This test is nothing like those stupid quizzes in a women’s magazine. I’m talking about over five hundred questions meant to really pick apart my brain and check for psychopathy, and since I entered the test already agitated from the IQ test, I’m now certain Dr. Alverez has it out for me, which only makes me want to answer the questions with how I’m feeling right at this moment. I may end up in a padded room before the day is out, and that’s even worse than ending up in prison for shooting Agent Butler without hesitation.
When I’m done, Dr. Alverez comes into the room, smiling like a fool as she takes a seat across from me.
“Really?” I ask when she holds up a card the size of a piece of notebook paper.
She cuts her eyes to the card and back to me.
“Butterfly,” I mutter, feeling ridiculous.
She lays that card down and shows me the next.
“Butterfly,” I mutter again.
“I need you to take this seriously, Mr. Gabhart.”
“I didn’t know the psychiatric community even used Rorschach anymore.”
“We use lots of things. What do you see?”
“A gorilla?”
We go through the black and white and the colored inkblots, and every time she jots something down on the paper beside her, the crazier I feel. Just when I think it’ll never be over, she asks me to wait in her office while she compiles some scores.
I feel like this is another test. She has numerous manipulatives on her bookcases, things she may use when treating children, and even as tempted as I am to go pick them up, I sit statue-still in the chair across from her desk.
It seems like an eternity before her office door opens and she walks in.
She doesn’t say a word as she takes the seat behind her desk and rifles through some paperwork.
I’m the first one to speak up. “Am I crazy, Doc? Unfit for duty?”
There’s humor in my voice, but I don’t find anything funny about today at all.
It’s clear she doesn’t either when she glances up and gives me a chastising look. It’s reminiscent of the way my own mother would look at me when I did something stupid as a kid.
“Tell me about Mia.”
You could hear a pin drop in the room as I stare at her.
“I’m here for psych testing, not a therapy session.”
Finding what she’s looking for, she jots a few notes down, covering the notebook back up when I angle my head to see what she’s writing. This is psychological warfare at its finest, and if I were in a better headspace right now, I might actually find it a little comical. Only there isn’t a damn thing funny about being here. My career with Cerberus depends on the outcome of today.
“You’re here so I can determine if you’re fit to return to work after your suspension is over,” she clarifies. “Tell me about Mia.”
I clamp my jaw shut, unsure if she just wants the macro details of how I know Mia or if she’s interested in knowing that I’ve pretty much named myself her champion and protector.
“Take your time,” she says with a soothing voice. “I cleared my schedule for today.”
The last part is a warning. She’s letting me know those stall tactics won’t work. We’ll be here until the sun rises tomorrow if that’s how long it takes.
I narrow my eyes at her, but she doesn’t look back at me with smugness. It’s a battle of wills that she knows she’s going to win, and clearly, she’s got the patience of a saint.
Sighing, I settle further into my chair, just barely staving off asking her if I should lie down to be analyzed. I don’t think humor will earn me any points, not considering the gravity of the situation that brought me here today.
“I pulled Mia out of a compound in Miami right before Christmas. She’d been in captivity for seven weeks.” I close my mouth again, looking at the doctor and deciding what I can tell her. “This isn’t my story.”
“This is your story,” she says as she drops her pen. “This is about what Mia is to you. Tell me about the things as they pertain to Ryan Gabhart. You aren’t betraying her trust. If you hurt because she was hurt, that’s what we talk about. If you’re angry because of what happened to her, that’s what we discuss. This is your story.”
In what seems like one long breath, I tell Dr. Alverez everything.
I tell her about Mia’s attachment to me, and how it not only makes me feel useful but scares me because I’m terrified of being responsible for her mental health recovery.
I confess my fears of losing her, and my fears of loving her, of pushing too hard and not pushing enough.
I speak of my distractions and my need for blood from the men that hurt her. I explain that even though they’re dead, I still don’t feel like Mia was avenged to the magnitude she deserves.
I confide my disappointment in myself for the way I handled things on our last mission, letting her know that although in the moment my life wasn’t a concern, putting Jinx at risk isn’t something I’ll forgive myself for anytime soon.
I bat at the angry tears streaming down my face when I realize that caring for Mia may cost me what I’ve loved most about my life, but also acknowledging that Cerberus was only meant to be a stepping stone until I got bored. Yet, I’ve been with them for years, re-signed my contract twice already, and I’ve never questioned leaving before. I tell her I don’t want to leave now.
I also admit that my distractions stem mainly from not knowing where I stand with the woman whom I share a bed with every night. It’s the uncertainties that plague me. It’s the doubts and fears that keep me from being able to compartmentalize my life the way Kincaid insisted that I need to.
When I walk out of her office, I feel somehow lighter and even more burdened, so I don’t go back to the clubhouse immediately. I don’t call Mia on the phone and discuss things like a damn adult, as Dr. Alverez instructed.
I jump on my bike and ride around until I can no longer feel my face or my fingertips.
Chapter 24
Mia
He held me all night last night, yet it still felt like goodbye.
Without a word of rejection, he asked me to leave by not asking me to stay.
When I found his side of the bed cold and empty, I got up myself with renewed determination.
Broken isn’t sexy.
Broken takes too much time to heal.
Broken isn’t worth the time.
I pack the things Jasmine brought for me right back into the bag she used, leaving the handgun in the bedside table and text Max.
Mia: I need a plane ticket home.
Max: Dates?
Mia: Now. Today, please.
Max: What’s going on?
He doesn’t give me time to respond before my phone is lighting up with his name. I send him to voicemail, not trusting my voice to carry a conversation.
Mia: Just get me the ticket, please.
I grab a quick shower, hoping I can get out of here before Ryan returns. He avoided me for hours yesterday, and I don’t expect today to be any different.
By the time I’ve showered and gotten dressed, there’s a text from Max on my phone telling me that he’s gotten me a plane ticket and he’s on his way to pick me up to take me to the airport.
He asks a million questions when he first arrives but grows silent ten minutes into the hour drive to Durango when he realizes that I’m not going to answer a single one.