Page 19 of Misery and Ecstasy

My breath leaves me when I spot the doc through the sheer curtain in the window of a door on the opposite side of the balcony. She’s lying in the middle of her mattress, bathed in a sea of fluffy, white bedding. Her chestnut curls are spread across the pillow she’s resting her head on.

My dick grows hard just before the heavy weight of guilt sets in.

Adjusting my jeans, I realize that her eyes are squeezed shut. Her brow is furrowed, as though she’s frustrated or concentrating hard on something.

I think she’s having a nightmare until I realize there’s something moving beneath her blanket. Right where I assume her legs begin. The details begin to click into place as a delicious moan fills my ears through the thin glass pane of the window.

A cold sweat breaks out over my skin, and my heart thumps like the bass of a techno beat in my chest. The familiar, aching guilt I feel when I begin to get even remotely turned-on shoots through my stomach. I force myself to avert my gaze from the sight of the doc pleasuring herself before me.

Retracing my steps, I carefully close the door behind me as I reenter the upstairs hallway. I take the steps down two at a time while trying to keep as quiet as I can be. Padding my way back to the kitchen, I see my phone has just enough juice to call Atticus. Finding his name, I press send and breathe a sigh of relief when he answers after three rings.

“Draven? Where the hell have you been?”

“Long story. Can you come pick me up at the gas station on the corner of Race Horse and Chambersburg?”

“Yeah, I’m leaving now.”

Ending the call, I practically run to the front door, no longer caring how much noise I make. I stuff my feet into my boots and flip the lock on the doorknob before closing the door behind me.

Then I flee down the street like I just robbed the place.

* * *

I had just enough time to get into the store, grab a couple packs of cigarettes, light one up, and take the biggest inhale of my fucking life before Atticus showed up.

He—gratefully—didn’t ask a lot of questions when I got in. Just whether or not I was okay. There’s no doubt all the guys know of the fucking mess I got myself into. But apparently, Royce was a little more tight-lipped about my appointment with the doc.

I can only assume she got a hold of Royce and let him know I passed the fuck out on her couch, or else the boys would have come looking for me long ago.

Well, maybe.

Atty’s old Mustang rumbles over the gravel drive that leads to our compound. The bumpy ride jars my body and doesn’t do anything to ease the ache in my muscles, my stomach, or my cock.

I’m looking forward to getting out of this car, but when we come to a stop in front of the clubhouse, Atticus’s words keep me from vacating as quickly as I’d hoped to.

“You look like shit, man. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m beyond irritated at … everyfuckingthing… But I can’t allow myself to be irritated at him. Especially after he just came to get me at three in the fucking morning.

Am I okay?

Well, let’s see…

I just buried my mother.

I got into a fist fight with my brother at her funeral.

I’ve spent the last two weeks not giving a fuck about anyone or anything.

Shirking all of my duties and responsibilities to both the quarry and the club.

Drinking more than I’ve drank in my entire lifetime.

I went on a death-inducingjoyridethat ended with my bike smashed to shit in a ditch and me in jail. Which, in hindsight, was the best possible outcome because I could have fucking killed someone.

And now I just woke up from a hungover stupor on the couch of my therapist, who was finger-banging herself one floor above me. Also who—by the way—I may want to fuck. You know … if fucking someone without feeling like I’m going to die from soul-eating guilt is even possible.

I scoff.

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