Page 12 of Mountain Man Bad Boy

“With feelings, it can get tangled,” I began. My own feelings were that confused around him, but I dared not admit it. I resisted the urge to pat his hand, instead trying to communicate the same comfort through a simple smile. “My own family is, or was, difficult.”

“Are they all gone?”

“No.” I shook my head. “My mom is gone but I have two brothers that are still living.” I didn’t want to tell him that he worked for my father. I didn’t want to build a larger connection with him. I kept that to myself. “My mother was an addict and so is my older brother, so I know some of what you’re dealing with in terms of the thoughts of low self-worth.”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.” He saw through my professional posturing and spoke to the real me.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Why did you choose to come to work at a treatment center?” he asked, curious now.

“I feel like I can help people like you.” I chanced a look into his eyes and found only compassion.

“On behalf of people like me, thank you.” He winked.

I couldn’t believe he actually winked. Were we flirting? We absolutely should not be flirting. I blushed and turned away. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Seriously, doesn’t it disturb you to see people relapse?” He asked a more lucid question than I would have thought possible at this point in his treatment.

“It disturbs me greatly,” I admitted. “But I believe in second chances.”

“What about third chances and fourth chances?”

“I believe in those too,” I said.

He sighed and put his head into one palm. “I’m sure everyone you see feels the same way, but I can’t help thinking I’m a lost cause.”

I found my professional footing. “You are definitely not a lost cause. On average it takes people more than ten tries to quit drinking or using most drugs. If you’re on try number four, you’re way ahead of the game.”

“I don’t ever want to go back,” he said seriously. “My life was a train wreck. I paid for three months on my room, but there’s gonna be some heavy-duty cleaning to do when I get back. I can’t even…” He trailed off, presumably imagining having to scrub floors and walls.

“Just the fact that you had a room puts you at an advantage,” I told him. “Most people who come in here are homeless or couch surfing, or worse.”

“What could be worse?” he wondered.

“On their way to jail, getting out of jail, kicked out of their family’s home,” I elaborated, spinning some of the more impressive tales I had heard.

“But I had a job and a room,” he said haltingly, as if trying out the phrases.

“That’s right—you have a job, if I understand correctly.”

He nodded. “My boss said he’d save it for me.”

“So, you’re not a lost cause,” I concluded, proud of my father for being so kind.

“It’s just so hard,” he murmured.

“We’ll get through it together,” I promised, though I didn’t know why. It wasn’t professional to make that kind of offer, but the words just tumbled out.

He looked up, meeting my gaze with hope. I didn’t have the heart to put any distance between us, so I just smiled. My hand ached to reach out and touch his, to reassure him in that most basic human way that I was there for him. But I saw that he understood. More dangerously, I saw that he shared some of my forbidden desires. It was just a look, just a communication of lust across the space that divided us, but still, I could tell that he longed to touch me too.

I tore my mind from the gutter and broke off the exchange. I was terrified that he had seen it, the entire scene as it played out in my mind. He knew I harbored intentions that weren’t professional. Could he see into my soul, or was I being foolish?

“I have to go make my rounds,” I excused myself.

He said nothing, content to watch me gather my wits and leave.

I turned around. “I think you’re going to get transferred to the low-risk area soon. No more locked doors.”

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