clients? Is this some sort of serial thing you do?”
“Slow down, Daniel,” she tells me in her therapist tone.
I know what she’ll say next. She’ll say that I need to think clearly about what is really happening. To not create my own version of events. But, I’m not one to put the brakes on things.
“Have you made a habit of fucking your clients?” I ask, jumping right to the thing that a part of me knows can’t possibly be true. But that’s the part of me I can’t suppress with logic, not when it plays into the negativity that is perpetually in my head.
Instead of answering, she looks around at the other tables, concerned that I’ve caused a scene. But all I can think of is the idea that she’s got some twisted routine of using her clients and I grow more agitated by the second.
“Answer the question,” I demand. Roscoe whimpers at my feet and I drop my hand near him for reassurance. He licks my fingers before settling down again.
“No,” she says, her voice hushed. “No, of course not. You can’t possibly think―”
“You said―”
“Here we are,” our waiter, a hefty man in his forties, says. “The Dungeness Crab salad for the lady. And the burger, medium rare, for the gentleman.”
I scoff, thinking of the term “lady” being applied to Amelia. My head is swimming with the idea that I’ve gotten this whole thing wrong. I struggle to separate my cruel assumptions from what I know to be true. It’s a losing battle, though, as I’m once again all too quickly lured into believing the worst. Because the worst would confirm my core belief that I am not worthy of genuine feeling from someone.
Once the waiter has left, Amelia leans over the table and takes my hand.
Problematic Love (Rogue Series Book 8) Page 7