Tangled (26 page)

“Now
that you mention it, I am having a hard time with something.” Moving swiftly,
he braced either arm alongside her head, caging her against the wall. “Maybe
you can help me with it.” His lips twisted into a perverted smirk.

Panic
surged through her veins. Her eyes darted to the stairs. “What the hell do you
think you’re doing?”

“What
does it look like?” Her neck hairs rustled under his breath. “What do you say,
Tessandra
?”

She
jumped as something warm and wet slid up the crest of her ear. “I’d say you’ve
lost your fucking mind. Get off of me.” Tess shoved him away. Surprisingly, he withdrew.
“What’s your problem?”

Dark
humor engaged his eyes. “I’ll give you points for persistence, but let’s end
this already. You’ve been parading that sweet little ass around here for weeks,
all but begging me fuck you again.”
 

Where
the hell was this coming from? “Are you high?”

“Does
it make a difference? Stoned or sober, we both know I’m more than capable of
performing. Now Cam on the other hand…” He let the sentence dangle sneeringly.
 

Anger
smoldered between her ribs. “Is that what this is about? A pissing match?”

“You
know there’d be no competition.”

Ire
faded to forbearance. Something had gone down between them. Far be it from her
to get involved. “Fine, have your dick measuring contest, but leave me out of
it. So much for us making progress,” she muttered.
  
 

“Progress
in what?” His smile thinned. “We aren’t friends. We were never friends. I
fucked you to prove a point. Now I just want to fuck you for the hell of it.
But if you want to keep pretending you’re not interested, I’m not waiting
around.”

He
knocked into her as he rejoined to his friends. 

Paralysis
kept her rooted long after his departure.

They’d
been doing so well. Whatever had gone down between him and Cameron must have
been nasty for him to revert back to his old self.

As
much as she wanted to help him, she was done being his chew toy. If he wanted
to drive everyone who wanted to help him away, he could have at it.

Chapter 15

Adonis
stood outside the ominous granite structure with a scowl set firmly in place. A
sharp headwind blustered down the street, causing the stream of foot traffic sweeping
past him to cringe and burrow deeper into their coats. He took a long drag from
his cigarette, too preoccupied with his current situation to be bothered by a
little wind.

Fuck,
he didn’t want to be here. What the hell would the shrink say that he didn’t
already know?

More
bullshit, that’s what.

Psychiatrists
were a bunch of glib, sophomoric eggheads more concerned with numbers, be it
those on the clock or the digits fattening their wallets, than the actual wellbeing
of their patients. The longer their patients stayed fucked up, the more money
they made.

Adonis
crushed the butt beneath the sole of his shoe.

He
might as well get this over with now.

After
scanning the listing of specialists and health professionals posted behind a
glass enclosure in the lobby’s atrium, Adonis took the elevator to the tenth
floor.

Once
it dinged at the appropriate level, he shoved off from the wall and located Dr.
Brennan’s office at the end of the hall. The receptionist area was composed of
contemporary furnishing and splashed with warm colors. How nice to make the
loonies feel at home.

“Good
morning sir. How may I be of assistance?” inquired the secretary, her smile
brightening incrementally as her eyes skimmed over him.

He
suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The woman was old enough to be his
grandmother. “Adonis Benoit. I have an appointment at 9.”

Looking
all too happy to oblige him, she pecked diligently away on her computer. “Ok,
you’re all checked in. Hold one second.” She picked up the phone and punched a
key. “Dr. Brennan, your 9 o’clock is here. I’ll let him through.” The secretary
returned the phone to its cradle and winked. “You can go on in.”

Coughing
into his sleeve, Adonis pushed open the door.

The
psychiatrist rose from behind her half-moon desk. “You must be Mr. Benoit,” she
said with a pleasant smile and offered her hand. “I’m Dr. Brennan. Please, have
a seat.”

Shaking
her hand, he mumbled a greeting and slumped into the furthermost couch.
 

She
handed him a clipboard and pen. “Before we begin, I just need you to fill out a
few forms-”

“No
thanks.”

She
blinked owlishly behind her spectacles. “Pardon?”

“I’ll
save both of us some time and cut through the bullshit. I was put in rehab back
in April for a heroin overdose. The doctors diagnosed me with cyclothymia. You
can just write me a prescription and I’ll be on my way.”

“I’m
sorry,” she smiled unblinkingly. “I don’t think the sign on my door reads your
friendly neighborhood drug dealer. I am a psychiatrist.”

“You
are what I pay you to be.”

“Technically
you haven’t paid me anything.”

“Look,”
he huffed impatiently, “I don’t need a doctor. I need meds.”

“And
I would beg to disagree.” She removed her glasses. “Mr. Benoit, I understand
your reservations, but I can assure you that there is no quick fix to managing
a mental illness. If you decide to take me on as your psychiatrist, I will put
you on a treatment regimen that you will abide by responsibly as well as attend
therapy sessions with me once a week.”

“I
go to school in another state,” he bristled, resistant.

“Then
we’ll work something out. I don’t limit my practice to psychopharmacology. Talk
therapy is a major component of my treatment.”

A
cold sweat slicked his spine. He’d spent hours trapped in claustrophobic boxes
while doctors barraged him with a patronizing train of questions. Everything
that came out of his mind had a hidden meaning. Every action paralleled some
subconscious need trying to extricate itself from his mangled soul.

Towards
the end of his time there, it became a role-playing game. He learned to say
what they wanted to hear and feed back their pretentious jargon under the guise
that he truly wanted reform.

His
gaze flicked toward the exit. Did he really want to voluntarily go through all
of that again?

“Of
course anything you’re not comfortable with, you don’t have to tell me,” Dr.
Brennan went on, her tone gentle. “We’ll work in stages. The first step in the
healing process is admitting to yourself that you need help. The second step is
learning to trust someone to share that burden. And it just so happens that that’s
what I’m here for.”

She
seemed genuine. And medical school hadn’t lodged a stick up her ass like the
shrinks who worked him over in rehab. “Fine,” he said dismissively. “Where do I
sign?”

_________________

Unlike
the rest of the student body, Tess dreaded the upcoming winter break.

Everything
should’ve been squared away. She passed all of her finals. She and Cam had
arrived at a happy medium. She made plans to visit Jade in DC over break. She
was nearly done with Christmas shopping.
 

That
alone should’ve been cause for celebration.

So
what was the reason for her funk?

Sometimes
Tess wished she and her mother shared a normal mother-daughter relationship. The
smart thing would’ve been to apologize for a catastrophic Thanksgiving. Pride,
however, kept her from admitting folly.

And
so they continued to circle around one another like wary animals, aware of the
neighboring competition, but deciding they weren’t worth the trouble.

They
ate dinner at staggered times, usually with Tess raiding the fridge after
everyone turned in. During the day, charity work and classes consumed Maia’s
schedule.
At night, Tess bartended at her usual place in the
Village.
Thankfully she was in good enough with the manager to be tossed
a few hours every now and then when the semester ended.

Not
in the mood for company, she minimized her interactions to text messages and
social media. So when Tess saw Lydia’s name pop up on her cell a few days
later, she felt doubly disinclined to answer. And so she didn’t.

Apparently
Lydia was not someone to be casually blown off. After the seventeenth call, Tess
caved, tired of debating whether to turn the phone off or chuck it out the
window.

“I
think this is called stalking.”

“I
like to refer to it as aggressive shadowing,” Lydia chimed animatedly. “How’s
life?”

“Not
bad, except for the crazy person blowing up my phone every two seconds,” she mocked.

“Then
answer next time. Anyway, this is just a friendly reminder that I’m having a Christmas
slash housewarming party tonight and you simply must be in attendance. I want to
introduce you to some fab people.”

The
last thing she wanted to do was put on a happy front and
mingle
with strangers. “I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

“What?
Why not?”

“I’m
not feeling very well. I think I’m coming down with something.” She faked a
cough.

“That’s
ok. I’ll make you soup and spike your orange juice with vodka. Trust me, you’ll
feel a hell of a lot better.”

“Until
morning.”

“Which
is why it’s important to live in the now.” Lydia paused. “Does this have something
to do with my brother?”

She
didn’t say his name, but a shock reverberated through her system all the same. “No,”
she said evenly, but curiosity prompted her to ask, “Why do you ask?”

“Because
he’s been moodier than normal lately. Did you two have a lover’s spat?”

“We’re
not lovers. And no, we didn’t get into a spat,” she said, forcing composure.

“Well,
if it’s any consolation, Adonis won’t be in attendance. So you’re totally
cleared to party at mi casa. It’ll be worth it. Text me your address and I’ll
send over a car in an hour,” she said without waiting for confirmation.

“I
can take the train, you know.”

“No
need to be so pedestrian. I got you covered. Ta darling.” Lydia disconnected
before the girl could change her mind.

Lydia
tapped the cell against her cheek. Something was off. And she was willing to
bet her dumbass brother was behind it.

“Whom
are you plotting against now?” 

Wiping
the malevolence from her expression, Lydia conferred a bedazzling smile on her fiancé.
“Whatever are you talking about?”

Stan,
having developed immunity after spending three years as both victim and witness
to her beguiling wiles, merely raised an unconvinced brow over the top of the
newspaper and returned to the science section. “Leave it alone, Lydia.”

She
perched on the arm of the loveseat. “How do you know I’m up to something?” Lydia
caressed his hairline.

“Because
you sound like you’re up to no good.” Unperturbed by her scheming, the pages
crinkled as he moved to the next section.

“That’s
where you’re wrong. This isn’t like all those other times. My brother’s welfare
hinges on my interference. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

Stan
sighed. As much as he liked to say his steady sensibility had rubbed off on her
and reformed her wild habits, time had taught him a valuable lesson.

When
Lydia Rousseau set her mind to something, it was best not to stand in her way.