Fix Up

FIX UP

Patch U
p
S
eries
,
Book
2

By Stephanie Witter

All rights reserved. Published by Anchor Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

Copyright Stephanie Witter 2014

Published by Anchor Group

Edited by Melanie Williams

PO Box 551 Flushing, MI 48433

Anchorgrouppublishing.com

Cover design © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

Books by Stephanie Witter

Patch Up Series:

Patch Up
(Patch Up, #1)

Fix Up
(Patch Up, #2)

Change Up
(Patch Up, #3)

Roomies Series:

2B Or Not 2B?
(The Roomies, #1)

Standalone novella:

By My Side

Dedication

To Wendy S., Lucii, Stacie D, Cheree, Christie, Sue and Tiffany, thank you so much for your support.

To you, readers, thank you for reading this book and for your love for Skye and Duke.

Chapter One

SKYE

I take a deep breath and cringe. My ribs are still sore. It's been two weeks, but my body is just starting to heal. With my beat up face, wild, frizzy hair and oversized sweater, I'm a sight I'd prefer to spare everyone, but I can't.

For the last two weeks, I’ve been holed up in my tiny dorm room, leaving only to take a shower or to go for a check up with the doctor. But now I’m here, waiting, counting down the seconds on the huge clock hanging on the fresh, bare wall. The never ending tick-tock isn't soothing; it's maddening.

There's nothing in here with which to occupy myself. The bare walls are painted in a light grey which can almost pass as white, the black chairs, made from strong plastic, don't make a sound when you move, and the windows show nothing besides more buildings. Everything feels clinical, and it makes me even more uncomfortable.

But I have to stay. I know it. I don't want to, but I have to. I glance at my hands, sweating profusely, resting on my black jeans, my knuckles still bandaged. All these painful reminders are the reasons why I'm here … waiting.

"Miss Walker?"

Startled, I look up at the sound of a smooth masculine voice calling my name. A slender man with neatly cut sandy blond hair is standing at one of the doors looking at me expectantly. I blink and stand up, gritting my teeth to hide how painful it is to move. I walk to him and shake his hand.

It's not possible. He can't be my psychologist. He's so young! Unsure, I follow him in to his office, debating in my head if I should stay or leave.

He sits behind his desk made with light wood and gestures toward the seats in front of me. Sighing, I take a seat, my eyes wandering around the small office. Diplomas are in perfect view for the patients to see from where I'm sitting, and that's the extent of any personal items. No pictures or anything giving away any hint of his personality. It's quite disturbing that I have to talk about the most private things to a stranger.

I stare back at him, and I'm hit with clear blue eyes. I didn't see them earlier. Everything about him is neat from his hair cut, to his cleanly shaven chin, to his midnight blue suit accompanying his powder blue shirt with no tie. The only thing not perfectly in order is his slightly crooked nose, but it brings a little something more to his look which makes him more interesting.

“Miss Walker, I’m Dr. Marshall, your psychologist. We will be seeing each other at least twice a week for a little while.’’ He takes a break, probably waiting for me to say something, but I don’t. He clears his throat. “Can you tell me a little more about what brings you here?" he asks with a soft voice while opening his notebook to a blank page.

I cross my arms over my chest and force myself to keep my eyes locked with his. It's unsettling to look into eyes so clear. It's like looking into innocent eyes for some reason, and what I have to tell is
not
for innocent ears. But I know it's ridiculous to think about it that way. This man is young, but still older than me. He is a professional. He has studied for cases like mine.

"I'm sure you have my file, Dr. Marshall," I answer, my breathy voice clearly taking him by surprise. His eyebrows shoot upward for a second before he recomposes himself. At least I know he's human and not some perfectly constructed robot.

"I do have it, but I need to hear you explain what happened in your own words."

I nod―it's logical. It'll help him to understand how I am truly managing what happened with Sean. I know it. And I understand he knows what took place, but it is still hard to say it aloud. It's like I can see the faces of my parents, Duke, Kate and Derek at the hospital two weeks ago. It's just so hard to talk about everything. I want to put it away in a small box in my mind, but the result would not be good. It would bite me in the ass one day if I don't do something right now. This time, thanks to my family, friends and Duke I want to take care of it and claim back my life.

"I was in an abusive relationship for three years when I was in high school. He dumped me a few months ago, and when I met someone, he came back in to my life, threatening me and beating me again. The guy I started seeing tried to drive my ex away, but it didn't go well.  Sean abducted me and tried to rape me."

Dr. Marshall nods and starts writing something on the blank page. I'm craving to know what it is, but I can't read it from here. It is obvious I can't ask for a copy of his observations. And really, I think I'm able to take a step back and analyze for myself. For example, I know I toned it down and gave a clinical observation of what happened, which means that I'm trying to block out all kind of emotions related to Sean and that awful day. I never thought that taking a psychology class and reading so many psychology books would come in handy so soon for my personal life.

"It must have been difficult for you to start a new relationship with your past." His eyes are taking everything in from my oversized sweater, to my bruises and the way I'm crossing my arms. I feel like I'm a lab rat.

I straighten my back and run my tongue over my lip, which is still not fully healed. My heart is beating loudly in my chest, but it's not beating faster than usual. I hate talking about these things. I really hate it.

"It was." I shrug and close my eyes briefly, remembering the first time I met Duke not long ago. "I had a hard time letting anyone come close to me and couldn't let anyone touch me."

"Is it better?"

Million dollar question: is it better? I want to think it is better, but it's not really. I can let my parents, Kate, Derek and Duke touch me most of the time now, but I often feel uneasy. Besides them, I still have a hard time with physical contact or just making small talk. It's like I can't let anyone else in because I’ve reached my full capacity.

"I have some people I can let touch me, and I'm really close to them."

"It's a good start, Miss Walker."

I shake my head. "Call me Skye. It feels strange talking about these things with someone calling me by my last name."

He puts down his notebook and pencil and entwines his long thin fingers in front of him. "Do you need to feel connected to me to talk about this?"

I never thought I would want to strangle my psychologist during my first meeting, but I do. His questions are going to drive me nuts faster than I thought, or faster than if I’d let everything fester inside of me without finding an outlet. I lightly bite the inside of my cheek, enough to feel a hint of pain.

"Honestly, Dr. Marshall, would you find it easy to spill everything to someone you never met before and have this person calling you Mr. Marshall?" My tone is sharper than I intended, but at least it conveys my frustration.

The corners of his thin lips turn up, so briefly that I wonder if I didn't dream it—and dreamed of the little dimples that appeared. I dry my hands on my jeans again, my fingers clawing at my thighs. Still fifty-five minutes to go.

"I get your point, Skye." He leans back on his huge desk chair and sighs. "I know you were taken aback when you saw me in the waiting room. Do you want to talk about it before we go any further?"

Instantly, I feel my shoulders relaxing, and the air is coming easier in my lungs. "I imagined you older. You look so young," I say, my eyes narrowing on his face without any trace of wrinkles.

He chuckles and looks around his small office before his eyes go back to me. "It's my first year of practice. My mother and uncle are the other two psychologists. And before you ask, we all had a meeting to talk about who would be best for you. I'm a young man which represents a problem in itself for you. That's why we thought it was important for you to work with a man you wouldn't trust easily."

I shouldn't be speechless, but I am. I am speechless because I never thought about several psychologists talking about me, and even if it is sensible, this is also messing with my head. It's already difficult for me to know my file is somewhere in this office. But even worse is thinking about the amount of people who have read it: the police officers, the doctors and nurses, the psychologists and probably the lawyers. Soon dozens of people during Sean's trial will be added to the list. It's going to be awful.

My breathing comes louder, erratic. My vision blurs. My heart is beating so loud and fast that I can't hear anything besides the beat of my own heart. I can't have a break down in this office, not when we haven't even started talking about serious things in detail. I force my lungs to take in more air and bite back a whimper of pain from my cracked ribs. Exactly what I needed; some pain to ground me.

I look up and see Dr. Marshall frowning, his hands clenching his pad and pen tightly. "Do you need some water, Skye?" His voice is tight, but I think it's because he's freaking out. It should annoy me or make me more frightened to talk, but it puts me more at ease. I realize this man is not just a cold-hearted psychologist putting my words into neat folders according to what he learned in school.

"I'm fine." If my voice wasn't as wobbly as it is, I'm sure he'd have bought this lie. "I just never realized how many people knew."

He leans forward and puts his elbows on his desk. "It's normal to be frightened. You kept all of this to yourself for so long that now it feels like you don't have any control over your own life."

"Do you think I'll be able to be like the others? I mean, it's not normal to be afraid to be touched or to have trouble letting people in. And I want to be normal. My family and friends deserve to see me normal."

He shakes his head and writes something quickly on his pad before looking up at me smiling softly. "Your parents love you, and if you think they want you 'normal' as you put it, it's just because they want to know you're happy. As for your friends and boyfriend, if they became your friends when it was tough for you, don't you think they don't care if you're normal or not? Normal is just something commonly accepted, but many people don't want to be just normal. Your friends, boyfriend and family see something extraordinary in you, and they want to see it blossom. So don't think you don't deserve them."

"That's not what I said," I reply, my back straight and my shoulders tensing as seconds flow by. I hate that this guy can point out exactly how I feel and how I think with just my file and ten minutes of words exchanged.

"But that's what you think. Sean spent years telling you how you're not worth anything that now you believe it, even if you know Sean is wrong."

Feeling my eyes water, I take a deep breath, and it passes. I nod and look down at my hands still clawing my thighs. I feel the raw denim under my fingertips, and the heat coming from my body. "So what now? Should I tell you what happened that day?"

"Let's start slowly. You need to trust me, and I need you to feel strong enough to talk about all of this."

"I'm not weak," I sneer immediately, almost not recognizing myself. I'm so much on the defensive it's not even funny. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize." He holds up a hand. "I know you're not weak because you are in my office. It takes some guts to go and see a psychologist. It's not easy, and you can be proud of yourself. So don't ever think I believe you're weak because you are not." He takes a deep breath, and I look at the clock on his wall. It's simple and old looking, but I'm not sure it's an antique. Forty minutes to go. "Let's talk about your friends, Kate and Derek."