Page 75 of Beat of Love
Strip himself down.
Speak it aloud.
Even if it meant baring his soul to a stranger with a notebook and a practiced calm.
Rafferty dragged in a breath, stepped into the office, and forced himself to take the man’s hand. “Thanks for fitting me in,” he mumbled, gaze drifting from the armchair to the couch.
And then to the door.
He willed his feet to stay put, but his mind …
Fuck, his mind was already halfway out.
Because he really, really didn’t want to talk.
A quick side-eye to the shrink caught the man’s measured look. It held neither condemnation nor pity. “You showed up. That’s more than most manage on day one.”
Rafferty gave a sharp nod and dropped into the chair like he was bracing for an interrogation.
Trent sat back down, placing his hand over the closed notebook resting on the armrest. “So … what pushed you through the door today?”
A silence stretched between them.
Rafferty glanced at the window — the bright sun streaming through felt like a fucking insult. Too clean. Too warm. It spilled across the floor like it had the right to touch everything, even the places that didn’t deserve light.
Inside him, it was still jungle-dark. Thick, choking. Cloying. The kind of dark that pressed in on your ribs and smelled like rot and old blood.
The sun had no business shining on that.
No business pretending the world was fine.
“Panic attack.” He looked away, throat working. “A couple of days ago.”
Trent remained still, giving him space to get his thoughts, his fucking emotions in order.Order. Hah. That was funny. And not the ha-ha kind. His feelings hadn’t been in order since … forever.
He gave Trent a short recount of the events leading up to him entering the grove of live oaks. “I hadn’t planned to stop, but I wanted to see the old tree house we used to go to as kids. I … I never figured on … falling apart.”
Trent didn’t speak. Just nodded once, a quiet invitation to continue.
The memory clawed back, sharp around the edges.
“The light changed under the trees … and the reek of rotting vegetation — thick, wet, and sour — just sorta … flipped something inside. One second, I’m looking at the wooden platform, seeing Brandy-Lyn touch the ladder. And then—
“Fuck,” he exploded. “Just like that, I’m in the jungle. Backthere.” His fingers drummed against his thigh, annoyed again for being so fucking weak. “My heart raced. My vision narrowed. I couldn’t breathe.
“I’ve had the nightmares,” Rafferty continued, voice tight. “Since I got back. I figured I could handle them. But this was different. It wasn’t sleep. It wasnow. Like my brain just flipped and dragged me back.”
His jaw clenched. He wasn’t looking at Trent anymore. “I thought I was done falling apart,” he muttered. “Guess not.”
Swallowing hard, he said, “Brandy-Lyn guided me through it. Sat with me till I” — he gave a nervous laugh — “came back. With her holding my hand, I was able to go back into the grove, climb that fucking ladder, sit on that fucking platform, and … then … I told her. Everything. About the jungle. The cartel. Kamila. The drugs. All of it.” He lowered his eyes. “I told her stuff I’ve never told anyone. And bawled like a fucking baby. Like a chickenshit coward.”
“That’s not cowardice, Rafferty. That’s strength.” Trent paused, his stare as calm as his voice. “And telling someone — letting them see you like that? Vulnerable.Real.That’s not weakness either. That’s survival. And it’s the first real step forward.”
“I … guess?”
Trent nodded slowly. “You let her see you when you were most vulnerable … and she stayed. Sat with you. Held your hand. Talked you off the ledge.” He paused for a beat. “What does she mean to you, Rafferty?”
“Everything,” he admitted. “She means everything to me. But … I can’t go there. Not yet. Maybe never.”
