Page 5 of Tricked By Jack

But even now, over six months later, I don’t know why I was evicted. Only that I suddenly had to pack up, cancel sessions, and tell my receptionist that we’d figure it out.

It took me over a month to realize the opportunity I had been given, that I didn’t have to go back to a life I didn’t want. Thanks to Shelby’s constant push, I finally turned my back on the profession I never chose.

The brilliant, ruthless, and overcontrolling Charles Mortis, aka Dad, forced me into the life I’ve now abandoned. A life I’m now free of.

Freedom tastes like the bitter sweetness of my third cocktail and the knowledge that no one here knows Dr. Eve Mortis, the composed psychiatrist who specialized in violent offenders.

They only see a woman on the edge of something dangerous, and I’m loving my newfound freedom.

“Fucking hell, Eve!” Shelby shouts over the pulsing music, her blue eyes bright with mischief. “That guy at the bar hasn’t taken his eyes off you for twenty minutes.”

I glance over my shoulder, catching the gaze of a dark-haired man in an expensive suit. He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet, so I give him the smallest quirk of my lips, neither an invitation nor a dismissal, before turning back to Shelby.

“Let him look,” I laugh, pleased by the attention. It’s a novel feeling, being desired for nothing more than how I look.

It’s shallow, but after living a lifetime where my brain was all that mattered, it’s nice to be wanted by someone who might not care about my thoughts at all. Someone who looks like he could wreck me just because he feels like it.

Shelby cackles, grabbing my hand and pulling me deeper into the crowd. “Dance with me instead, then,” she demands, and I let her guide me.

Wemove together, our bodies close. Shelby throws her head back, light brown hair catching the strobing lights as she moves with abandon. I follow her lead, feeling something loosen in my chest—a tightness I’ve carried for so long I’d forgotten it was there.

When the song ends, Shelby and I retreat to our table in the VIP section. Two fresh cocktails await us—hers electric blue, mine a deep orange that matches the freshly dyed lower half of my hair.

“To freedom,” Shelby announces, clinking her glass against mine.

“To choosing our own chains,” I counter, and we both drink.

Shelby sets her glass down, studying me with the penetrating gaze that makes her such a formidable attorney. “Do you miss it? Being a psychiatrist?”

I trace the rim of my glass with my fingertip, considering. “No,” I say finally, and I’m surprised by how true it is. “I don’t miss the weight of other people’s darkness.”

She nods. “I totally get it.” And I know she does.

Shelby spends her days defending people who are most definitely guilty, getting them out on technicalities and negotiating deals. Like me, she has to close her eyes to her clients’ crimes.

“I miss you at those boss-bitch seminars, though,” she says. “Plus, let’s be honest. You were a fucking terrific therapist.”

Taking another sip of my drink, I smirk. “It’s too late to sweet-talk me now, Shel. I’m retired at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.”

She laughs loudly.

I take another sip, the alcohol burns pleasantly, loosening my tongue. “Look, I was good at listening to monsters and nodding in all the right places. I was good at pretending their depravity was just another clinical puzzle to solve.” My voice turns bitter without my permission. “What I wasn’t good at was stopping them.”

Even though it’s been seven months since Jack came to see me in my clinic, I still hear his words. The accusations. And despite trying my best, I can’t stop wondering if he was right.

Should I have stopped Valentine? Could I have? No, I don’t think I could have. He was the Hunter of NYC, and Ruby was both his prey and… well, he loved her. I know he did. But as easy as it is to blame Valentine for how things went down, she wasn’t completely innocent.

She played her role and accepted the outcome. I get why Jack is—or was—bitter. But there’s no rewriting history.

Shelby reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “You can’t save everyone.”

I snort. “Obviously…” I want to say more, but I trail off as my phone vibrates in my clutch. “Shit,” I mutter as I pull the device out.

The screen flashes with Caleb’s name, showing me three stacked messages. The last one is less than twenty seconds old.

Caleb: I didn’t know you had plans with Shelby tonight.

Caleb: Stop letting strangers grope you.