“Yeah? Then why are you standing so close?” I raise an eyebrow. Theo says nothing, so I push against his rock-hard chest, making him step back.
Breathing easier now he’s not so close, I give him one last glare before walking away, back to the library and my only sanctuary in this godforsaken place.
Chapter Eleven
THEO
I’m spiraling, slowly but surely, and Blake’s been here less than a month. In Theo years, she’s been here for decades, and I need her gone. I’ve stayed away for the most part, not only to get shit done around the office, but to limit my interactions with her because she tests me every time I see her.
If Blake isn’t parading down the halls, she’s starring in my dreams, and unfortunately, those aren’t dreams of me killing her. No, they’re dreams of me fucking her, and I hate it. Anger boils in my veins at the mere thought that I’d want anything other than her demise.
My palms are sweaty as Mike sits in his chair, watching me. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get them out. I rake a hand through my hair, desperate to talk, to purge myself of all of my sins, but something’s blocking me.
I know I have the guys, but I feel like I’m on my own, keeping my internal struggles to myself and becoming my own source of comfort.I didn’t want to explain myself to people only for them to misunderstand me and say I’m something I’m not.
“You’re unapproachable, Theo. You’re intimidating, Theo.”
I’ll heal my own wounds… right?
“Theo,” Mike says kindly, “take your time. We’re in no rush.”
He doesn’t push me, just sits there quietly with a notepad in hand. He’s an older man, probably in his sixties, with a slim figure and lots and lots of tweed.
I really should get him a Dolce & Gabbana gift card for Christmas.
Glancing out of the window, I take in the quiet street. Cars drive past slowly while the odd person walks by without a care in the world. Knowing I’m high-profile, Mike sees me from his home. The last thing I need is anyone seeing me walk in and out of his office building.
I can’t sit still. I lean forward and brace my elbows on my knees. Then I stand up and move around, all the while Mike sits there, not saying a word.
She’s back, swirls in my head. I open and close my mouth several times, unable to get them out because once I say them aloud to anyone other than James—he doesn’t count—I can’t take them back. It means that it’s real. Thatshe’sreal. That it’s not a dream or something my overactive imagination has conjured up. I’m gonna have to deal with it, and I don’t know how.
“Would it help to write it down?” Mike asks, sitting forward.
I whirl around at his voice.Can I write it down? I nod once, and he passes me a piece of paper and a pen. My hand shakes as I will my body to either say the fucking words or write them down. A tear forms in the corner of my eye, but I brush it away.
“I can’t do this,” I snap, then throw the pen and paper onto the sofa and storm out.
Mike knows what I’m like and that this is normal for me, my outbursts are something he’s well accustomed to over the years.
Rushing out onto the street, I gulp in air, clenching and unclenching my hands. My head swims, and I feel dizzy, but I ignore it, just like I ignore everything bad in my life. I shove it into a box to deal with another day. Problem is, I don’t deal with it… ever.
Maybe I’m just better off broken. The thought of facing my demons is fucking terrifying. Having to live through all that trauma scares the shit out of me. Will I ever be ready?
The meds only help so much. Mike started me on various ones before diagnosing me with Borderline Personality Disorder and Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. For someone with a past as fucked up as mine, it’s not surprising, really.
Emotionally unstable? Check.
Impulsive behaviors? Check.
Difficulty with relationships? Double check.
They don’t call me needy Viking for no reason.
A car whizzing past reminds me I’m on the sidewalk, so I straighten my suit jacket and walk to my black and yellow Chevrolet Camaro. I was always a little bit obsessed with Transformers growing up. Nothing like wishing you were an alien car sent to Earth to save it from other alien invaders to get the creative juices flowing. It’s not the only car I have; it’s just my favorite.
I drive to the office and park in my designated spot—yeah, I’m cool enough to have my own space—then head inside.
Constant thoughts buzz around as I walk through the quiet building. I mean, it's not exactly quiet, but it is peaceful. The noise is low enough for those thoughts to keep coming back though.
