“I prefer the term ‘dedicated.’”
Shit. I said that out loud? I’m off my game. Unsurprising as I’ve been thinking about Graham nonstop for three days. I tried to text him. A dozen times or more. But I deleted every single one.
Despite replaying that kiss on a loop. In the shower. While jerking off.
“Sorry.” I turn my head to catch his eye. “I know you’re just doing your job.”
“A job you pay me handsomely for.” His dark hair falls over his forehead, and he studies me. “So what’s got you so wound up?”
“Work.”
“Yeah, right.” He grabs a towel and wipes his hands. “You’re done, kid. No more torture for today. Bonus, you get a break for the next two weeks. I’m taking a seminar on advanced kinesiology out in Atlanta, so I’ll miss our next session. Don’t suppose you’d let me send Carl?”
Panic crawls up my spine, and I roll over on his portable massage table, then struggle to sit up. “No. Only you.” The idea of anyone else in my safe space terrifies me, even though I’ve known Manny for months now. “I can’t—”
“Relax.” Manny offers me his hand to help me off the table and steadies me until my legs agree to support me again. “You’ll be fine for two weeks. Just keep up with your daily exercises. Listen to your body. Push yourself, but don’t go overboard.”
“Yeah. Okay.” My heart is pounding, and shit. I should be better than this by now. Manny talks about Carl all the time. The guy rehabs all the local football and soccer players, and they’ve worked together for years. But I lurch into the bathroom, almost falling over on the way, and grab the prescription bottle with my low-dose anxiety meds. Ten minutes, and they’ll kick in. Ten minutes, and I’ll be okay again. Ten minutes, and I won’t feel like I’ve lost control.
“Quinton?” Manny stands in the doorway, hands on his hips. “I know I should leave it alone. But you could save a hell of a lot of money if you’d let Carl work with you instead of me. You’re more than a year post-injury. You’re stable. Sure, you’ll continue to make some modest improvements as long as you’re consistent with your therapy, but you don’t need someone with my credentials to get you there.”
“I trust you.” Those words…they’re the hardest ones for me to say. Because I don’t trust many people. Manny. Val, the woman who cleans my house every week, my therapist, and my brother, Connor. That’s it. And while I may trust them, I’m not close to any of them—not even Connor. But he’s the one who came to rescue me. He’s the one who got me into Thatcher House and paid for all of my rehab. Not that he told mehowhe could afford that.
Manny blows out a long breath. “Fine. I won’t bring it up again.”
“I’ll do my exercises while you’re gone. No problem,” I say, my hands still braced on the sink.
“It’s not just your exercises. Part of your recovery is getting back out into the world. Going for a walk. Navigating the grocery store aisles. Going to a coffee shop. There are some things exercise can’t do for you. Only real life can. Dealing with seams in the sidewalk. Avoiding puddles on linoleum floors. You know it rains a lot here, right?”
The damn pills aren’t kicking in. Why aren’t they kicking in?
Because it’s only been three minutes, dumbass.
Clementine jumps up on the counter and nudges my hand with her tiny wet nose.
“I see that little one is doing well,” Manny says. “She hid the last time I was here.”
I had a therapy session with Manny two days after I found Clementine and I practically begged him to take her to the vet for me. Get her checked out. Make sure she was going to survive. The man went to the pet store, bought a carrier, and sat in a vet’s waiting room for two hours after his last client. I panicked every minute until he came back with a very pissed off kitten, a certificate giving her a clean bill of health, two pounds of kitten food, a litter box, and a collar.
“I’m not sure she’s forgiven you for kidnapping her and letting someone shove a thermometer up her ass.” Joking helps diffuse a small bit of my anxiety, and Manny’s chuckle chips away at it further.
“Fair enough. What did you name her again?”
“Clementine. My mom always used to buy those little Clementine oranges for Christmas. And she’s the same exact color.” I run my fingers along the kitten’s back, and she arches and purrs under my touch. “Thanks for helping me with her.”
Manny makes a vaguepshawsound. “I have a soft spot for animals. Especially ones that fit in my palm. But if I don’t leave right now, I’m going to be late for the kids’ class at Emerald City Krav Maga. At leasttryto get outside for a walk before I get back. Around the block. Just once.”
I nod, even though I have no intention of doing it. Manny’s a good guy. A great therapist—one of the best in the country. But he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t understand.
The door shuts with a finality I can’t ignore. When he comes back, I’ll either have to lie to him or admit the truth—that I’m never going to be able to go for a walk like a normal person. Or step inside a coffee shop without having a panic attack. Or let anyone close to me again.
* * *
Graham
I’m only the second to arrive. Ripper’s sitting at Hidden Agenda’s conference table, a cup of coffee at his elbow, peering at the computer screen and scowling.
“Rip? I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
