Broken: A Billionaire Love Story (11 page)

Heck could see he was already on a failing path. He tried something different, approaching the guard slowly.

“Aren’t these security measures a little stringent for a rehab facility?” he asked.

The guard shrugged. “Some big donor, he heard about someone getting out the other night and he wanted us to up our game. So, we up our game.”

“Forever?”

“I expect it’ll calm down in a bit. Maybe six months or so. These things usually do.” He shrugged. “You gonna give me a name, or what?”

Heck walked past the guard again and pushed hard against the door, trying to be as forceful as possible. “I really would just like to get in, now. If you don't make that happen, I can guarantee you that your job will be in jeopardy.”

Now, the guard frowned deeply. “Ain't nobody getting in without what I told you. You ain't got it, then shove off.”

And so, Heck trotted back down to his car. Fearing investigation from the guard at the facility, he drove down to the street. Free parking there. No one could stop him, question him. And he waited. Somehow, someone would slip up. Somehow, he would find an opening. And then...then it would all blow wide open, just for him.

Chapter 15:

The following day, when Olivia arrived at her office, Shane was already there, browsing through the materials on her desk. He only used one hand. The other was deep in his pocket—intermittently pulling out little chocolates and popping them into his mouth.

The chocolates were handed out at meals. Often patients took several handfuls with them. This was fine—this was encouraged. The way the body processed alcohol was a lot like the way it processed any raw sugar. Chocolates and other sweets were a regular crutch for the newly-initiated to sobriety.

She watched him for several moments—he apparently was completely oblivious to her presence—admiring his broad shoulders and the tight turn of his jaw and neck. He looked at the pictures of her and her mother, her and her brothers. Finally, though, he started thumbing through the folders on her desk, including the folder where she kept all the recently printed-off grad school application materials.

“Okay, well,” she said, “that’s intrusive.”

He jumped a bit, turning to her with a sheepish smile on his face.

“Sorry. I saw the insignia for the university and I was curious. You’re applying to grad school?”

“Yes.”

God, he was so handsome. The embarrassed flush of his cheeks only highlighted the bone structure of his gorgeous face. She wanted to be
mad
at him, but she couldn’t help but be happy he knew more about her. She knew so much about him—up to a point, anyway—and it troubled her that their relationship had been so one-way.

Ugh, listen to her. Their “relationship.”

“You know one of the schools is where I went for my MFA?”

“I figured that out, yes. They have an excellent social work program.”

How’s it going so far?”

“It’s going okay. Here,” she gestured at the door. “Why don’t we take a walk? It’s lovely outside.”

That was perhaps a strong word for it, “lovely.” Rather, in the ever-increasing amounts of cold and wintery bleakness, it was finally twenty degrees above freezing and the skies were clear. As good a reason as any to walk outside.

Besides—the more time she spent in public with Shane, the less she would want to jump him. Or at least, she hoped that was the case.

God, she couldn’t believe she had kissed him again, yesterday. It had taken all of her will to only model when she got home, and not lose herself in the fantasy of her lips meeting his.

For the few brief seconds they spent trekking outside, she treasured his closeness and his smell. He smelled like cedar, like campfires. She loved it.

“It’s not really going okay,” she said as they stepped into the garden.

“What?”

“The applications. They’re sort of a nightmare. I’m continually having to psyche myself up for it.”

This sort of admission surprised even her—but she thought that if she was being as open and honest as possible with him, he might return the favor.

“When I applied to grad school,” he said, “I think I got high or drunk for most every part of it.”

“Really?”

“Oh sure. It’s stressful, like you said. I think I would either fill out an application high, and then check it sober, or the other way around. Or sometimes I would just do it all high. I got a few rejection letters from places I didn’t even remember applying. And one acceptance.”

“And that’s where you ended up going?”

“Yes. Luckily, it was the one farthest from my mother. Even further than my undergrad.”

“You don’t like your mother?”

“She never wanted me doing poetry, and—hey now,” he smiled. “I thought we were talking about you?”

She laughed. “I think it’s better if these sessions focused on your issues.”

“But you have issues too.”

“Everybody has issues, Shane. But I’m not the patient in this relationship.”

There she went again—using that word, “relationship.” At least it was in a more professional context this time.

He leaned back against a tree, his hands sliding along the bark, searching. “What if I helped you with it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your application.” He found a twig and snapped it off. “What if I helped you with it?”

“I can fill out forms and all that just fine, but thank you.”

“There’s more to it than that, though, right? There’s essays and stuff?”

“Yes.”

He had started to work on the twig in his hands, bending and breaking it. It was impossible for him to keep still. She had seen this in other alcoholics, especially early in recovery. Many of them were restless—felt like they had too much to do to sit still and be quiet and relax.

“Let me help with that, then,” he said. “I’m good with that. I’m good with writing.”

She knew he had a Master’s in writing poetry—knew that meant he was probably very familiar with good writing, if not a good writer himself. But that didn’t mean he was any kind of a good teacher.

“That’s all right,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Tell me about your mom.”

“Let me help with your essays,” he said. “And I’ll tell you about my mom.”

Her gaze leveled on him a bit. She smiled. “Tell me about your mom, and I’ll let you help with my essay.”

Taking a breath, Shane brought his hands together and stretched them up, dropping the twig behind his back. He popped another chocolate in his mouth and chewed it for a few moments. She let him be quiet, let him collect his thoughts.

“I used to do a whole lot of coke, you know? A lot of coke.”

“Expensive habit.”

He nodded. “No shit. It was no fun after a while, and I kicked it. Picked up more booze in the meantime. I still know some dealers, I think...I had their numbers somewhere. But I didn't call them. What they had to offer, I couldn't take and be the way I wanted, you know? So I cut them out. That's sort...I feel like that's how my mother and I am.”

There was nothing special, particularly, about a patient talking about his mother. Olivia was just following the lines that he created. If he was letting it slip out of his mouth, then it was on his mind—and anything on Shane's mind was probably unresolved.

“My mother,” he said, squatting down and drawing in the dirt, “is not someone I get along with very well. She’s done a lot for me over the years. She’s not negligent, really. Not really. But she’s very...” he struggled. “She has a lot of character flaws that I’ve learned to just deal with and ignore. And I don’t know how healthy that is. She never wanted me doing poetry, like I said. It was never serious enough, and my Uncle, Arthur, he always agreed, of course. They both wanted me to run the family business.”

“I'm sorry. I know that's stressful. I get enough pressure from my mom, and she wants me to pursue the thing I want to do.”

Shane chuckled small. “That sounds nice. With them...every meal, you know. Every conversation. Some small little dig at it. 'How are those little poems going?' 'Are they paying you yet?' All that.”

“What did they think of your tattoos? Hard to run a business with those, I imagine.”

“Yeah.” He smiled guiltily. “They were not pleased with them when they saw them. Especially this one.” He pointed to his hand, the tendrils of ink sliding out there.

This sort of expectation sabotage was not exclusive to Shane, though he certainly taken it to an extreme.

“Anyway. My mom, she never liked anything I did. But I hate arguing with her. Everything becomes about how wounded she is, instead of talking about the issue at hand.”

“Do you have an example?”

“I don’t know. I mean, sure I do. Tons of them. It’s hard to pin down.” He tapped on the ground with the twig, found again. “Okay, here we go. Once upon a time, she and I, we’re driving, and someone cuts me off. Well, I don’t like that, and I flip the guy off. She, my mother, flips out, telling me not to do that, that the guy could have had a gun or something. Now look, our neighborhood? It was a
nice
neighborhood. Affluent. If somebody stole your car, it was to replace it with a nicer version of that car, okay? It was stupid nice. So I tell her that’s a stupid thing to think, and that she’s sort of childish for thinking that way. She calls me a child, then. We don’t say anything. Ten minutes later, we’re at home, and she asks me what I think of lasagna for dinner. Do you see? There’s no past with her. No addressing the issues. I don’t know I ever figured out what that was like for someone.”

His voice had gotten heated by the end of it. Not wanting to prod him, or look as if she was taking sides, Olivia proceeded carefully.

“What would you tell her now?” she asked.

“You mean if I had her here?” Shane flitted the twig against his leg, still restless. “If that happened like, fifteen minutes ago and we were going to have an honest conversation about it?”

“Yes. Fifteen minutes, fifteen years. Whichever. If you had her here, and you had to talk about it.”

“I’d tell her she was being stupid and I felt like the issue was unresolved.”

Small barnacles of shame attached to his words. She squatted down with him. His eyes were dark and clouded over, lost in thought.

She put her hands on his knee. She was unable to keep her hands off of him, she realized. She may as well just give in to the impulses as they happened.

“That seems like a great way to get into an argument, doesn’t it?”

“What would you say?” he asked. “She was being dumb.”

His hands slid over hers, now. No one could see them, really, this deep in the garden. If they did, they might have mistaken the touching for basic affection—comforting one-oh-one, instead of the Master's classes the two were putting on.

Olivia said, “I think it’s poor form to start off a resolution by insulting someone, that’s all.”

“How do you do it, then?”

“I think you probably would need to apologize first.”

He scoffed and stood up. “Apologize?”

To an extent, Olivia had expected this sort of reaction. She took her time standing up with him, not wanting to appear as if she was pursuing him. She didn't want him on the defensive.

“You would need to apologize for hurting her feelings. You may not have intended to do it, but from how you describe her actions and her manner, it seems like you did. Now, even if she’s mistaken, or even if she’s wrong—if such a thing even exists—you still hurt her. What you produced created pain for her, regardless of your intent. Can you see such a thing?”

“I guess so.”

“So then that means you apologize, for your part in it. Then you explain why you got offended. Then you try to describe your intent. I would do all these things in that order.”

He was quiet again. He pulled out and ate another chocolate.

“So when does she apologize to me?”

Olivia shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“How do you not worry about that?”

“Your emotional make-up is crafted from what you apologize for, Shane.” She took his hand again, and he let her. “Not who apologizes to you. Why spend your life worrying about all these things you can’t control?”

“Like whether you get into graduate school?”

She smiled at the inversion. “Well. We can worry about our own influence. Our own actions. But you’re right. Just like an apology, once an application is out there, it’s out there. That’s all I could hope to do with it.”

Chapter 16:

They didn’t discuss too much else for the rest of the session. Sitting down, in the quiet of the garden, seemed to relax Shane. She felt like it was something he needed, and didn’t try to interfere.

She also didn’t pull away when his hand drifted over to leg and squeezed her thigh. She did, in fact, press her own hand back into his, gripping the back of it close and hard.

So warm, and filled with so much burden and need...her heart burst with the desire to help him. To fix him, to make him see how whole he could make himself.

Eventually their time expired, and they needed to get to other meetings.

“If you’ll show me what you have to work on for your applications,” he said as they walked back inside, “then I’ll be able to know how to help you out a little bit better.”

It was a good idea, so she led him back to her office—and inside, waiting, was Roderick.

Oh, no.

Every terrible, panicky, anxiety-filled feeling that she had suffered through and tried to banish for the past few months came flooding back all at once.

“Who’s this, then, huh?” Roderick snapped. “Your new boyfriend?”

His thick curly hair crowded over his brow. He was nothing if not brawny—his body the kind you would expect to see on construction workers and lumberjacks, stout and thick. Nothing like what you might expect from a pharmacist-to-be.

“This is my patient, Roderick.”

“Patient.” He scoffed. “You ain’t no fucking doctor.”

She nodded. “That’s right. I’m not.” Diplomacy was her usual route with Roderick. It hadn’t worked well so far, but it was all she really knew to do. “Why don’t you leave? You’ll be in trouble if anyone finds out you’re here.”