Page 11 of Torched Spades

Stilling, I re-read that last line only for it to explode in my head like a tripped wire.Reese.

“Son of a bitch.” Clenching my fists, I stare at what just became a portal to my next level of hell. “What the fuck did you get me into, Owen?”

Chapter Four

JOHNNY

Becca sits across from me,her lips pulled tight and her arms draped casually over the armrests of her chair.

Four minutes of complete silence. I’m impressed.

It seems Dr. Brennan isn’t a fan of being addressed by her first name. Unfortunately, her verbal shutdown is as irrelevant as it is entertaining.

Once a patient follows you home, formalities become pointless.

Of course, that was six days ago. Now here I am, playing another game of “visual chicken” like I’m stuck on some kind of fucked-up mental merry-go-round.

“I have to tell you, Doc… Unless you’re into telekinetic therapy, I don’t see this deal of ours working out in your favor.”

She clenches her jaw, sawing her teeth like she’s chewing on a handful of rusty nails. “Why do you insist on calling me by my first name?”

“Why do you insist on not calling me by mine?” I counter. “My friends call me Johnny.”

“Yes, but I’m your doctor.”

For now.

Considering who her father is, and what a second web search uncovered, I have no intention of keeping my end of our deal. George Reese is no longer simply a lieutenant. Not long after his wife’s murder, the grieving widower’s consolation prize came in the form of a promotion. Then another. Then another. Now that I’m being psychoanalyzed by the recently crowned Chief of Police’s daughter, my sole purpose in the next few weeks is to say little, distract often, then get the fuck away from her.

Starting now.

Slipping my hand behind my back, I wrap my fingers around my gift and place it on the small table between us.

She adjusts her glasses, those arctic blue eyes narrowing. “You brought me an apple?”

Sitting back, I spread my arms across the top of the couch. “Call it a peace offering. However, this time, I’d prefer you eat it, rather than trying to crush my skull.”

Becca blushes, trying and failing to hide the timid smile tugging at her lips. “I was trying to help.”

“By throwing fruit at my face?”

“By proving you were in need of a doctor, who I assume you never saw.” Her eyes shift to my hand and the fading bruise, still visible across my knuckles.

“Well, it seems I ended up with one anyway, didn’t I?” I counter, gesturing around her office. “One might call it fate.”

Her smile shifts downward. “I don’t believe in fate.”

“I thought every girl believed in all that fate, soulmate, happily ever after bullshit,” I scoff, punctuating each nauseating word with an unenthusiastic flick of my wrist.

“Not every girl.” Her gaze drifts from my hand and settles over my shoulder. I watch as the sharp clarity she wields like a psychological ice pick dulls the longer she stares.

I could ignore it, but I won’t.

Tilting my head, I glance up to find two black and white framed paintings hanging on the wall. I noticed them last week, but art isn’t my thing, so, while finding them odd, I didn’t give them a second thought.

Until now.

“Those are…different,” I murmur.