“This way,” the nurse said.

Stifling a yawn, I followed her down the long hallway at Cedars Sinai hospital, trying to remember the last time I’d slept. Twenty-four hours ago, I was in Berlin, onstage for our final show. But everything after the concert was a blur of airport shuttles and customs declarations.

I didn’t decide until the last possible minute to fly from Houston, where we’d landed, to Los Angeles. Which, of course, led to a scene when I told the guys about my plans. Probably because I didn’t actually say much. I’d need to mend fences, but right now, this was more important.

Ushering me into a small room, the nurse pointed to a blue paper dress on the examining table.

“There’s your gown. Everything off. And remove all metal objects.” She smiled. “Jewelry and piercings.”

And then, because I wasn’t freaked out enough, she looked at my crotch. A long, lingering look she made no attempt to hide.

At first, I didn’t get it, but when I did, I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose. Because who in the fuck would put a bolt through the head of their dick?

Apparently, someone who looked like me.

Easing onto a chair, I reached for my boot laces. “I don’t have any piercings.”

She looked disappointed, but whatever.

The weak smile slid right off my lips when she leaned a shoulder against the wall. Watching. Reluctantly, I peeled off my shirt, and still no sign of movement from Nurse Nancy. Fingers frozen on my belt buckle, I hopped to my feet when Doctor Patel strode through the door.

Thank fuck. Thank fuck.

Patel took one look at the nurse and quirked a brow. “You can go now, Cindy.” The doc tried and failed to stifle a grin when the nurse scurried from the room. “Sorry about that, Logan. She’s a little …” Pressing her lips together, Patel looked down at my chart and shook her head. “Extra.”

Reclaiming my seat, I hoped I hadn’t jumped from the frying pan into the fire, because the doc looked like she was making herself comfy as well. Was this Cedar Sinai or Chippendales?

“Since you weren’t able to fill out your forms, I’m going to ask you a few questions,” the doc said, scribbling on my chart without looking up. “Then I’ll leave you alone to finish undressing.” A smile. “Sound good?”

My hand immediately dropped from my buckle. Not that I had any qualms about being naked. But discussing my deepest shame, without benefit of any armor? Yeah, no.

I exhaled a relieved breath. “That’s fine.”

“We’re going to be starting with an MRI. Do you know what that is?” I nodded. “Good. There are different types of dyslexia. Traumatic—that comes from a brain injury. Primary—that’s the most common. You’re born with it. And developmental—that’s caused by hormonal changes when you’re in the womb, and it usually diminishes over time. Today we’ll be scanning for brain injuries.”

She paused with her pen hovering above the chart. “Do you remember any type of acute injuries you may have suffered as a child?”

“Acute?” I knew what it meant, but while she explained, I tried to decide how much I should tell her. When she finished, I cleared my throat. “I used to get hit in the head …” Poking the inside of my cheek with my tongue, I tried to coax the words from where they were buried. “My dad used to hit me.”

Patel nodded, but her demeanor never changed. No pity. Nothing. I relaxed a little more.

“Was this before or after you noticed your reading deficiency?”

“I’ve never been able to … um … reading has always been a problem.”

“Did you noticed any marked change for the better, let’s say, when you hit puberty?”

I shook my head.

Patel set the chart aside, and just when I thought I was home free, she crossed her legs and clasped her hands over her knee. “In your intake interview you said your mother died when you were a child. How old where you?”

Blood pounded between my ears, the steady thump thump thump making me dizzy. “Eight.”

Shifting my gaze to the wall, I focused on all the charts. The head. The body. And then the other wall with a poster of a child, laughing.

“Logan?”

I snapped my attention back to Patel. “Yes?”

She smiled. Not a real smile. Just a slight curve of her lips. “Did your mother die of some kind of disease?”

Yep. Jake Cage. More dangerous than the plague and Ebola combined. “No.”

Patel’s brows drew together. “Would you like to tell me how she died?”

Pushing to my feet, I popped the button on my jeans. “No.”