“Yes,” Sophie confirmed, adding uncomfortably, “Officer Jerry Stone.”
“Okay, then, I’ll need you to sign this release of information form, giving me permission to speak to Officer Stone.”
“What exactly do you have to share with him?” she inquired warily, taking the form and pen he offered to her.
“The POs never want the details,” Hunter responded. “They’re too busy. I just need to tell him whether or not you attended and provide an overall sense of how we are progressing toward therapy goals.”
Sophie reluctantly scrawled her signature, barely managing to avoid adding a “PhD” at the end of her name. She still had her doctorate, but the degree was useless for practicing psychology without her license.
“So,” Hunter began, settling back into his chair and preparing to take notes as they chatted. “Have you ever been in therapy before?”
“No.” Her graduate program had encouraged students to obtain their own therapy as they learned to become therapists, but Sophie never had the time or the inclination. Perhaps she should have taken her professors’ advice. Perhaps she could have avoided this whole mess if she’d done some work on herself before delving into the problems of others.
“You must be nervous, then, not knowing what to expect.” He smiled warmly.
You don’t know the half of it.
“Therapy is basically a conversation. I’ll be asking lots of questions today, and you answer them to the best of your ability. It’s okay to ‘pass,’ and it’s okay to ask me questions. Were you mandated to attend therapy as part of your parole?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded, tight-lipped.
“Well, that Officer Stone must be some kind of jerk to force you into therapy, huh?”
Sophie looked up, startled. “He’s not really a jerk. He’s just doing his job. The truth is I probably need therapy. I made a colossal mistake, and I need to figure out why so I can prevent making another …” Her voice trailed off, and she eyed her psychologist suspiciously, gleaning sudden insight into his techniques.
Oh, he was good. He’d just made her argue that she needed and wanted to be here, despite the mandate.
“You made a mistake?” he repeated curiously, his pen poised above the file in his lap.
Sophie raked both hands through her strawberry-blond hair and sighed. “Thank you for explaining what therapy will be like,” she began. “But I’m actually a psychologist myself. Well, I was a psychologist … before I went to prison and my license was revoked.”
He cocked his head to one side, intrigued. “Really? You were a psychologist? Where did you go to school?”
“Undergrad at Northwestern and grad school at DePaul.”
His interest was further piqued. “And your pre-doctoral internship, where did you complete that?”
“At a VA hospital in Virginia.” She studied the clownfish, darting in and out of the coral in the tank.
“Huh, I went to U of I. I wonder if we know some people in common. What year did you get your PhD?”
Sophie wasn’t quite in the mood to schmooze about her past life. “In 2004.”
Hunter rubbed his cheek pensively. “Do you know Chris Dowd? He went to DePaul.”
She shook her head.
He glanced at her smooth, alabaster skin and long, toned legs clad in youthful navy shorts. “Oh, he was probably before your time. I’d already been practicing ten years by the time you graduated.”
Her mental calculations put his age near forty. At least she was getting an experienced psychologist.
“So, you were a psychologist, but you were never in therapy yourself?”
“I never had time. I was trying to hold down another job in addition to classes, research, and practicum. Even with the extra job I still came out with some hefty student loans.”
“You’re in a lot of debt?”
“Yeah, about sixty thousand dollars’ worth. Officer Stone told me I need to get a job soon, but I have to find something that pays well enough, or I won’t be able to make my loan payments.”
“Can’t your parents help you out?” Hunter asked casually.
Sophie froze, shame clenching in her chest. She recalled her father’s cold stare at her mother’s funeral, his frosty blue eyes laying blame that sliced through her like an icicle. Then an earlier memory emerged of those same eyes filled with fury when she was only nineteen years old. Her father had screamed incessantly upon discovering her plans to study psychology instead of joining him in the family construction business. He had groomed her for years to be his protégé, but she wanted nothing to do with his world. You ungrateful girl! You want to be some namby-pamby shrink? You’re on your own, then! Shocked by his words, she had fled their house, vowing never to return.
Hunter carefully studied the beautiful young woman, whose sorrow was evident. She eventually returned his gaze and feebly requested, “Can I pass on that question?”
“Of course,” he nodded. She seemed relieved to be given a reprieve.
Glancing down at his notes, Hunter cleared his throat. “Let’s see … I got us off track a bit. You were saying you made a huge mistake?”
She worried what might happen if she continued to evade his questions. How many passes would he allow? She had to share the reason she went to prison or she would never begin to heal. Hunter seemed trustworthy enough.
“It was about two years ago. I had just passed my licensing exam, and I was thrilled that I no longer had to report to a supervisor. Well, thrilled and a little nervous, I guess. Anyway, I was renting office space over on State Street, trying to start a practice. But insurance companies were giving me a hard time, and it was tough to get clients.”
“Insurance companies giving you a hard time?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. “Say it ain’t so.”
Sophie gave a wry smile. “Going to battle with managed care is one thing I do not miss about being a psychologist, that’s for sure.” She swallowed hard before she continued. “You can imagine my relief when I picked up a client who said it was no problem to self-pay. He said he didn’t have health insurance anyway. He was in a similar situation as I find myself now—mandated by the court to attend therapy. He had a gambling addiction that got him into trouble.” Sophie recalled the flutter in her heart upon meeting him.
He had strode confidently into her office, wearing a tight royal-blue T-shirt that showcased the musculature of his arms and chest. On the tall side of six feet, he was a formidable presence. Sophie could not help but allow her eyes to drift down the length of him, taking in his dark jeans and black boots.
“Dr. Taylor?” his deep baritone rang out in the room. She glanced up at his cavernous cerulean eyes, hardened and mysterious. His jet-black hair bled into the stubble of a five o’clock shadow lining his chiseled jaw. The man exuded sex.
“Yes, it’s Sophie,” she corrected, offering her hand.
He grasped it and shook robustly, causing the muscles of his forearm to contract and ripple. He looked her in the eyes as he introduced himself.
“Logan Barberi.”
“Barberi?” Hunter repeated. Sophie flinched, reorienting herself to the present. “The Barberi? As in the Barberi crime family?”
She smiled sadly. “That’s the one. He’s the son of Vicenzo Barberi. If only I had known.”
Hunter appeared puzzled. “You didn’t know his family was Mafia?”
“I didn’t know! In my defense, Vicenzo was sentenced to life in prison when I was only seven years old.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” Hunter nodded. “But didn’t you follow Angelo Barberi’s trial? It was the talk of the town when he got off on a technicality.”
Sophie shrugged. “That happened when I had just started grad school. Back then I didn’t have time to sleep, much less follow the news.”
Hunter continued writing, and he waited patiently for her to resume the story. She crossed her long legs and exhaled deeply, maintaining an elegant posture on the sofa. Her mind drifted ba
ck to her first meeting with Logan, as it had done so many times while sitting in her cell.
He had just told her his name, and she was drowning in the magnetism of those deep blue eyes. The timbre of her voice was tremulous. “Um, welcome … Please have a seat.”
He eyed her appreciatively as he crossed to the sofa. “Damn, if I knew shrinks could be so pretty, I would have started this therapy thing long ago.”
Backing unsteadily into her own chair, Sophie felt her cheeks redden, and she emitted a nervous giggle. Oh Lord, the physical attraction appeared to be mutual. It definitely seemed like the time to refer this client to another psychologist before they even started this charade of therapy. Instead, she found herself asking, “What brings you in today, Mr. Barberi?”
“It’s Logan. None of that formal stuff. A judge, uh, ordered me to see you. I had a little, uh, incident, and they think I have a gambling problem.”
Her mind, overwhelmed by his ferocious intensity, drew a blank. What would her supervisor tell her to say in this moment? When in doubt, make an empathic statement. Reflect the client’s feelings. Sophie racked her brain for an appropriate response. “And you’re angry about that, Logan? You don’t think you have a gambling problem?”
He exhaled derisively. “A problem implies lack of control. I’m always in control of my bets. I know what I’m doing.”
“Fair enough,” she responded, wanting to establish rapport before challenging him too much. “So, what was this ‘little incident’?”
He looked around the small office, sizing it up. Taking in the bare walls and sparse furniture, he observed, “You haven’t been in this office long.”
“That’s right, less than one month.”
His leg jiggled nervously as he continued his visual scan. Abruptly popping off the sofa, he strode to the lone object on the wall: a framed document. Peering at the date on her psychologist’s license, Logan turned to her and arched one eyebrow. “2006? You’ve been in this office about the same amount of time you’ve been a full-fledged shrink, huh? Only one month?”
Sophie nodded her head, and her throat felt dry. So she was green. A freshly licensed psychologist. So what?
He returned to his seat and shot her a disinterested smirk. “What the hell are we supposed to do in here?”
“Well, I’d like to get to know you better, Logan. Why don’t you tell me a little about your family?”
“Oh, you know, they’re … family. Nothing to talk about there.”
Watching his eyes dart around the room, Sophie decided to try another tactic. “How about gambling then? What’s your favorite game?”
He brightened immediately. He turned his deep-blue gaze back on her, and on her it stayed. “Blackjack,” he responded. “It’s got the best odds of any game at the casino, and I’m crazy good at it. Just yesterday I made seven thousand dollars.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Yep,” he agreed. Of course, he neglected to mention that he had lost nine thousand dollars the day before. Logan winked and gave her a dazzling smile. “Maybe we could go gambling together some time.”
Hunter did not allow his client to remain in her trance for long. “That was your mistake?” he asked. “Keeping Logan Barberi as your client?”
Sophie blinked and shook her head sadly. “No. My mistake was not keeping Logan Barberi as my client. My mistake was falling in love with him.”
7. Man Overboard
Grant yanked the pillow from underneath his head and stuffed it over his face, unsure if he was just attempting to drown out the noise or actually suffocating himself. His feet dangled over the low armrest of the sofa in Roger’s studio apartment, and he tossed and turned with every thunderous snore emanating from the man in the bed across the room.
Skaeeeeennnnng … hhuuuuuuhhhhh … skaeeeeennnnng … hhuuuuuuhhh …
How the hell could a human being make that sound? It seemed like a machine or some type of snuffling, feral animal. Grant groaned as he glanced at the alarm clock on the end table. Great. It was the freaking middle of the night.
“Rog!” he stage-whispered, and was rewarded with even louder snores. Grant upped the volume, hissing, “Rog!” The clatter continued unabated. Next, he tried clearing his throat loudly, his raspy coughs filling the space between snores. However, nothing could stop the Roger Roaring Rumble.
Finally, Grant sat straight up and grabbed a heavy naval navigational manual from the bookshelf. He held the thick book high above the hardwood floor and bit his lower lip. Should he be so cruel? Then the skaeennnnggg noise resumed. Grant shot his boss a hostile glare and determinedly let the book fall. The hardback manual seemed to drop in slow motion and caused a deafening thwap when it finally hit the floor.
Blessedly, the snoring stopped, but Grant froze when Roger seemed to awaken for a moment, clearing his throat and sighing. The rotund man then rolled over to his side, and Grant closed his eyes with hope for at least a temporary reprieve.
Falling back on his pillow and drawing the blanket over him, Grant settled in contentedly until he heard his boss growl, “Madsen, did you just make a loud noise?”
Grant paused a second before admitting, “Yeah.”
“Was I snoring?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, just tell me to roll over, you fucker! Don’t scare the bejesus out of me like that!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And quit calling me ‘sir’ when we’re on land! You’re driving me crazy with that shit!”
“Okay, um, Rog.”
Repositioning himself on the sofa, Grant tried to relax and get some shut-eye before Roger began again. Grant mentally challenged him to a race. Who could fall asleep first? He was determined to win and enter dreamland before Señor Snore resumed conducting his mariachi band.
* * *
The next morning a sleepy Grant somehow found the energy for his daily run, which he’d begun taking along Lake Michigan. He loped along easily, watching the city wake up around him, the rising sun accompanying the rising hum of traffic along Lake Shore Drive. He crossed paths with mothers guiding baby joggers, elderly men out for a stroll, and serious marathoners pounding out the miles in a fast, steady cadence. Grant felt exhilarated to be part of this bustling city scene. He sloughed off his fatigue and managed four miles before heading back to Roger’s place.
The smell of sausage sizzling on the stovetop greeted him as he entered. Roger was kicking back his last sip of coffee while using a fork to turn over a link, and he looked up to find Grant watching him cook.
“S’okay if I take a shower?” Grant asked, sweat dripping off his nose.
“Sure, I’m all done in there.” Then Roger added, “I made us some breakfast. I’m heading to the ship early, but I’ll leave some out for you.”
Touched by the gesture—a peace offering, perhaps?—Grant suppressed a grin. “I thought you said, ‘This ain’t no fucking bed and breakfast’?”
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, kid,” Roger replied, returning his attention to the frying pan.
A few minutes later, Grant reveled in the steaming shower. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling rivulets of hot water cascade down the length of him, loosening and relaxing his tired muscles. It was sheer heaven to linger in a private shower. After twenty-six months of brief community showers that were never safe—whether the threats came from predatory cons or the Mafia thugs supposedly protecting him from said cons—he would never take showering as a free man for granted again.
Grant stepped out and was greeted by silence. He wrapped his lower body in a towel, tucking in the white terrycloth rectangle at his hip, and stood at the sink to shave. As he scraped the razor down his chin and then rinsed the blade under the spigot, he studied his reflection.
Although he was only thirty years old (and was often told he could pass for twenty-five), to his own eyes he looked old. He had aged considerably during those two years in prison. He could identify
traces of weariness, cynicism, and regret in his face, and he did not like what he saw.
He missed his days in the Navy, when life was orderly and neat, when things made sense. Right now he was a man thrown overboard, thrashing and desperately striving to stay afloat in the unfamiliar and stormy sea.
After smoothing on some aftershave, Grant dressed in the navy-blue jumpsuit that was his uniform for the ship. Wearing a uniform was one thing that had not changed in about twelve years, ever since he started in the Navy Reserve Officer Training Corps in college.
Making his way to the elevated counter at the end of the small kitchen, Grant pulled up a barstool and grinned at the plate of eggs, sausage, and toast, covered with plastic wrap. Roger acted all tough, but these little acts of kindness confirmed his softer side.
Grant sat still for less than two seconds before popping off the stool and heading for the bookshelf, carefully sliding out a hardcover book: Chicago Architecture and Design.
He carried the book back to the bar and sat down as he thumbed through the pages to find his place. Resuming his reading, he happily stuffed a forkful of eggs into his mouth and continued learning about Millennium Park.
While cleaning during the cruises, Grant listened intently to Roger’s description of each architectural marvel for the enraptured audience. After only two weeks on the job, he had already memorized most of his boss’ spiel, and he enjoyed finding factoids in the book that Roger failed to mention. He was particularly fascinated by the newly constructed park in downtown Chicago—perhaps because he was consumed with constructing and repairing his own internal structures, trying to build a new life.
* * *
It was 10:45 when Grant made it to the ship. He was fifteen minutes early for his shift, but according to Navy standards, he was right on time. Clouds had begun to obscure the sun, and it was chilly by the water on this early-June day. A swift breeze kicked up off of the river, causing Grant to shiver as he stepped onto the deck. The Windy City was earning its name.
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 5