Thumb-pressure eased up…followed by the hot, wet swipe of a tongue down my spine.
Something perked up—probably not my root chakra. Funny thing. I wouldn’t have thought I’d be in the mood since I’m no masochist, and I’d been busy flagellating myself over Dr. Morganstern’s murder. But actions really do speak louder than words, and Jacob’s tongue trailing down my back was stunningly distracting.
He paused at the waistband of my boxers to gauge my interest, and I answered by shoving them halfway down. He rumbled his approval and pulled them the rest of the way off, then got back to what he was doing before…and working his way even lower.
It’s vital to keep the Muladhara in balance. It’s the basis and foundation of the rest of the chakra system. Improper flow can manifest as spaciness, anxiety, loss of appetite, and a general feeling of ungroundedness.
By the time Jacob spread my ass, I was rock hard. I have no idea how people in long-term relationships get bored in bed. The longer we were together, the better Jacob got at making me whimper and squirm. All my awareness surged down to one particular point in my body—and this time, it wasn’t my sciatic nerve.
He made a leisurely sweep of his tongue, and I let out a shuddering breath. Jacob got off on getting me off, and when he was in the mood to prove something, there wasn’t much I could do but settle in and enjoy the ride. He knew how to work that tongue of his, that’s for sure. But it wasn’t only that. It was the hot, wet tickle of his breath, the rasp of his goatee between my cheeks, the occasional broken fragment of a word. I wouldn’t come from rimming alone…but by the time he got to my dick, I’d be ready to explode.
And as you bring your awareness to your root chakra, feel the solidity of the ground beneath you and imagine the earth’s energy traveling up into your body.
That solidity was starting to get painful. The yoga mat was a hell of a lot less padded than, say, a mattress. And a very sensitive part of my physiology was starting to feel squashed. I tried to roll over, but Jacob held me down and delved in, deep and nasty…and maybe I could tolerate the tongue-lashing for just a little while longer. Because whatever he was doing down there might not be enough to bring me off, but it felt indescribably good in its own special way.
His tongue danced over some nerve ending just right, and my breath caught.
With each breath, give yourself over to the support of the earth and lift through the crown chakra at the top of the head.
Finally, when I thought I might freaking implode, Jacob pushed up from the cleft of my ass, triumphant, and flipped me onto my back. He pawed a half-empty lube from a drawer in the coffee table, then shoved down his slacks, knelt between my rubbery legs and dragged me into position. There was probably some kind of yoga name for it. Shoulder blades pressed into the mat. Legs splayed. Hips angled up toward the ceiling.
Breathe in…breathe out….
New Age music was playing behind Mr. Dramatic, and it felt like my heartbeat had synchronized itself to the rhythm of the tablas and bells. Jacob felt it too. Once he eased himself in and found his angle, he started serving it up in perfect rhythm. Where normally he might’ve upped the pace, he held steady. And a weird plateau stole over me that felt spinny and a little strange. Part of me wanted to do something to hasten things along. A deliberate clench. A cant of the hips. A few grunted, awkward words of encouragement. But part of me was game to see exactly how long this eerily deliberate pounding might last.
…and as your root chakra comes into balance, open your eyes, take a deep and cleansing breath, and rejoin your day, grounded and aligned.
The music faded into an earnest entreaty to donate money to Mr. Dramatic’s Patreon page, but I hardly heard it. Jacob pulled me against him and rolled onto his back so I was straddling him—me butt-naked and him still dressed, with his pants around his thighs. Yet another yoga started up—a very granola woman who spoke way too softly—but at least it was easy to ignore her. I focused on the stiff length of cock up my ass and angled myself so it hit me inside right where I liked it. All that ass-eating and slow-fucking left me with a hair-trigger orgasm, just like I knew it would. And when I shot my load, not only did I hit my peak hands-free, but it was accompanied by an embarrassing moan of release. That hardly ever happened. The hands-free, I mean. One of Jacob’s favorite pastimes is forcing all kinds of unfortunate sounds out of me.
I hadn’t really been paying any attention to how it was for Jacob, but fortunately, I hadn’t needed to. He’d been just as hot and bothered, just as ready to peak as I was, and the self-satisfaction of wresting my control away from me had been enough to drag him along for the ride.
Once we were both sated, I held my position for just a moment and took a good look at him. Flushed and satisfied. And I was glad. Because if I could play a part in making someone feel that content, maybe I wasn’t half as inept as I always made myself out to be.
“That was really hot,” he said, and I made a noise of agreement. “How’s my suit?”
Miraculously, though his shirt and tie had been amply spooged, his jacket was unscathed. I’d need to do a careful dismount to preserve the trousers, though.
Eventually, as we dug into the leftover pasta—with chicken sausage sliced over the top, now that there were no vegetarians around to offend—I realized Jacob had somehow managed to bang my guilty ruminations right out of me. I didn’t reach too hard to remember exactly why I’d felt so acutely low about Dr. Morganstern, since I didn’t want to hop back onto the treadmill of “it’s all my fault.” I’d have the rest of my life to stew over my role in his death. Right now, I needed my head in the game.
After we ate, Jacob went up to his office to take stock of the files he’d gathered at The Clinic. Meanwhile, I cleaned up the kitchen. As I did, I frankly wasn’t thinking about much of anything beyond the feel of the soap suds on my hands and the mild funk wafting off the sponge.
And that was just fine by me.
I slept well that night—shocking, I know. Thing is, I’m so accustomed to waking up ages before I need to, I was startled by the sound of Jacob’s alarm. Luckily, I’d showered the night before. I barely had time to shave, throw on a suit and knock back a cup of coffee. So it wasn’t until we pulled up by The Clinic that I realized I had a new text waiting for me—and that text was from Dr. Gillmore.
Angelica Barth, room 221, Lakeshore Center.
I wondered if maybe she’d accidentally texted me instead of one of her colleagues…until I looked up Lakeshore Center and saw it was a vaguely-named drug and alcohol rehab.
“There’s someone I need to see,” I told Jacob. Because in my well-rested clarity, I was sure that if I could understand addiction, I’d have a way better shot at dealing with Kick.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Lakeshore Center was an unmarked cinderblock building that looked more like a juvie detention hall than an inpatient rehab. Once the sour guy at the front desk determined I wasn’t there to check myself in, he informed me that there was no visitation allowed.
A call to Laura Kim got that straightened out in ten minutes flat.
The inside of the facility was even more off-putting than the outside. The activities room was inactive and the old set in the TV room was busted. In the residential hall, I did my best to focus on finding room 221 and ignoring the sound of people sobbing behind closed doors. It was only two patients currently crying—not like the whole place was in tears—but two was more than enough to make an impression.
There were safety glass windows in all the doors. It was reminiscent of my Thorazine years. But memories of my time in the cuckoo’s nest didn’t trigger any panic. That particular time in my life was lousy, sure. No personal liberty and a social circle that left a lot to be desired. But no one there locked me in a room with a dead body to gauge the effectiveness of a new antipsyactive like they did at Camp Hell.
I kept my eyes on my feet to avoid the curious looks I glimpsed in my peripheral vision. When I did look up, it was only long en
ough to find the door to room 221. I rapped on the doorjamb and someone answered. “Come in.” Her voice sounded like she’d smoked a pack a day for the past hundred or so years. “It’s not like I can stop you.”
Probably not. Folks unfortunate enough to wind up in “facilities” didn’t generally get doors that locked. Not from the inside, at least. I let myself in.
It was a double room with only one patient inside. The woman from LaSalle General, I guess, though I couldn’t say I really recognized her. Back when I’d seen her being wheeled into the ER, I’d been focused mainly on the black blob of smoke trailing along, I didn’t get a good look at her.
Thankfully, the blob wasn’t with us today.
Hopefully.
The woman it had been following was Caucasian and very tan, thin and wiry, with steel gray hair cut short and combed straight back, and deep furrows in her forehead and around her eyes. According to what the paramedics told me that day, she was an alcoholic who’d been living on the streets. Double whammy in terms of premature aging. She looked to be in her seventies, but was probably more like fifty.
“Victor Bayne.” I deliberately left out my job title on the gut instinct that I’d only sound like I was posturing.
My vagueness sparked a bit of interest. She narrowed her eyes and introduced herself…first name only. “Angelica.”
“Thanks for meeting with me.”
She indicated her room with a sweep of her hand. Two institutional twin beds, a table that contained a warped checker set and a half-eaten muffin, and a few tattered paperbacks on the windowsill. No computer. No TV. “It’s a real strain on my packed schedule, but I suppose I can manage to fit you in. Doctor? No, you don’t strike me as a doctor—what with that bloody eye. Social worker. That’s what you are.”
Better than a used car salesman, but I didn’t confirm or deny it. “I’m in the middle of an investigation I think you might be able to shed a little light on.”
“Whatever it was, I didn’t do it,” she said glibly.
“I never said you did.”
“I didn’t see it, either.”
“Uh huh.”
“In fact, whatever it is you’re after, I’m sure I’ve never even heard of it—so it looks like you’ve come all this way for nothing. Tough luck, Victor Bayne, whatever you are, and whoever you work for. Don’t let the door smack you on the ass on your way out.”
Apparently, I’d mistaken hostility for interest, not that I expected a grand welcome. In fact, I would’ve been suspicious of any homeless person who seemed too eager to help an authority figure. While most street people I’d met would’ve obviously preferred to not have to sleep on ventilation grates or eat from the trash, they also tended to be fiercely independent and leery of authority.
“Listen,” I said. “I’m not trying to get you to rat anyone out. I’m not accusing you of doing anything illegal. And I frankly doubt you know any specifics on my current case. I was hoping to get your opinion.”
“Opinions are like assholes. Everyone’s got one and they’re all full of shit.”
I ignored the bravado. “How long has it been since your last drink?”
“Thirty-two days.” She cut her eyes to an Alcoholic’s Anonymous one-month token on the checkerboard. “And all I got was this stupid chip.”
Well, what did she expect—champagne? “Is it any easier now than it was when you first came in?”
“My first few days were a walk in the park—they were treating my DTs with barbiturates. After that, though….” She focused on the backs of her sun-browned hands. “It sucked. It continues to suck. And I imagine the suckiness will still be there by the time the treatment program’s run its course and I’m back out there begging for pocket change to buy myself an airplane bottle of vodka. And now that I’ve admitted as much, I suppose I’m not eligible for any housing assistance.”
I could’ve denied being a social worker, but I was too busy scanning the area for habit demons to correct her presumption. Not only had I completely neglected to do a thorough visual sweep, but I hadn’t bothered powering up my third eye on my way to her room, either. If this was how careless I’d become by sleeping in, I’d take my normal insomnia any day.
I opened up to the white light—or I tried to—but it felt like getting laid through two condoms. (Let’s just say that guy didn’t get a second date.)
Once I realized how thick and stunted everything felt, my adrenaline spiked. I had an inkling of the psychic mojo floating around in the ether, but it filled the tank in dribs and drabs, not the steady stream I’d come to expect.
“So, did you get what you came for?” Angelica asked bitterly.
I scanned the area around her, searching even harder for habit demons. But if some scary black blob was listening in on our conversation, I couldn’t see it.
Though that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
I wrapped my meager white light around myself and said, “I’m sure you know a few addicts. Do you think they’re born or made?”
“I can’t see that it makes any difference where you start. What matters is where you end up.”
There was probably more she could tell me, but I was itching to get out of rehab and shore up my defenses. It wasn’t exactly the first time I’d realized my white light was running on fumes—but given the fact that I knew I was walking into a potential habit demon scenario, my timing was lousy, to say the least.
I thanked Angelica for her time, received a sniff of disgust in return, and peeled out into the hall. Anticlimactic—but what had I expected? A big fanfare and a pat on the back? I’d better not hold my breath. Not until I actually did her any good.
As I made my way back to the car, I shot a quick text to Crash: Are you awake? I need to see you.
In just a few seconds, he replied that he was heading to the store and I could meet him there.
I sucked down white light all the way to Curious Curios. At first, it was like trying to drink through one of those narrow plastic coffee stirrers instead of an actual straw. But by the time I got there, the constriction eased, and my white-lightness felt almost normal again.
I tromped through the rooms of dusty junk until I found the guys in their brightly-colored haven of bohemian shabby-chic glory. Red stood on an ottoman replacing a burned-out twinkle light, while Crash was busy scraping the brass coating off a candlestick that was old, though not quite old enough. The smell of copal hung faintly in the air and some kind of psychedelic improvisation piped through a hidden speaker. I felt my internal rhythms start to synch up with the percussion and said, “Turn the music off.”
Crash quirked an eyebrow, hit something on his phone, and the music stopped. It must’ve been tempting to ride me for being so bossy, but he could read me well enough to know I wasn’t just being a jerk for jerkiness’ sake. Instead, he said, “You’re wound up tighter than a goth girl’s corset—what gives?”
“Evidently, I’ve managed to yoga wrong.”
Red hopped down off his perch. Unlike Crash, he doesn’t take advantage of the myriad pot-shots I leave myself open to. With great concern, he said, “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Physically? No. I’m fine.” I prodded my forehead in the vicinity of my third eye. “But psychically? I must’ve flipped some kind of switch and left it in the off-position all night. I’m slow and groggy, and I’m having a hell of a time filling up my tank.”
“Vic needs to power up his mediumship,” Crash explained to Red. “Like a video game avatar.”
“Not literally,” I said.
“Close enough. So this feeling you had—relaxed and psychically stunted—isn’t that the effect you’re actually trying to achieve with Auracel?”
I opened my mouth to argue with Crash…then closed it. Because if I looked at it that way, he might have a point.
Red said, “We should take advantage of the opportunity to analyze which poses might have an antipsyactive effect. If we do that, then maybe we can reverse-engineer some asan
as to help you target the states you’re hoping to achieve. Can you remember which poses you did, in what order?”
Great. Now I’d have to admit to doing chair yoga. Where even the instructor was nearly twice my age.
“I can probably find the video,” I mumbled, and thumbed in the search term chair yoga on my phone instead of speaking it like I’d normally do.
Either Red was really good at maintaining a straight face, or he’d already figured I was on the verge of a senior discount at the local diner, so the chair yoga came as no big shock. He scrubbed through the video and took stock of all the poses. He pulled out an elaborately carved and painted dining room chair to do a few poses himself to get a feel for them. His brow furrowed ever so attractively. Puzzled, he said, “I’m glad you didn’t do any inverted poses, especially after the headache and blood pressure scare. But I’m having a hard time seeing why this particular flow would activate your chakras.”
“You don’t get it. They’re not activated—they’re stuck.”
“That’s not how asanas work.” He held out a hand. His palm was covered in faded henna swirls. Because that’s what hot young guys like him and Crash did in their spare time. Painted designs on each other. Like they’re not distracting enough as it is. “If you let me have a look, maybe I can get a feel for what’s going on.”
Since he already saw how lame the video was, I figured it wouldn’t be much worse for him to get a psychic replay of me twisting my way through the postures. He wasn’t a very high-level telepath…and even more importantly, I hadn’t made a fool out of myself by falling out of the chair.
There are jacked up telepaths who can suck the thoughts right out of your head, but Red’s not one of those. He needs to be touching you, and he needs to be concentrating hard. And even then, it’s hit or miss. But Red’s a smart guy, and even the tiny glimpses he gets—the flashes of insight—can help him come up with some pretty good ideas.
Crash draped himself across the top of an antique buffet and looked on with great interest. He’s not nearly as snarky about psychic talent now that he knows his failing grade in empathy was only Constantine’s way of keeping him off the radar.
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