Page 21 of Misery and Ecstasy

“I just…” Shaking my head in disbelief of my own behavior, I pull in a deep breath. “I fucked up. Bad.”

Maggie listens intently as I summarize my comings and goings—and all of my fuck-ups—for the past two weeks.

“Draven, don’t forget that I’ve been where you are. I fuckingstill amwhere you are. I may not have almost died and gotten arrested, but you’ve seen me break down from time to time. Thinking about Fernando … not having him here… The pain is insurmountable most days.”

She runs her hand gently up and down my bicep to comfort me.

“You need to give yourself some grace. I mean, nottoomuch, though, because risking your own life like that is beyond stupid. So please simmer in your guilt for just a little while longer.”

She smiles, though I know she means every word.

“But in all seriousness, you should think about talking to someone.”

“Jesus. Not you, too.”

When she looks at me like I have two heads, I elaborate.

“Your fath—Royce and the good sheriff of this town decided that, as part of my punishment, I complete ninety days of therapy. That’s where I was today—yesterday.”

“Oh.” Surprise has her eyebrows shooting straight for her hairline. She looks like a deer in headlights, presumably because she never expected I would agree to therapy—which I didn’t, but here we are. “Well that’s good, then!”

“So when areyougoing to talk to someone, Mags?” Rolling her eyes at me, she looks away.

“Fuck off, Draven.”

I know her. She suggested therapy to be helpful, never imagining I would actually go. That way, I wouldn’t be able to throw it in her face—like I just did. Because whether it’s lawfully ordered or not, I’m going for my issues, but she isn’t.

I laugh—a real, actual laugh—for the first time in ages, and I’m rewarded with a punch to the arm.

“Just trying to be supportive.” My words are nearly drowned out by the sound of her stomping away from me and up the stairs.

My lungs feel heavy as I settle myself against the island again. For a moment, my mind goes back to the doc. Different images of her flash, unwanted, through my mind.

Up against her car the night we met.

Outside of the police station yesterday morning.

In her kitchen.

In her bed…

With her hand between her legs…

I don’t like the thoughts her memory elicits. But whereas I felt sick with guilt at her house—like I always do—right now, all I feel is a delicious, yearning desire.

Fuck, maybe I’m broken? Or would this be considered healed? Have I put my body through so much in the past two weeks that it’s reset itself?

Who fucking knows. But it’s been a long time since I’ve jerked off and actually been able to enjoy it. And I plan to take full advantage of my current state of mind.

Walking out of the kitchen, I hit the lights. I take the stairs two at a time and shout goodnight to Maggie as I pass her closed door.

The shower is calling my name, and I have a feeling it’s going to be one of the best I’ve ever had.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MCKINSEY

Be a good girl, and get in the car…

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