Looking For Trouble (Rogue Series Book 5)

by Lara Ward Cosio

  “So, what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why didn’t the dream job last?”

  “Oh, I had to cut it short when Shay got into a mess with his girl, and I never went back to that.”

  She nods with a look that tells me this is about what she expected to hear, that my original description of having a job was built up to more than it actually was. It’s my crutch after all—the one she identified early on, pointing out that I twist things into a version that suits me, even if that doesn’t jibe with reality.

  “How are things with Jules?” she asks.

  “On hold, I guess you could say.”

  I tell her about returning to the bungalow that morning, to owning up to my bad behavior and apologizing. And that Jules did not.

  “How does that make you feel?”

  I roll my eyes at this sterile response. “Jesus, aren’t we past that?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re being awfully careful here, Ms. Patterson. As if you want to create some kind of distance from me.”

  “No, I’m trying to get you to examine your feelings. That’s what we do here.”

  “Listen, we had an especially lovely connection with that phone call, didn’t we? Can’t you just talk to me like we did then? With a laugh and some warmth?”

  She eyes me for a moment before saying, “I don’t think that’s in your best interest.”

  “My best interest? Or yours?”

  “Is there something else on your mind that we should focus on?”

  Roscoe shifts and grunts, obviously picking up on my mood. I’m frustrated. Without realizing it, I came in to see Ms. Patterson with the expectation that I’d basically fall into her arms and she’d soothe me the same way she did on the phone. But now that we’re back to the real world, without the distance of me being on another bloody continent, that’s not going to happen.

  “You know what?” I say and grab my phone from the coffee table in front of me. “I don’t think I’m in the right mindset to talk. I’ll see you on Thursday, yeah?” I stand, and Roscoe rouses himself as well.

  Ms. Patterson puts her notepad and pen aside and stands. “You’re sure that’s the best decision?”

  I laugh, and it comes out pathetic—sad and weary. “How the fuck would I know what the best decision is anyway? I’m Danny fucking Boy, amn’t I? King of bad decisions.”

  I get as far as the door but stop when she speaks.

  “That’s not how I see it, Daniel. I think you’re doing your best and making real strides. Don’t give up on that. You’ve come too far.”

  Closing my eyes, I press my forehead against the door. I’m all twisted up with too many feelings. Feelings for Jules. Feelings for Ms. Patterson. My hand has tightened into a fist and I use it now to bang against the door because my thoughts are all about wanting the escape of heroin. I want it so bad I can taste it.

  36

  It’s a fucking slog, but I stave off temptation over the next few weeks. Temptation for heroin, that is. I’m less successful in resisting Jules.

  After four days of no contact, she texts me with a simple hello. I give it an hour and then reply asking how she is. When she suggests we meet the next day to let the dogs run at the park, I agree.

  We meet at the car park and it’s awkward, neither of us knowing how we should greet the other. It turns into a half-hug and her mistiming a kiss on the cheek that instead lands on my jaw.

  “Shall we, then?” Jules asks, and we venture along our old route.

  Walking together with careful distance between us, I wish we could erase that last night in Tulum. Turns out she feels the same because she says as much.

  “I was too close to it, too injured, to acknowledge my part,” she says. “But I am sorry.”

  The apology feels good. My steps are lighter as we go. It’s hope, I realize, that we can fix this. Then she keeps talking and takes all that away.

  “It was that mezcal. That stuff is deadly.” She laughs softly. “It should come with a warning label: Do not drink and speak—only bad things will come of it.”

  “Ah, it was the drink, was it?” I ask.

  “Maybe the spliff, too,” she replies reluctantly. “A bad combination, like you’ve always said.”

  I can see there’s no getting her to really take responsibility, and I don’t want to go around in circles like we did before. I know by now that she won’t admit to trying to take advantage of my weaknesses. She either can’t or won’t acknowledge how her actions prove that’s exactly what she was doing. She won’t change. Nor will the fact that she still has deep feelings for McManus that aren’t going away anytime soon.

  These things make me ready to give up on whatever it was we had. But then she turns to me and takes my hand into both of hers. In a rare show of tenderness, she brings my hand to her lips and kisses it. This is the best she can do for an apology. And so, I accept her as she is, despite all the valid reasons to end what I had already deemed a “shite relationship.” Because I miss her. I miss her like I miss an addiction. Her absence is a void I don’t know how to fill, so despite it being a terrible idea, I fall back in with her.

  It begins again much like how it started. Her simple, sweet kiss on my hand is followed by her then grabbing me by the back of my neck to kiss me on the mouth. That chemistry we had easily reignites as I hold her in return. We stand there in the park, pressed together under the gray skies and kissing as if we’re long-lost lovers finally reunited. It’s that insatiable physical connection again, the one we have always relied on when substance doesn’t work.

  Soon, we cut short Roscoe and Molly’s park run and rush back to Jules’ house. Instead of going to the bedroom, we gravitate to Jules’ painting room. It’s the space we haven’t used since that first time we were together. But it’s the only place that feels right for the motives we have at the moment. After all, we are re-enacting the desperate need for each other we found when we met.

  It’s all about denial. Denying the truth of what we know about each other. And denying that we will ever have anything more than this sexual connection.

  * * *

  I’ve dozed off and start awake when I feel something brushing against my calf. I’m naked on the massage table, having spent myself with Jules earlier. We both got what we needed—the comfort of each other’s bodies, of course, but also the pretense of closeness again.

  Only, Jules isn’t close now. I had wrapped her in my arms a few moments ago and now she’s gone.

  Then there’s that tickle on my leg again.

  I push up onto an elbow and see Jules. She’s still nude but has a paint brush in her hand.

  She’s painting me.

  “What’s this?” I ask, amused. In all the time we’ve been together, the idea of her painting me has never come up.

  “Just relax,” she says.

  After a moment, I settle back and close my eyes. The sensation of the cool brush slowly dragging across my skin is soothing. Jules had described this act with the women she works with as empowering, as showcasing their bodies as art. I wonder what she thinks this will accomplish for me. I’m not a big believer in the outside being some sort of reflection of your inner worth. But maybe she has a different plan.

  “Are you painting me so I can see myself as art, or are you painting me as you see me?” I ask.

  The paint brush stops, and I look at her again. She’s considering the question and I can tell she hadn’t thought of the difference.

  “I guess we’ll see,” she finally says.

  Once more, I relax, and she continues. But the soothing paint strokes begin to change, turning into quick slashes with multiple brushes being used for different colors. The process has turned into something other than what it started out as, and it no longer feels good.

  When she announces I can sit up and look in the mirror, I do so with reluctance. I sense she has painted me as she sees me, and it’s not an empowering feeling
.

  What I see is what I felt while she was undertaking this act: wild, unformed strokes of every color at her disposal cover my chest, torso, and legs. There is no purposeful design. It’s chaos.

  I think about what Ms. Patterson said when I told her Jules painted women’s bodies to help them feel confident and empowered. She said Jules could be helping the women find their identities.

  A scoff escapes me. Then a laugh. And another.

  “What?” Jules asks, brow furrowed.

  I can only hope she’s better at this with the women she works with than what she did for me. Because what she did is impose her own idea of who I am onto me.

  And she’s wrong. This isn’t the me that I now know.

  This is who she thinks I am, who she wants me to be.

  It’s clearer than ever that we are operating with different perceptions of things. But even though that means what we’re doing is going to lead to no good, I’m still not ready to put an end to it.

  “It’s grand,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “Quite striking.”

  She watches me, wary for a moment before relaxing.

  “Let me have a go at doing you, yeah?”

  My playful tone sets her completely at ease and we entertain each other for the rest of the afternoon playing games with the paint and each other’s bodies.

  37

  I do come clean with Ms. Patterson about all this, though, and her disappointment is clear.

  “You’re saying you’ll keep on with her even though you know it’s not a healthy relationship?” she asks.

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Gotta have some vices, don’t I?”

  I’m in a combative mood. I knew Ms. Patterson would lay bare all the reasons why this is a bad idea, but I just don’t want to hear it from her. I suppose I could have lied to her, or omitted the truth of being back with Jules, but I have motives in telling her the truth that will come out soon enough.

  “Smoking is a vice. Drinking is a vice,” she says. “Being with a woman who has abused your trust and disregarded your sobriety is more than a vice. It is self-destructive.”

  I roll my eyes. “Honey, you have no idea the ways I can self-destruct. This ain’t it.”

  “Ms. Patterson.”

  “What?”

  “You are to call me Ms. Patterson. You know that.”

  “Yeah yeah.”

  Silence overtakes us for several long minutes.

  “You don’t seem terribly happy in being with her again,” she finally says. “Or is there something else you’d like to talk about.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who’s not terribly happy that I’m with her?” I suggest and she stares at me blankly. “Go on, you can admit to being just a wee bit jealous, can’t you? It may not be the ‘professional’ thing to do, but it’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.” I give her a wink.

  “Daniel—”

  “Danny Boy.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been trying to get you to understand for months that I am Danny Boy. That’s who I am. That’s what you should call me.”

  This flusters her. I’m regressing before her eyes and she’s put off.

  “Come on, Ms. Patterson,” I say. “I expect more from you! You should know how to handle me by now. Go on, put me in my place. Reveal me to myself like you’ve done before. Tell me something like when you said I lost my identity. That was a real winner, wasn’t it?”

  She looks down at her notepad and taps the end of her pen against the spiral binding.

  I wait.

  Finally, she meets my eyes, her gaze steady. “I won’t be giving you permission to make bad decisions, Daniel.”

  “Ah, is that the diagnosis? Seems pretty shallow, really.”

  “You have come too far to play this game now.”

  “Game?”

  “I know what you’re doing. Do not play me for a fool.”

  As usual, she sees right through me. I’ve been pushing her, trying to convince her I’m allowed to do the wrong thing because I’m Danny Boy—as if that is some kind of excuse. I want to apologize. I want to throw myself at her mercy and beg for her to help me because I know I’m going backwards by being with Jules again. But I can’t. The best I can do is try to deflect.

  “You are not the fool in this scenario,” I say. “You are my queen and I bow to you.” I get up and literally bow in front of her, complete with arm sweeping out before resting my hand on my heart.

  “That’s enough,” she says.

  “My dear Ms. Patterson, if you can’t give me permission for my bad decision to be with Jules, then what advice would you give me to try to make it something worthwhile?

  I can see the relief in her face with my change in attitude, and she sets about in methodically detailing how I should manage my relationship going forward. She insists that I establish some boundaries with Jules this time around. She says I should eliminate or limit drinking alcohol when we’re together, that I should go back to attempting to have real dates, rather than staying in so much, and that I should try to focus on communicating with words rather than resorting to sex.

  It’s all reasonable and I agree to it in theory. Making it happen is another matter.

  38

  Just like before, Jules proves to be a distraction for me. I had stopped going to NA meetings when I first got in deep with Jules and never returned. The only thing I kept up with then and continue now are my sessions with Ms. Patterson. Time slips by before I realize I’ve ignored the one thing my brother asked of me—checking up on Martin. When Shay reminds me of that task, I apologize profusely and promise to get right on it.

  Martin has three boys, each wilder than the next. They’ve always seemed to be these tornado-like forces, so full of energy and motion. So, it doesn’t surprise me when all three rush to beat each other in answering my knock on the front door of their house.

  “Danny Boy!” Sean—the littlest one—shouts.

  “Hello, lads,” I say. “And what are you lot up to?”

  “Ma is making us do laundry and other cleanup,” Donal—the oldest one—says with a sour look on his mug.

  “Ah, mind your Ma,” I say. “I’m sure she appreciates your help. Now, where’s your Da?”

  “At his other house. Where do you think?” Colm—the middle one—says.

  “Other house?”

  Celia comes to the door then, rag and dust spray in hand. “Go on, boys, back to your chores,” she tells them.

  “But—” Sean starts in a whine.

  “Listen to your Ma,” I say. “One day you’ll realize how lucky you are to have a mother who works alongside you to make a nice home.”

  “Eh, yeah, right,” Donal says reluctantly, and the boys head off with lackluster waves goodbye to me.

  “How are you, Celia?” I ask.

  “Been better. You’re looking for Marty, then? Don’t you know he’s done this temporary moving out thing? Has a rented house just a few blocks from here.”

  She says it matter of fact, like she has no patience for an explanation, but that doesn’t stop my surprise. I knew the guy had committed some major fuckups, as detailed in the tabloids, but it’s still hard to conceive of the idea that these two would have separated. They have been married longer than any couple I know.

  “I’m sorry to hear—” I start but she cuts me off. She doesn’t want to hear my thoughts on the matter or give me any more details other than Marty’s new address.

  Martin’s rental is nice enough on the outside, but it has a distinctly “divorced dad” feel on the inside. It’s sparsely furnished, with nothing on the walls, and no real character. Seems he’s spent all his time in the gym rather than making this a real home. He’s transformed himself over the last six months or so into a different person. Gone is the baby fat, replaced by a Chris Evans-like physique. He was the last holdout of the band, the last one to seem like a regular guy. What with Conor being Mr. Perfect, Gavin having adopted an athletic build, and my br
other being in fighting shape so he can conquer the drums, Martin was always the one to feel like he could be your mate down at the pub. Now he’s turned into bloody Captain America.

  “Your temporary digs?” I ask him once we’re seated on the sofa.

  “Long-term temporary, I guess,” he says. “Until I find something I want to buy.”

  “Ah. Well, your ex there seems to think this isn’t going to last. Said it was a temporary move out.”

  Martin sighs and shakes his head. “She’d be happy for me to come right back, but it’s not happening.”

  “You on to one of those lovelies from the tabloid stories I saw?”

  He goes stiff with the directness of my question. I’m not one to beat around the bush, so he shouldn’t have expected anything less.

  “What do you want, Danny Boy?”

  “I, em, I dunno,” I say with a laugh. I hadn’t given much thought to concocting a story about why I was visiting him. “Guess I’m just restless. You know, being off tour.”

  His defensive posture loosens as he sits back. “What are you doing with your time, then?”

  “Ah, little bit of this and that,” I reply evasively.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll be glad to have Shay back for a spell?”

  “Back? What do you mean?”

  “Gavin and Conor want to go to studio. Did Shay not tell you he’ll be back in a week or so?”

  Shay hadn’t mentioned that. I wonder if he was hoping to surprise me by showing up unannounced just to see if I was getting myself into any kind of trouble. And, of course, I am doing just that by still seeing Jules. But he has no idea about her as far as I can tell. For reasons I can’t quite figure, neither Gavin nor Conor has told my brother about Jules.

  “That’s good news,” I say. “I’m eager for you all to get on with it and back on tour.”