Reckless (A Carolina Coastal Novel Book 3)

by Kelsey Cheyenne

  And yet, here I am, hoping this new Dr. Whitmore will cure me. Not only from the drugs and fights, but Christopher and Alice are hoping he’ll persuade me to go back to school too. Sometimes they’re so delusional.

  “Dr. Whitmore’s office is on the tenth floor. Please, try to take this seriously and give the man a chance. You don’t know what we’ve done to get you here today. At the very least, be nice to the man.” I turn my head to roll my eyes to prevent her from catching the action. “I’ll be back for you in an hour.”

  The skyscraper before me is glass and full of various offices. The people employed here probably have dickhead bosses who wear Prada suits and have personal drivers. Doesn’t sound like a bad place to pick up a guy, actually.

  I stroll through the front doors with purpose. Maybe I’ll finally meet the rich man I’m going to trick into settling down. I shiver at the thought. My parents would be ecstatic for one aspect of my life to have some normalcy. Not to mention, they’ve never been thrilled by my relationships in the past, but a rich man with a career would do the trick.

  But marriage? Barf.

  It’s not like I’m against marriage and monogamy, per se. It’s just that I get bored easily. No one’s been able to keep my interest or attention longer than one night. Damon came close, but even he’s a snore. I never even had a sleepover with him—or anyone.

  Until last night.

  Liam.

  Thinking about last night makes tingles spread up my spine. I might even consider sleeping with him again if the universe were to bring us back together. But believing in fate or destiny is for pussies.

  I walk through the near-empty space toward the elevator and call the car. The doors open and I push the button for the tenth floor, but as the doors begin to close, a woman runs up and pushes her arm through the opening.

  She smiles at me and tugs her daughter onto the elevator beside me. I ignore them and pull out my phone as I lean against the wall. The woman leans down and scolds her daughter, who has to be around eight or nine.

  The mom is dressed in designer clothes from head to toe with an elegant French twist in her perfect blonde hair. The daughter is also striking with golden locks and sapphire eyes. But those blue eyes are dead; I know the look well.

  We both get off on the tenth floor and I smirk to myself. Sorry blondie, if your kid is anything like me, you’re in for a show. I hope I don’t have to wait for the wannabe Stepford family to meet with Whitmore first.

  I walk up to the pretty receptionist—who one of the doctors here is probably fucking—and check in.

  “I’m Flynn Fletcher. I have an appointment with Dr. Whitmore.”

  “Yes, of course. Please, have a seat and fill out these forms and we’ll be with you soon.” She smiles a bright, toothy grin. I roll my eyes and yank the clipboard out of her manicured hand.

  I have to fill out three forms detailing my medical history, some rules about privacy, and a bullshit questionnaire about my drug and alcohol habits and whether or not I feel safe at home. I could fill out all these forms with my eyes closed at this point.

  After an excruciating ten minutes listening to pop radio’s top one hundred in the waiting room, the receptionist comes to take me back to the room.

  “Miss Fletcher, you can come with me. I apologize for the delay. Normally Dr. Whitmore would bring you back himself, but he’s running late in a meeting and told me to escort you. You can make yourself comfortable. He should be right in.”

  I walk in the room and feel at ease in an instant. Soft, barely audible music streams through the room. A diffuser puffs out what I assume is some bullshit essential oils throughout the space. There are sofas and chairs spread across the floor.

  The receptionist closes the door with a click and once she’s gone, I snoop. The back wall is covered with degrees from prestigious Ivy League schools. This guy must be fucking ancient.

  The opposite wall from his desk is lined with bookshelves holding everything from medical books and journals to Stephen King novels.

  I gravitate toward the wall of windows partially obscured by curtains and reminiscent of the ones I was fucked against last night.

  I move to the large, dark oak desk which is pristine in its cleanliness. There’s a photo of a little girl, around the same age as the one I saw in the elevator, but much happier. She’s beautiful, with long, dark curls and big brown eyes. Although she’s slender and pale, her smile lights up her eyes.

  I walk away and sit on a gray chaise lounge, extending my legs and crossing my feet at my ankles. This doctor better not charge for the time he’s running late. He already has one X in the no column. But then again, maybe his tardiness is a good thing. Less time to talk about my feelings.

  After another five minutes passes, a voice carries under the door. The sound is rich and alluring, even though there’s no mistaking the malice in his tone. His voice is terse as he yells at someone through hushed whispers.

  “Forget it, Miranda. You should’ve thought about that before I signed the fucking papers. Now, excuse me, I have to get to work.” He’s commanding. It seems not even therapists are immune to the hardships of relationships.

  A shadow of feet appear under the door, but he doesn’t enter right away. There’s a pause and by the time the knob turns, I plaster on my signature smirk exuding my I don’t give a fuck attitude. Yet, when the door opens and Dr. Whitmore appears, the expression drops in an instant.

  He hasn’t noticed me yet. In one hand he has a file, likely detailing my life up until this point. He closes the door and once he spins around, he spots me and his jaw falls to the ground. I sit up straight and rub my thighs together at the mere sight of him.

  “Flynn? What are you doing here? How did you find me?” His eyebrows furrow as if he’s trying to place when he told me where he works or what he does. “You can’t be here. I have a patient.”

  For a doctor, he lacks the ability to put two and two together. X number two in the mental no column. “Let me guess, you’re Dr. Whitmore,” I say. He flips through the file containing all of my personal information, much different from the intimate details he learned about last night. “Come on, Doc. Didn’t you see you had a patient named Flynn today? Isn’t it written right there on the file you’re holding? How many Flynns do you know?”

  “I don’t look at my patient files ahead of time. I like to get an unbiased read on them for myself.” His voice is robotic, like he’s on autopilot and responding to the words without processing them. “I only know the bare minimum.”

  Well, he surely knows me better than his other patients, I assume.

  Liam is horrified. His hand is covering his mouth and he’s rubbing across the scruff. He won’t even look at me. How was he supposed to know I was twenty-one and his future patient?

  He finally glances at me with pained eyes. Dropping his hand from over his mouth, he braces himself on the edge of his desk.

  “Flynn, I can’t—”

  “Don’t even finish that sentence. You have to be my doctor. If you quit on me, I could like, go to jail or something! Can you even deny a court-appointed patient? You’re my last hope, Liam. Who cares that we fucked? We’re adults. We can act professional.” Even though I’d let him bend me over his desk and have his wicked way with me, he’s my last hope. I don’t know what they’d do to me if he turned me away.

  He studies me. His eyes tell me he’s torn, but I can still tell he wants to help me. I’m a lost dog and he’s just a boy begging his mom to keep me.

  “Fine, but what happened last night never happened and will never happen again.” His voice is stern but his face is imploring, desperate for me to agree with him.

  “Whatever you say, Dr. Whitmore.” I can’t help the fact that my voice comes out extra sultry and my panties dampen from calling him Doctor.

  He groans and runs a hand through his hair before sitting in an oversized brown leather chair. “Flynn, let’s begin.”

  Five

  Flynn
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  My mother is beaming as I climb into the car after my first therapy session with Liam, err, Dr. Whitmore.

  “You’re not pouting or screaming profanities at me. Is it safe to assume therapy went well?”

  “You know what they say about assuming, Mother.” When I hear her sigh, I cut her some slack. “It wasn’t the worst session I’ve ever had.” That’s enough to placate her. The drive home is quiet and I replay the past hour of my life. While it truly was not the worst session I ever had, it’s not like it was groundbreaking either.

  Liam was distracted, not that I can blame him. He was as cold and distant as a hobo in January. He went numb, turning off all emotion, not even flinching whenever I made a sexual innuendo.

  After a solid fuck, I’m normally cleansed of my prey and I can drop them faster than millennials cancel the next ‘thing,’ but his blasé attitude is getting under my skin. I either need to use someone else to fuck him out of my system or turn up the charm.

  Problem is, I don’t have any charm. I’m just Flynn—dirty, filthy, hypersexual Flynn. Take me or leave me.

  When we get home, I hop right out of the car and head to my room to grab my keys. I need to get out of this house and thank fuck, my mom doesn’t try to stop me. Within ten minutes, I’m at my best friend’s apartment, though it sounds like there’s an orgy going on inside.

  “Knock knock.” I push open the door despite being scared of what I might find on the other side.

  Cara and Dani sit side by side on their heather gray couch, streaming porn on their flat screen. They’re both clothed—thank God—but the TV is so loud I’m surprised they haven’t received an indecent noise violation or some bullshit.

  “What exactly is going on here?” It’s no secret these two like to make out when they’re drunk, but since Dani is dating Jace now, I thought they’d cooled off. I doubt many guys would care if their girlfriend hooks up with other chicks, but at the very least they’d probably want to join in.

  “Get that look off your face, nothing is going on.” Dani grabs the remote and lowers the volume. “What’s up?” She’s perky as if this is an ordinary Thursday.

  “Why are you blaring porn?” They look at one another and shrug. With an eye roll, I squeeze in between them on the couch. “I had to get out of my house.”

  “What is it this time? Mommy issues or daddy issues?” Cara laughs. “Poor little rich girl with the stable family having a hard time?” I smack my friend’s shoulder as she laughs at me.

  “I fucked my new therapist.”

  “Already? That must be some type of record, even for you,” Dani snorts.

  “Why am I friends with you two again?” I cover my face with my hands and groan.

  “Do you actually like this guy?” Dani’s eyes bug out of her head. She’s been a romantic ever since she met Jace. She must forget who she’s talking to.

  “What? No, I mean, his dick game is strong, but it’s not a love at first sight situation. He was my one night stand from the other night.” They both burst out laughing.

  “Of course you managed to pick up your therapist at a club. That’s so…you,” Cara snorts.

  “So what’s the big deal? Just switch therapists again.” Dani gathers her auburn hair in her hands and tosses it into a messy bun.

  “I can’t. He’s my court-appointed therapist. I can’t just call up the judge and have him swapped out.”

  “Can’t your daddy pull some strings?” Cara asks with a heavy lilt of sarcasm. It doesn’t matter what I do or how I act, I’ll always be a Fletcher to them—rich, prestigious, entitled.

  I roll my eyes and pout on the couch, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “What do you want me to say, Flynn?” Dani asks.

  “I want you to tell me what to do for once.” I never come to them for advice. I’m used to taking a bull by its balls and trailblazing my own way through life. Can’t they see how desperate I am?

  “You say you don’t like this guy and you have no choice but to continue seeing him, so what is there for us to say? You’re stuck. Either keep fucking him or man up and deal with your one night stand.” Dani has a point, but she doesn’t need to be extra bitchy about it.

  Cara grabs the remote and turns the volume up the still-ongoing porn once more. “If I have to sit here and watch this orgy, do you at least have any weed?” I ask.

  “Bottom drawer of my nightstand.” I head to Cara’s room to find her stash.

  Neither one of them understand what I’m going through. On the outside, yes, I’m a white girl with a rich family and a perfect life. But I’m more than my parents’ money.

  Being a spoiled brat doesn’t explain why I’m so fucked up on the inside.

  I sit on Cara’s burgundy duvet and pull a baggy of weed from her nightstand. I pack a bowl and light it, inhaling deeply and allowing the high to infiltrate my senses.

  Sitting back against the headboard, I continue to puff without giving a fuck about hotboxing the bedroom or smoking her entire stash. Leaning to the side, I grab my phone from my back pocket and stare at my lock screen.

  Never in my life have I felt the desire to stalk a boy on social media. I never cared enough to act like a jealous girlfriend, because I never was one and I never did care.

  Until Liam fucking Whitmore.

  Why am I so preoccupied with him? What makes him different from anyone else I’ve been with? Is it the forbidden nature of us now that I know he’s my doctor?

  Or…if I’m honest with myself, is it more than that? I was obsessed with him before I knew I couldn’t have him again. I was hooked from the first brush of his fingers against mine. But…why?

  As the pot seeps into my veins, my thoughts would normally become muddy, but of all days, today they turn crystal clear. As I was being nosy and poking around Liam’s office, there was a picture on his desk of a little girl.

  Liam has a daughter.

  Six

  Flynn

  “Flynn, tell me when your aggressive behavior began.” It’s my second therapy session with Dr. Whitmore and he’s acting like a poised professional.

  I, however, am ready to scream.

  “Cut the shit, Liam. I know.” I lean back on the worn sofa and cross my arms over my chest. His expression gives nothing away as his hazel eyes bore into mine, empty and honest.

  “Know what?” He’s the picture of comfort, with his right ankle resting atop his left knee.

  “I know you have a daughter and therefore, likely, a wife. You’re a pig.” I stand, strutting over to his desk and grab the picture of the cute, dark-haired little girl. “Why don’t you tell me about that?”

  His jaw locks and his eyes go dead. “We’re not here to talk about me.”

  “I bet your wife would want to talk about it, if she knew you fucked a twenty-one year old behind her back. How old are you, anyway?” My voice is filled with venom and disgust.

  “You didn’t care about my age when you shoved my cock in your mouth, and frankly you never asked if I was married.” My jaw drops at his brazen attitude. He adjusts his tie, tugging on the knot as if to loosen it from choking him.

  “That’s because you should be a man about it and at least tell me before I fuck you.” I never claimed to be above fucking married men, but I’d prefer to know about it beforehand. Lies are my hard limit. I may be a bitch, but at least I’m an honest bitch.

  “I’m not having this conversation with you here or ever. These sessions are about you, Flynn. Not me and my personal life. If you can’t stick to the terms, then we’ll have to see about finding you another doctor. Frankly, you’re acting like a petulant, jealous child and I thought you were more mature than that.” I lean back as if I’d been slapped.

  None of my therapists have ever taken that tone with me before, but the tough love act is what I need. I’ve also never slept with any of my therapists before; maybe that’s affecting things.

  I cross my right leg over my left and tug on my top. “Well, I do te
nd to have some behavioral issues.” That’s putting it lightly. My affinity for sex, drugs, and alcohol has led to a mile long rap sheet of violence and general misbehaving.

  I’m embarrassed, feeling like I’ve been chastised, which is not an emotion I’m used to. It makes my skin itchy and uncomfortable. My body heats and the desire to rebel burns strong through my veins. Anything to get out of this feeling.

  This is what I’m here to figure out, the root of these urges that lead to my behaviors. But, like Cara and Dani remind me, my life is perfect. There’s no reason for me to continue acting the way I do. I just can’t help it. It’s an unmatched high, but everyone sees me as broken. Why does everyone insist on fixing me?

  The rest of the session focused on my first fight at school. I was thirteen and this bitch in my class, Jessica, stole my first boyfriend. That led to me throwing my drink on her at the homecoming dance. Once she was caught off guard, I punched her and broke her nose. Needless to say, it wasn’t an isolated incident.

  Liam felt compelled to ask if the hormone changes affecting my body around that time had any impact on my behavior and decision making. What a fun conversation to have with a guy I’d fucked a mere week ago. Considering my fights didn’t start and end with puberty, I’d have to argue that my hormones have nothing to do with it.

  The twinge of discomfort made me do something even I can admit was stupid. His head was down for a moment as he took notes. I crossed the room like a fox, sly and quiet. Next thing he knew, the notebook was knocked out of his hand and a long streak of his pen marked the page with the fall. I leaned over him before straddling him in his oversized leather chair. I went for his neck, placing a hot, wet kiss at the edge of his scruff. He pushed me away and treated me like a child. In that moment, I was tempted to punch him and break his nose.

  He keeps threatening to drop me as a patient, but I saw the look in his eye. His pupils dilated and his Adam’s apple bobbed even as he pushed me away. He wants me as bad as I want him, but he refuses to admit it.