Page 78 of Torched Spades
“And what is my ‘unique situation,’ Dr. Cromwell?”
“That you’re a diagnosed pyrophiliac mandated to therapy,” he answers slowly, dragging out the phrase as if testing my reaction to each word.
I temper my reaction, keeping a tight lid on the level of relief I feel that Becca didn’t expose our morepersonaldetails in her notes. Considering how we left things, the fallout potential would’ve been catastrophic.
Maintaining my wooden expression, I attempt to appear as if I’m not mentally cataloging every personal artifact in his office, like the picture frame sitting on the corner of his desk. The one of him in a pair of khaki shorts and a tacky Hawaiian shirt, a young woman tucked under his arm. She’s gazing up at him like he hung the moon and promised the stars.
He probably did. Right after he took off his wedding ring, because,oops, that fucker is missing.
I shift my focus back to him. “Do you want me to congratulate you on reading a report?”
At my clipped tone, his demeanor shifts, and the fake concern fades away. “I’m starting to see why Dr. Brennan released you.”
“Is that right?”
“Mr. Malone…” He shakes his head. “I mean, Johnny, if we are going to make this work, we…” He keeps talking, but I rise from the couch, having had about enough of this chit-chat bullshit as I can tolerate. Whatever he was yapping about tapers off as his eyes track my every movement. “What are you doing?”
Ignoring him, I settle into a chair in front of his desk and bend my index finger, giving the picture frame a firm flick. Such an insignificant move, but life has taught me it’s sometimes the smallest gestures that strike the loudest chords.
“Johnny…”
I hook the frame between my middle and index fingers, and with a flick of my wrist, send it in a perfect half circle until his little brunette side piece smiles back at me. “Pretty girl.”
I admit, it’s a pissing contest. I sit back, waiting to see what he’ll do. As expected, sweat beads along his forehead. My life might be swirling the toilet, but at least he’s intuitive enough to know I can take him down with me.
His face turns the color of dirty snow. His Adam’s apple bobs hard in his throat as he reaches a shaking hand for what I assume is my file. “I’ve reviewed Dr. Brennan’s notes, and I think—”
“Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?” My lips twitch from suppressing a smirk as his eyes bounce from the picture frame to me.
Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his lab coat, he dabs his brow and clears his throat. “Johnny, please. I’m just doing a favor for a colleague.”
I give him a lethal smile. “Now you’re going to do one for me.”
“Pardon?”
“Convince Dr. Brennan it would be in her best interest to reinstate me as a patient.”
More sweating. More dabbing.“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
He just shakes his head, and I have to stop myself from reaching across the desk and slamming my fist into his nose. This is all Becca’s fault. If she hadn’t fucked with our arrangement, neither of us would be sitting here in the first place. After giving herself to me, she had a choice to make. Unfortunately, she chose the one that blew a crater-sized hole in both our lives.
“I know what you must be thinking,” he murmurs.
“That one side piece isn’t enough for you, and you’ve been trying to add Becca to your trophy shelf for over ten years? Yeah, you’re right.” I hold back a laugh as his eyes widen, then narrow.
That’s right, asshole, I never walk into a battle unarmed.
A tense breath whistles through his teeth as his eyebrows once again attempt to draw together without success. “My initial hesitation had nothing to do with…” He nods to the card still rotating in my hand. “Could you please stop doing that? It’s distracting.”
Distracting. Intimidating.Semantics seem to be a favorite game among Providence’s psychiatric elite.
“No,” I retort, flipping it even faster.
He looks blank for a second, then steadies himself. “As I was saying, my initial hesitation had nothing to do with Rebecca.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he pats the open folder on his desk. “It’s because I know why you were forced into therapy.”
This is where it gets interesting.
