Rowan Page 8

  “Ha! That’s what the bitches want you to think. But that’s just them ganging up on me, painting me the devil.”

  Rowan just keeps looking at him, shaking his head.

  “Did you really just call your mother, the mother of your children and your own daughters, bitches?” he asks evenly, then straightens up to look in my direction. “Right. I’m clearing up. Let’s leave this fuckwit to wallow in his self-obsessed moan fest.”

  No matter how much I want to whoop at that after having listened to Simon’s monologues for the last week solid, I can’t have a guest talking to another guest like that.

  “Rowan,” I say warningly, but he waves me off.

  “Sorry, Raven, but sometimes you’ve just got to call a spade a spade.”

  And with that, he calmly stacks some of the empty dessert bowls and carries them toward the kitchen.

  I watch his retreating back and realize that I’m falling.

  Hard.

  Rowan

  “So, Rowan, tell me, how are you today? How do you feel now that you’ve got your first week in rehab under your belt?”

  Dr Lewin looks at me with the mask of expectant neutrality I’ve come to expect from her by now. She is a funny bunny, this woman. Beneath all that softness of the knitwear and locks of hair escaping her plait, there is a steely, impenetrable distance. Out of all the therapists here, she is the only one who insists on being called Dr Lewin rather than by her first name. The other guy, Rothman, is happy for people to call him Frank. The Denyers are Ed and Judy. But not Lewin. I realise that I don’t even know what her first name is. So I ask.

  “What’s your first name?”

  And this is the first time all week her mask breaks. Not massively, but there is a faint smirk around her mouth.

  “It’s Caitlyn but you may carry on calling me Dr Lewin. Welcome to therapy, Rowan.”

  I cock my head at her.

  “Are you taking the piss, doc?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Dr Lewin, please. And no, not at all. This is your third session this week and we’ve gone through the motions of talking about your betting. How it started, what your triggers are, how you can avoid them next time, but you may as well have been filling out a questionnaire in a self-help book. With the exception of the first session, when we spoke about your faux pas at the pub, you have given nothing of yourself. You haven’t actually been present in this room. You just became present. So welcome to therapy, Rowan. What’s changed?”

  “What?” I laugh. “All of that just because I asked you your name?”

  She shrugs then nods.

  “Bit self obsessed, isn’t it?” I ask, grinning but holding up a hand. “Just kidding. I don’t know. I don’t know what’s changed.”

  It’s a lie, of course.

  I know exactly what’s changed. What’s changed is that I think I might be falling in love for the first time in my freaking life and I haven’t got a clue how to deal with that and that’s clearly bringing my guard down, so I make silly mistakes like asking people what they’re called.

  Dr Lewin’s current squint tells me she isn’t buying my pledge of ignorance in the slightest. But I’m hardly gonna tell her that I have a hard-on as big as Big Ben for one of the nurses here. I’m not stupid. I know Lewin is bound by confidentiality, but I also know it would alert her to a situation I don’t want her alerted to. For Raven’s sake.

  Me? I couldn’t give a shit if the whole fucking world knew how desperate I am for that woman. I’d like nothing more than to claim her as mine, though I’m pretty sure she would take exception to being claimed as anyone’s property, and good on her, but I can’t cost her her job and plunge her into debt. Even if plunging people into debt is my speciality. Ask Sheena and Silas. They nearly lost their house because of me. How fucked up is that?

  So Lewin and I sit in silence.

  Because apparently, that’s what therapists do. They leave you steeped in silence until you carry on talking. It wasn’t how I imagined this at all but it kind of works. It means that I can sit here and ponder the Raven situation to my heart’s content, while the good doctor thinks we’re breaking open my issues or some shit like that. But then Lewin suddenly breaks protocol.

  “Rowan?” she asks gently. “You checking out on me again so soon?”

  Well, fuck me, she has a sense of humour.

  I frown at her.

  “Is that even allowed? You asking me like that? I thought you had to sit there and wait for me to carry on.”

  She laughs at that, actually laughs, and shakes her head.

  “No. That’s Rothman’s approach. They lead, he jogs along beside them, trying to keep up. I’m a cognitive behaviour therapist, I don’t have to go by my client’s pace, though it often pays to. I’m allowed to ask as many questions as I damn well like.”

  And she swears. I’m starting to like her. And for that, I want to give her something. I might not be able to give her an honest answer to the question what’s changed, but I can give her a bit more than I’ve been giving her so far.

  “I’m tired of pretending I’m someone I’m not.”

  “So, tell me, who is it you are and who is it you’re not?”

  I bark a sarcastic laugh at that.

  “Starting small, are we?”

  She shrugs and then we sit in silence again. For about forty minutes. While I evaluate my life. All of it. Life before mum’s death. Mum’s death. Being dragged along with my stepfather. Landing on Sheena’s doorstep. Finding a brother in Silas. Betraying my brother. Running. Straight into hell. Clawing my way out. Getting here. Raven. The fact I still didn’t make my move last night, despite the fact she was ripe for the taking. Because I’m just not worthy. And because I don’t want to break her more than she already is. Finally, I clear my throat.

  “I’m not a monster.”

  I take a deep breath then exhale slowly.

  “But I’m a total liability.”

  Dr Lewin smiles at me warmly.

  “Well done. Hour’s over. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Raven

  I’m just parking up outside the house after my shopping trip to Swanage when I see Rowan come out of the church building and my heart stops. Not in the way that it seems to do that every time I see him but in the way it used to when one of my foster siblings got bullied at school and came home with a tear-streaked face.

  And we often came home with tear-streaked faces.

  Not that Rowan is crying.

  But he looks broken.

  Utterly defeated.

  And I know exactly who’s done that to him. I know all my guests’ therapy schedules by heart, but even if I didn’t, I could take a damn good guess.

  Lewin does that to people. Deconstructs them before putting them back together again. I don’t like it, but it’s effective. I give her that. And it’s never really bothered me that much before. But, hell, does it bother me now. All my protective instincts are on high alert and I want to go and kick her fucking ass for making Rowan look so dejected.

  I carry on watching him through the windshield of the company SUV that I took into town and stay put until he’s turned to the back of the building, my guess is to go to the gym. I’ve learned this much about him in the last week. Where my foster mom Elena stress baked and I stress clean, Rowan stress punches the living daylights out of a sandbag.

  I know, not because I’ve seen it but because I asked Alan if he knew what was going on after Rowan came in a couple of times after the gym this week, emptied all our ice cube trays into a mixing bowl and stuck his hands in it for as long as it took for all the ice to dissolve. But you never see a mark on them the next day.

  Today his anger is in a different league, though. I can see it in the way he’s carrying himself, his stride, the air around him. It’s a good thing I went shopping. I’m so fed up with the lack of ice for my drinks in this stinking heat, I bought him five of his very own two kilo party bags of cubes. That should last h
im a while.

  I wait until he’s completely out of sight then begin unloading the groceries. Most of our stuff gets delivered once a week, but Elena taught me to pick my own veg out, so I like going to the farmer’s market on Fridays.

  I make a couple of trips back and forth, store everything away and then go and drive the car to the main parking lot. I pick up the last of the bits and pieces I’ve accumulated between here and town until there is only the small paper sleeve that’s sitting on the dashboard left.

  With a rush of nerves, I grab it. It took me ages picking the right card, searching my soul, wondering what the hell I thought I was doing, nearly chickening out a thousand times. But if I had any doubts left, I don’t now. Not after I just saw him, all vulnerable and beat like that but still coming up fighting.

  Now, I just have to write it and wait.

  Rowan

  I’m shaking with fatigue when I finally finish beating the shit out of my friend, the punch bag. I didn’t stop, not even to take on any water. Now sweat is running down my back and into the waistband of my boxers and I’m on the cusp of serious dehydration.

  I realise I’ve accumulated quite the audience when I turn around to go to the water cooler. I didn’t have a bottle with me, I didn’t even stop to go to the house and get my kit when I came here after my session with Lewin. I just headed straight for the gym, stripped down to my shorts and did what I do best. The idiots staring at me are damn lucky I didn’t go commando today.

  The thought makes me smile and it’s the first sign I’m back amongst the living. I die when my humour dies. I’m not dead yet.

  I only make it a few steps before Alan Allsorts, heaven help him if that’s his real name, the ex SAS soldier who doubles up as the premises manager and gym supervisor around The Village, is in my face, holding out a bottle of water at me. I take it and nod at him gratefully while I take a sip.

  “Go on, people, get back to your own routines. Give the lad some space,” Alan barks over his shoulder at the group still standing in a half crescent around the mat.

  The martial arts corner is situated in the far end of the gym behind a partition and it doesn’t take long before my fellow men and women in rehab vacate the vicinity and give Alan and me the illusion we’re alone.

  He’s a big bloke, Alan, almost my height and width and he hasn’t let civilian life get to his waistline yet, despite being somewhere in his fifties, at a rough guess. He’s got a buzz cut and a silver beard with a waxed, twirl-end moustache, which makes him look like something out of a comic book. But the warning Raven gave me on my first day about Alan sneaking up on you wasn’t a joke. The whole man isn’t a joke and when he fixes me with a serious stare, I swallow hard.

  “You alright, son?” he asks evenly.

  I nod through more sips of water. He cocks his head to examine my knuckles and I think I can see approval in his eyes. I’m sure he was expecting blood, but that’s for amateurs.

  “Not a speck on you. You’re a pro,” he echoes my thoughts. “Now listen, that was a good show, but that’s enough. Third time’s the charm. Don’t do it again. If you are using the bags in here, you’re using gloves from now on.”

  He holds up a hand before I can protest.

  “Not because I’m anal, though my wife will be the first to tell you that I very much am, but because sooner or later one of these muppets is going to try and copy you. And then somebody is going to break their hand and I’ll get sued for liability. I don’t fancy that. Do we have an accord?”

  It’s the strangest feeling, but I know there is only one way to answer this man, though on the other two occasions I’ve encountered him, materialising from out of nowhere, I’ve just called him Alan. But not this time.

  “Yes, sir,” I answer and there isn’t an ounce of piss-take in it.

  He commands respect, and truth be told it feels good to give it. I can see him smile even through his beard and moustache combo.

  “Good.”

  He turns around and starts walking away but stops after a couple of paces.

  “Lewin?” he asks into the air in front of him.

  “Yup.”

  He nods.

  “Figures. Now, next time she gets to you, knock on my house. I have my own bags out back. You’re welcome to use those any time.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome, lad. Now, go hit the shower, before you start stinking up the place.”

  He walks away and I take a look down my sweaty torso.

  There are showers in here, of course, and spare towels on shelves by the entrance to the pool, no need to bring them from your room, but I don’t want to stand under the spray next to the people who just watched me fight my demons. In my underpants.

  I want privacy, my own space. My own bathroom. Raven’s bathroom. I want her shit surrounding me, her expensive, colourful, bunny friendly soap and shampoo bars all lined up neatly in empty scallop shells. Her girlie paraphernalia that are spread out all over the side of the tub.

  So I pick up my tee and jeans from the floor, where I dropped them earlier, climb back into them, make my way through the gym, past people watching me from under their lashes and falling eerily quiet as soon as I get into earshot. I grab my boots from the rack by the entrance and walk out barefoot.

  Raven

  It’s my reading hour, but the last thing on my mind is sitting outside with my book. The murderer is on girl number three, but frankly I couldn’t give a shit if she lives or dies.

  After putting the groceries away, I spent an eternity agonizing about what to write. And when I finally decided on the right bunch of sentences, it took me another ice age to make up my mind whether I was actually going to go through with it. Then there was the next eon, picking out the right place to leave it for him. That one seemed like such a final act. Like once I’ve opened this door, there is no shutting it. The point of no return.

  But now it’s done, which leaves me feeling jittery while I putter around the kitchen, pulling pots out of the cupboard and setting to work scrubbing their undersides. I should probably get out of my own clothes, which I wore for town, and back into my tunic for this, or at least wear an apron, because I’m ruining one of my favorite polka dot mini dresses right now, but I can’t stop.

  If I stop and get back into my uniform, I have to think about the fact that I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman with a career on the line, not a crushing, obsessing, teenager.

  And I don’t want to.

  I like the fucking feeling.

  I get it now. I never had this when I was the right age. I used to rib my foster sisters relentlessly if they were fangirling over some pimply-ass guy at school. Now look at me.

  I’ve just put pot three on the draining board when I hear the front door open and my heart goes into overdrive. I don’t know how it knows it’s him, but I have no doubt it’s right.

  Expecting him to come in here first to treat his hands, I go to open the freezer and pull out one of the ice cube bags. I had to do some serious reshuffling to make them all fit, so in the process of pulling it out I pull half the contents of the shelf with it. They land on the floor with a racket and I swear under my breath as I kneel to pick things up again.

  Seconds later, I catch the scent of fresh male sweat through the tendrils of cold in my nostrils. I look up just as Rowan arrives by my side. He doesn’t say a word as he crouches opposite me and starts helping.

  I get to my feet to put the first bits back in the freezer and when I turn back, holding out my hands to receive more items from him, his mouth is smiling, but his eyes are hungry. Too fucking hungry. The fire in them makes my pulse pound in my clit.

  His gaze snaps to my shaking hands and then suddenly I’m on the floor with him, sitting on his lap.

  He is so lightening quick, I only realize when I’m already straddled on him what he’s done. He’s sat back, grabbed me by the wrists and pulled me on top of him, so I’ve landed with my knees either side of his hips and
my crotch firmly resting against his cock. Which is hard.

  Of course.

  Before my brain catches up fully and I can withdraw, he reaches under my dress, splays his left hand across my bottom and brings me up harder against the rod in his jeans. At the same time, his right hand goes up to my cheek, cradling me. But it is more than a cradle. The fingers of his enormous hand reach far into my hair and entangle themselves.

  It’s a tether.

  I can’t pull away without hurting myself, but that’s okay, I’m still on top, I can deal.

  He doesn’t try to kiss me, just looks into my eyes and starts rocking beneath me, rubbing himself against me, his left hand kneading my buttocks through my fishnets and panties, holding me in place. Between the hand in my hair and the bear grip on my ass, I’m trapped. The realization hits me like a bullet. For a moment, I freak, despite the warmth in my belly that unfolds as he keeps rocking against my clit, sending shivers through my pussy that are teasing out the first, lazy clenches of an orgasm.

  An orgasm that never takes hold because suddenly he stops.

  Through the haze of his own lust he sees.

  And he stops.

  His grips become gentle and I’m left with the knowledge that I can pull away now. His eyes, burning with desire a second ago, go soft and he clenches the hand that was on my cheek and runs his knuckles down my cheekbone.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I couldn’t resist. You make me so fucking hard, Raven. But that’s no excuse.”

  He sighs as he takes me by the hips and lifts me off his lap, far enough for me to get some traction without fumbling around. The next thing, I’m standing in the kitchen again, he’s back on his haunches, and we’re picking freezer stuff off the floor.

  As if nothing’s happened.

  I tell myself that this is a good thing because Simon, Tristan and Charlie should be back any minute from their afternoon activities. Shit. I hadn’t even thought about them when I was down on the floor, happily letting Rowan rut against me. Annoyingly, the thought gives me another unholy thrill.