Page 7 of Misery and Ecstasy

“What the hell are you doing here?” His question almost makes me laugh, as thoughI’mthe one who spent the night in the drunk tank.

“Royce sent me to get you.”

Trust me, this is the last place I want to be right now.

Draven’s brown hair blows in the breeze, tickling his ears, as I watch him take another drag of his cigarette. His peach-colored lips quirk, causing a flutter of something inside me that I refuse to acknowledge. Smoke billows from his nose as he exhales, and I move out of its path.

His tongue darts between his lips as he assesses me, swaying on his feet, before finally speaking.

“Now why would he do that?”

“Once you’ve put that out and we’re in my car, I’ll explain everything.”

An amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked on mine as he takes another drag.

This isn’t going to go over well at all. What if he refuses? Am I just supposed to manhandle this guy into my car? I never should have agreed to this. Whatever. I can only do so much. If he doesn’t listen to me, I’ll just get in my car and call Royce. Tell him to come get Draven and deal with this bullshit himself. I should have stuck to my guns and refused in the first place.

Draven throws down the butt of the cigarette, stomping it beneath his boot, then moves closer to me. His proximity makes my pulse spike, but I keep my head high and refuse to cower away from him. He looks me up and down for a brief moment before speaking again.

“After you, Doc.” Winking, he waves his hand toward the sidewalk behind me before putting his sunglasses back into place.

Ignoring the weakness in my knees, I close my eyes. Knowing I’m getting myself further entangled with these men, I take a deep breath and lead him to my car.

As we’re pulling out of the parking lot, I feel his gaze on me.

Tapping my fingers on my steering wheel, I wait for him to say something snarky to me. But he remains quiet.

“Are you hurt?” I side-eye him from the driver’s seat, zeroing in on a jagged cut in his jeans. “Do you require medical attention?”

He laughs faintly.

“Nah.” He relaxes back into his seat. “’Tis a flesh wound.”

He laughs a little harder this time, clearly amused that he can quote an old movie. I’m glad I won’t have to play nurse to him in addition to therapist.

“So are you like … my babysitter?” he asks after several minutes of quiet.

“Not even close. Taking care of grown men who should know better than to behave like idiots isn’t in my job description.” He exhales a quick rush of air through his nose. “To paraphrase your boss, Royce thought it was in your best interest if he wasn’t the one to retrieve you from the police station this morning.”

Draven laughs, humorlessly, beside me. “I bet he did.”

“Royce, as well as Delilah, are worried about y?—”

“Ha! Delilah, I’d believe. But Royce knows better. He knows me.”

“What does that mean?” My focus shifts briefly from the road to him.

“It means … Royce knows better than to worry about me. He knows what I’m made of.” The pitch of his voice starts out loud but gradually reduces to a gravelly, first-thing-in-the-morning grumble.

Or a masculine, just after sex, bedroom purr.

Quickly shoving that staggering thought from my mind, I look at him again. I can only see a sliver of his face as he looks out the window. As he looks anywhere but at me.

Oftentimes, that’s a sign of shame. Of denial. Even through his sunglasses, from the set of his jaw, I can tell he’s hurting. People don’t act the way Delilah described his behavior—apathetic, destructive, despondent—unless there is a deep-rooted emotional reason behind it.

I open my mouth to explain more about the call between Royce, Delilah, and myself this morning, but decide against it. It won’t take long to get to my house. And with it being Saturday, I don’t have any other patients. There will be plenty of time to talk without interruption then.

When I make a left at the next stop sign, Draven’s head whips toward me.

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