“You’re not hearing me,” I said through gritted teeth. Watkins raised his eyebrows briefly at my desperate tone. I was desperate, all right. “I cannot be in that group anymore. I won’t go back.”
The pen flying across the paper made an irritating sound that made me want to throw my chair at him just so that it would stop.
“But you won’t explain why that’s suddenly necessary?”
I pressed my palms against my eyes and pressed down. “No.”
“It doesn’t work that way, X. You and I have to be honest with each other, and I feel like we’ve done a great job of that over the last six months.” He glanced up from the pad of paper. Did he sleep with that damn thing? I’d never seen him without it. “The group is good for you. It’s an important step in feeling like you’re not alone in the things you struggle with. To varying degrees, everyone in that room fights that same battle.”
The only thing we share in common is that we’re all some kind of whack in the brain. That’s what Lucy had said.
My temple throbbed viciously, and I rubbed at it. Out of the corner of my eye, my empty wrist taunted me mercilessly. What kind of moron gets a lap dance and doesn’t notice that he’s getting completely and utterly fleeced?
The moment I realized it, five entire minutes after she bolted from the house wearing only my shirt and her shoes, I’d furiously searched my home to figure out what else she may have taken. A few things here and there, but the watch was the only thing I wanted back.
A Rolex GMT Master II, it had been gifted to me by my grandfather shortly before he died. Underneath the face, he’d had them inscribe one of his favorite quotes from J.R.R Tolkien, All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.
He had the same words inscribed on his own watch, which sat on my nightstand. When that was still there up on Lucy’s hasty exit, I breathed a bit easier, considering she’d been within grabbing distance of it in my bed.
His was older, held more wear from how many years he’d kept it on his wrist, but she still could’ve sold it for a few thousand dollars.
Mine was custom-made by Blaken, no one in the world had the same watch as me. A pawn shop would fleece her, but if she found the right private buyer, she’d be able to buy a fucking Mercedes.
“Damn it,” I whispered under my breath, feeling sick to my stomach. For the first time since he passed away, I was grateful my grandfather wasn’t alive to see me. He’d kill me for being so stupid, then kill me twice for good measure.
“You were thinking pretty hard over there,” Watkins mused and I blinked up at him, unsure of how long I spaced out.
“Yeah.” I was exhausted. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Any particular reason?”
Sure was. She danced like a stripper, looked like a goddess, and had the criminal abilities of a professional con artist. And yet … I found myself not wanting to tell Watkins what happened. Lucy would go to jail, that I was sure of. It should have been a massive warning sign, something blocking my forward movement because it was so big. Lucy didn’t need or warrant my protection in this, but my tongue was unable to form the words nonetheless.
Maybe she didn’t deserve my protection. But, I thought with grim determination, she did deserve to face me down, eyeball to eyeball, and tell me what the hell was wrong with her.
“Can I leave the group or what?” I asked, not feeling like talking any more.
Watkins regarded me, clicking the end of his pen while he did. “Not just yet.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “If I need to find a more accommodating therapist, just tell me now.”
He laughed and it brought my head up in a quick snap. “Feel free. If you think I’m doing you more harm than good, then please do.”
Asshole. Calling that bluff was probably the easiest thing he’d said all damn day. He knew all about my other therapists, how ineffectual they were in helping me manage my many neuroses. I liked Watkins because he didn’t just write me a prescription and call it a day. He knew that it was about both, cognitive therapies and medication, if necessary.
Unconsciously, I rubbed at the skin of my empty wrist. He noticed, but didn’t say anything.
“I want you to give the group two more weeks. If you think it’s still a waste after that, then we can talk about another type of additional therapy.” His voice was kinder now, and I exhaled heavily imagining myself sitting across from Lucy again. If she had the balls to show up.
I snorted. Of course, she’d have the balls to show up. She’d probably wear my shirt and my watch. Pinching my eyes shut to rid myself of the memory of her dancing in front of me, taking said shirt right off my back, I had to fight the heavy wave of self-loathing that I’d been so easily overtaken by her. By the feel of her skin under my hands, the way her hips moved in sinuous, torturous circles over my lap, the way her breast had been warm and heavy in my palm. My romantic history could be summed up in one word: convenient. Convenient partners who never wondered if I’d call. Nor did I wonder if they’d call me. But Lucy ... Lucy and the instant, overwhelming attraction I felt to her when she writhed over me was not convenient.
“Fine,” I told him when I realized he was waiting for my answer. Like I had an actual choice in the matter.
Watkins opened his mouth to respond when there was a burst of commotion outside of his office. He held up a hand as he stood from his chair. Someone yelled and he moved toward to door with a quickness I’d never seen from him.
“I’ll be right back.” And then he was gone, the door shut behind him with a decisive click. For a few seconds, I stared straight ahead at his drab filing cabinets. I turned my wrist to look at the time and swore under my breath when the damn watch still wasn’t there.
My breath sawed in and out of my lungs while I stewed. The commotion continued, and I couldn’t bring myself to care whether everything was okay. My eyes bored into the filing cabinets when the lightbulb burst on over my head.
I was moving before I could think about how stupid my idea was. Holding my breath, I carefully pulled on the non-descript silver handle. It pulled out easily.
There they were. Patient files in neat ivory folders, each name typed onto a white label in black ink.
Miss Connors, he’d called her in the first session. My fingers flew over the tabs until I reached the Cs.
Connors, Lucy.
I sucked in a breath and took a brief, weighted pause to see if I gave a shit about how many ethical boundaries I was about to cross. Did I care? Was I violating not only her privacy, but Watkins’ too?
Her face hovering over mine while I thought about what her lips would taste like flashed in my head in painful clarity. Nope. I did not give a shit. Pulling the file carefully up out the hanging folder, I flipped open the first page as I fished my phone out of my pocket. I snapped two pictures, careful to note where her address was.
Her criminal history was all laid out for me, but I didn’t take the time to read a single letter. I shoved the folder back in and closed the drawer quietly. I’d just sat back down in the chair, my heart racing and my mind a hundred paces ahead of its staggering, dangerous rhythm, when Watkins came back into his office.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Everything okay?” I asked.
My concern must have surprised him, but he nodded. “Yes, fine.”
As best I could, I fixed my face with a bored expression. “Are we done?”
Watkins glanced at his own watch, a cheap gold thing that probably cost fifty bucks. But at least he had it. He maintained possession of it, owned it without trying.
I’d sat there, staring at Lucy’s skin and feeling more out of control than I ever had in my life, and let mine get taken from me.
“Yeah, we’re done.” He gave me a meaningful look. “See you at group next week?”
I stood and walked to the door, looking at him over my shoulder before I left the room. “Yeah. I’ll see you there.”
Claude wasn’t driving me today, because my mother needed him for something. So as I started my car and triple checked that my airbag was properly working, that my seat belt was latched securely over my chest and lap, I took my phone out and pulled up my photos.
Right in front of me, in innocuous font on plain paper, was all the information that I needed to completely destroy Lucy Connors if I wanted to.
But did I want to do that?
I sat back and mulled that over, reading through the first page of her file. Would putting Lucy in prison——or back in prison, based on what was typed out in front of me—make me feel better about what a fool she’d made of me?
No. It wouldn’t.
Seeing her suffer wouldn’t solve anything, not for me. I wasn’t someone who wasted time on petty revenge schemes, but I did want my shit back. I wanted to know why I’d become her new target, when I’d done absolutely nothing to her.
So I carefully typed her address into the GPS in my car and swallowed heavily when I saw what area of Chicago she lived in. I could take care of this quickly, as long as she was home. And if she didn’t want to give the watch back, I’d let her know exactly how much trouble she’d get into for the little stunt she pulled the night before.
Oh, she’d give the watch back, I thought as I pulled my car out of the parking spot and headed to her place. And if she didn’t, I’d see her perfect little ass covered in prison orange.