Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
I walk back to my room with a half-smile on my lips, imagining what it would be like to keep a straight face while talking to Dr. Wang. He who specializes in wangs. The wangmeister.
Looks like even when I’m having a life-changing realization, my sophomoric sense of humor is still ready at the drop of a hat.
When I get back to my room and close the door behind me, I lie down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. I thought this place was a new-age joke, where people spend a shitload of money to be told they’ve done a stellar job of working on themselves.
I thought I could just stop drinking anytime I wanted to. But if someone passed me anything with alcohol in it right now, I’d down it all. Hell, I’d drink a fucking wine cooler.
That sounds like an addiction. Fuck. What am I supposed to do now?
The spinning of the ceiling fan is strangely calming. As I watch it, I shift into relaxation, soon unable to even keep my eyes open. I drift off to sleep, imagining I’m out on the ice with my team right now.
* * *
“Hey Petrov, you suck! Get off the ice, asshole!”
I glance over at the heckler with his hands pressed to the glass, his cowboy hat pulled down low. The sound of the crowd should be drowning him out, but all I can hear is his yelling.
“You aren’t half the player your brother is! You’re a fucking baby, Alexei! Go back to the locker room and get a drink, why don’t ya?”
Hecklers usually don’t get to me. But this guy is extra obnoxious, and I’d like to get off the bench and punch him in the mouth, just to watch him piss his pants.
“You’re a failure, Petrov! A loser! Crawl back to your brother and he’ll make it all better!”
I extend a middle finger in his direction. He just laughs.
“Anton would come over here and kick my ass! You’re just a pussy! Go get drunk so you can forget what a loser you are.”
I sit up in bed with a gasp, my heart pounding and my forehead dripping with sweat. It was just a dream.
Again, I think about Graysen. I want to tell her about my dream, and ask her what it means.
I look over at the digital clock on the nightstand in my room. 2:36 a.m. I’ll be able to talk to her about things in just a few hours.
Lying back down, I close my eyes, hoping to fall back asleep soon.
I don’t want to be alone inside my head right now. There’s no escaping the realization that maybe—probably, actually—in some ways, I’m out of control. It’s not all just for fun.
And I have no idea what to do with myself now that I figured that out.
7
Graysen
Alexei runs a hand through his thick hair, and a light brown strand dips down in front of his eyes. I only spare him a quick glance, because I’m supposed to be listening to Gia during our group session today.
“Fucking is fun,” she says, her gaze squarely on Alexei. “And it’s…powerful.”
“How so?” I ask her.
Gia turns my way, giving me the slightly annoyed look I’ve come to despise.
“I guess you wouldn’t know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But when men want to fuck you, they’ll do about anything to get it. Sex is even more powerful than money. For me, anyway.”
“So you’re saying you use sex as currency? To get drugs?”
She shrugs. “I have before, yeah. I’ve also gotten lots of other stuff.”
Melinda groans. “You don’t have to do that, Gia. You’re better than that.”
Gia scowls in her direction. “Hey, thanks for the life advice, murderer.”
“None of this,” I admonish. “Melinda, we don’t judge. Addiction takes us all down different roads. And Gia, don’t be hateful.”
Sometimes I’m more babysitter than therapist. I call for a water break to defuse the tension in the room, and stand up to stretch my legs.
Since Alexei walked into my office this morning for our one-on-one session wearing dark gray sweatpants and a navy T-shirt, I’ve caught myself looking at him. Not just looking, but looking. And I feel ashamed every time, because I’m not supposed to be attracted to my patients.
I’m listening to everyone. I’m doing and saying all the right things. But when I look at Alexei, I can’t not see the smooth lines of defined biceps just past the sleeve of his T-shirt, or the way his sweatpants outline his tight ass. His casual attire makes me think of Saturday morning coffee followed by some Saturday morning snuggling.
He’s hot—obviously. But my attraction is based on more than that. In our one-on-one session this morning, when he described the dream he had last night, I could see the war waging inside him. He’s confronting his demons for the first time rather than brushing them aside.