Page 45 of Play Dirty
Warmth spread over his thigh, and he glanced down to find Azrael’s palm splayed there. Azrael gave it a light squeeze.
“Excellent. And now, your turn, Akil.”
“Alright.” Azrael sounded completely at ease, and Madigan found that, as he stared at Az’s hand on his thigh, he didn’twantto know what Azrael admired about him.
In fact, he desperately wanted to avoid knowing.
“John is—” Azrael began, then paused as Madigan jolted when his phone vibrated against his leg.
“Just a minute,” Madigan interrupted, and then swiftly retrieved the phone from his pocket. He read the message and gave the photo a cursory glance before clearing his throat. “I think we’ve done enough therapy for today.” Thank fuck.
The doctor’s gaze shifted toward Madigan and remained neutral even as Madigan lifted the screen and displayed the image upon it. But Madigan caught the tiniest flinch around his eyes.
The doctor set his tablet aside and gestured, palm up. “Alright. What game are we really playing here, gentlemen?” he asked with such calm that Madigan got the idea it wasn’t the first time one of his sessions had wildly derailed.
Azrael leaned forward, flipping open a box that had been sitting on the table between them, displaying a small black plastic disc. “During your next session with Michael Bennington, we need you to stick this to the underside of a table. Preferably a desk or some other solid piece of furniture where it will be inconspicuous.”
The doctor sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaving the mahogany strands attractively wild for a second before he smoothed them down. The gesture seemed out of place on such a put together man, and Madigan studied him closer, wondering if it had been intentional or if it truly was a sign that he was flustered. When the guy shifted, Madigan glimpsed the faint outline of a gun in a holster along his rib cage. There was probably more. A knife strapped to an ankle. Another gun. Madigan wondered how well he handled them.
The doctor leaned forward and took the disc, pinching it between his fingers and turning it before his eyes, then set it down. “I acquired the dog by accident. Someone dumped her by the side of the road. She was a mess. I got her fixed up and meant to turn her into an adoption facility. I didn’t want the responsibility. Didn’t have the time,” he said in a clipped, dispassionate tone that softened the longer he spoke. “But I couldn’t do it. I got attached in spite of myself.” He rubbed a long finger over his brow and settled a weightier gaze on the two of them. Madigan inferred the point the man was trying to make and acknowledged it with a noncommittal grunt.
Dr. Eastman slipped the disc in his pocket. “My next appointment with Bennington is in two days. I’d like proof of life each morning and afternoon. I’m sure I’m correct in my assumption that you already know every way to contact me, where I live. Most of my clients do, aside from the ones in prison.” Madigan nodded, briefly wondering what it must be like to live immersed in a world of pathological people, never fully safe. Eastman smoothed a hand over his trousers. “She’s allergic to regular dog food and needs a special brand called Terra Canine. If I’m caught by Bennington and hurt, you will not harm her or send her to a kill shelter. You will make sure she is properly re-homed. Agreed?”
Madigan shrugged ayesas Az nodded, and the three of them stood.
The doctor tucked his tablet away in his messenger bag and slid the strap over his shoulder. From his pocket, he pulled a business card and tossed it on the table. “My personal cell is on there, though, once again, I’m certain you either have it already or can easily acquire it on your own.” He sighed, and for a moment, his mask slipped, and Madigan glimpsed weariness.
He and Az trailed the doctor slowly down the hallway.
At the door, Eastman turned back to them, fixing them with a gimlet-eyed stare. “Neither of you are true psychopaths, by the way. Borderline, perhaps. But neither of you would be suffering were you pure in your psychopathy. Your relationship troubles stem from the fact that you’re both deeply enmeshed with each other and despise the idea of making yourself vulnerable to the other. Your profession reinforces and rewards mistrust, I suspect, and likely, you have both been either betrayed by someone close to you or witnessed repercussions of such a betrayal. Yet, the pull is strong enough that you can’t resist. You cycle through the same pattern over and over again: intimacy, betrayal, retreat. You treat it like an addiction to avoid the truth: that you’re in love with each other. But you’ll have to make yourselves vulnerable if you truly want this relationship to survive. You get off on the competition with each other. Fine. Find a way to accept these truths and capitalize on them in your relationship. That’s the only way it will work.”
He let himself out, and Madigan watched the man’s back disappear down the hallway, his jaw still unhinged. After a moment, he shook his head. “He’s a strange man.”
“Very,” Azrael agreed.
“Do psychiatrists take the Hippocratic oath? He didn’t seem particularly concerned about betraying one of his clients.”
Azrael leaned out and checked the hallway before he pushed the door fully shut and locked it. “I think so. But again, he’s an unusual man. Perhaps he has his own motivations.”
“He could leave right now and sell us out. Reveal where we are.”
“I don’t think he’ll do that. It wouldn’t serve him.” Azrael reached out and caught Madigan by the wrist. “The things he said, Madigan, I think we should—”
“Later,” Madigan clipped, pulling out his phone as it vibrated once more. He glanced down at the message on-screen and strode toward the dining area where he’d left the laptop a courier had delivered a few days prior. “Cas just sent the layout of Bennington’s compound.”
Madigan dropped into a dining chair and fired up his laptop, decrypted the email Cas had sent, and pored over the information, only noting Az’s absence when something clanked in the kitchen.
“Aren’t you going to come look at this with me?”
“In a minute.” Az appeared at the bar counter separating the kitchen from the dining area. “I’m making dinner. You’ve hardly eaten today, and I’m tired of takeout. Everything’s too fucking salty.”
Madigan’s lips twitched. “Feeling bloated, sweetheart?” Az flipped him off, and he returned the gesture. Az didn’t look remotely bloated. He looked like a fucking snack in a casual tee with a kitchen towel tossed casually over his shoulder. Like a domestic fantasy come to life.Fuck. Since when had Madigan had anything remotely approaching a domestic fantasy? Never. Regardless, his stomach twinged with an ache that wasn’t a hunger pang, and his smile faded. “I did eat earlier.”
“Then you can watch me eat.” Az nudged his chin toward the laptop. “I’ll take a look at it in a bit. How’s this: Itrustyou to figure out the best course of action,motek.”
* * *
The fragrant spicesthat filled the apartment had kicked Madigan’s hunger into high gear, and he finally relented, eating the plate of rice and beans Az set on the table in front of him an hour later. The man could fucking cook, Madigan would give him that.