AVALON
"AVALON, WAKE UP."
I grumble and swat the hand in my face away before rolling over. Doing
that, however, makes the damaged skin of my back tighten and sting. I curse
and sit up in bed. Dean stands there, hovering, already dressed. His shirt
gapes open a little as he bends low. He's already wrapped up the wound on
his chest.
"Come on, baby," he says. "We've got somewhere to be."
I stretch my arms up and yawn, feeling my back pull at the movement. I
glance back. "Got anymore gauze?" I ask, reaching towards my shoulder,
trying to see where I can feel Dean's cuts against my spine. It's impossible so
I fling the comforter off me and get up, heading for the bathroom.
Dean follows and props himself against the inside of the doorway as I
turn and see his handiwork. There, in the plain light of day, is proof of how
fucked we are in the head. His name, written in blood and pain right there in
my flesh. It does something for me knowing that my name is etched into his
as well.
"Like it?" he asks lightly.
I turn towards him. "I fucking love it," I admit. I'm surprised at myself. I
never would've thought those words would leave my lips so willingly, but
around him, they just practically leap out. All of the dark desires I've got pent
up, the monster I've hidden for so long, seem to turn into simpering kittens
when it comes to this man.
Dean takes a step towards me, his arm encircling my waist as he pulls me
against his chest. The gauze under his shirt crinkles in my ears as he bends
down and takes my mouth in a heated kiss. I press upward, into him, feeling
the ridge of his hardness against my stomach as I slip my tongue against his.
His piercing rubs against it and I moan.
"Not here," he huffs a moment later, pulling back. "We really do have to
go."
"Ugh." I turn away, pushing against him. "Fine then," I snap. "Get out so
I can get cleaned up and dressed."
Dean backs away, leaving the room while I head into the bathroom to
clean myself up and come back to search for a pair of loose pants. Dean
returns to help me wrap the wound on my back before helping me into a
sports bra and t-shirt. We leave the house much quieter than we came in the
night before and I wonder if the guys ever even came home.
My thoughts turn more inward, though, as we hit the SUV, the garage
door slides open, and Dean backs out into the daylight. I watch him, staring
as if he's an expensive painting in a museum I'll never go to. Never in my life
did I think I would give this much of a shit about another person. That I
might kill for them or die for them, but I think Dean Carter has changed me
in the most basic of ways. I used to be so strong. So independent. So fucking
invulnerable.
One touch from him, though, has brought me down. The King of
Eastpoint has made me mortal, and I have no clue where to go from here.
I'm going to kill him, I think more seriously several long minutes later as
Dean pulls up in front of a building I don't recognize.
It's one thing to deceive me into thinking he's betraying me, it's a
completely different thing to rock my shit and then wake my ass up at the
asscrack of dawn only to show up at a painfully boring brownstone in
downtown with no forewarning and no information. I stare at it for the
longest time before I finally see it. My desire to maim and murder increases.
I snap my head towards him as we stand on the sidewalk in front of the
SUV. "You brought me to a fucking therapist?"
"Dr. Vikson is a psychologist," Dean says as if that makes it any better.
"I don't give a shit," I say, turning back to the car. The second my hand
latches onto the handle of the passenger side door, however, Dean is on me.
He rips me away and starts dragging me towards the front of the brown
building. It looks more like a damn townhouse than an office, but who am I
to judge where therapists choose to conduct their brainwashing, mind-
numbing business.
"Dean!" I snap, fighting against him, "I'm not going in there."
"Yes," he states, "you are."
"This isn't happening," I profess. "This can't be happening." Not after last
night. I can still feel the ache on the skin of my back. There's fucking white
gauze taped in place in case it starts bleeding today. This morning, when I'd
been getting ready, I'd seen Dean's handiwork in the bathroom mirror. I'd
looked at his name carved into my flesh and felt an answering wetness
between my thighs. I'd been tempted to drag him back to bed and fuck him to
within an inch of his life again all because the sight of his name etched into
the surface of my body reminded me of our pact to one another.
I'd thought to myself— it doesn't matter if it scars like this. It doesn't
matter if I live the rest of my life with Dean's name on my back because as
far as I’m concerned, I'll be his until the day he dies and vice versa. Now, I'm
rethinking my silent confession. I'm rethinking everything.
"Why?" I demand, putting my foot down as we make it to the front stoop.
I glare up at him, waiting, hoping like hell he has a good explanation for shit
like this, and I just can't find one. That black sign pinned to the side of the
building that reads: Dr. Mitchell Vikson, psychologist, is drilling holes in the
side of my head as if it has magically grown invisible eyes with which to
stare at and judge me. We're not even inside yet, and I can feel it.
"Avalon, a lot of shit has happened to you and I just want to make sure
you're going to be okay at the end of this," he says.
"I'm not changing my mind," I tell him. "Whatever happens—whatever
anyone else tells me—I'm going to keep to my plan. Corina has to die and so
will whoever is behind this."
He nods. "I agree."
"Then what the fuck are we doing here?" It doesn't make any sense.
"Trust me," Dean says. His dark soil rich eyes stare down into my face,
silently pleading with me to understand where he's coming from, but I just
don't. I don't know if I ever will. "You said you did last night."
"It's one thing to trust you with a knife in your hand and it's another to
trust you with this—" I gesture vaguely towards the building.
"Mitch is solid," Dean says.
"Mitch?" I blink at him. "Oh, so you're pals now? Good to know you
didn't at least look up the first psychologist that came across your computer
screen that had an availability."
"No, I wouldn't do that," Dean replies sharply. "Viks is different. He's got
a past—different from yours. Different from mine. You'll understand when
you meet him."
"No, I won't," I grit out. "Because I'm not meeting him. I'm leaving. Don't
worry, I can find my own way back."
"Or you can stop yelling on my doorstep and at least come in for coffee,"
an unfamiliar voice suggests.
Dean and I turn towards the brownstone. My eyes widen as I stare at a
massive mountain of a man—larger, even, than Dean. He looks like he's been
chiseled straight from stone. Scars dot the length of his knuckles as he yawns
and crosses his arms over his ma
ssive chest—his massive naked chest. I
barely stop my jaw from unhinging and falling off. Not only is he built big,
but he's covered in ink. He looks like Braxton's back only instead of one
place, it's everywhere.
"Viks." Dean nods.
" This is the doctor?" I ask.
“It is,” the man in question responds.
I turn back to him, eyeing him up and down with a deep scowl. “You
don’t fucking look like a mental doc to me.”
He shrugs. “Well, I’d say you don’t look like a bitch, but then I’d be
lying.”
I snort. “You’re right, you would be.” Because I exude bitch. It’s my best
fucking quality.
“Are you two coming in so I can put on a fucking shirt or are you going
to yell on my front door step all morning?” he asks. “Gotta tell ya, my wife
ain’t gonna be too happy ‘bout that; she was up all night. If she comes down
to hear ya yelling, your ass is grass and I’ll let her have ya.”
“We’re coming,” Dean insists. I don’t move. “Avalon?”
I shake my head. “I’m not doing it, Dean.” I can’t. As curious as I am
about this Dr. Vikson—who looks more like he belongs on the back of a
Harley than in a big chair talking to a crazy patient lying on a couch—I just
don’t know if I can do it, let alone if I even want to. Talking to someone
about my issues? It’s not that simple.
“Avalon, please, just … try?”
Before I can respond to Dean’s plea, the gold ol’ doc takes a step off his
stoop and towards me. I look up, craning my neck until I can actually see his
face as he stands over the two of us on the top step. “You ain’t gotta talk shit
today,” he says. “Come in. I’m making breakfast. Have an egg or two, Dean
and I’ll shoot the shit and then you can go.”
I hesitate. I still don’t know this man. I don’t trust him, but from the
sounds of it—he and Dean do have a relationship. Curiosity killed the cat and
I’m as catty as they come. I find myself nodding despite my reservations.
Dean slowly releases a breath before turning fully to the doc and holding out
his hand as if he’s now less concerned that I’ll run back to the SUV and
hotwire it to get the fuck out of here before he can reach me. Smart man—he
knows me well.
Dean and Dr. Viks shake hands like men—squeezing tight once and then
releasing just as quickly before Dr. Viks nods over his shoulder and says,
“Come on. You two can hang out in the living room while I run up and grab a
shirt.”
I don’t say anything as I follow Dean into the brownstone. Although the
outside looks like a proper townhouse, the inside is anything but. The walls
are painted in a filmy black-gray color and I don’t realize that it’s actually
chalkboard until I reach the first little image. In white, a naked woman is
poised over a cliff, just about to fall, her hair flung back by the wind, but a
smile on her face. It’s dusty and white against the weird paint, but so life like,
it startles me. It’s as if she can fall right off the wall and go crashing into the
jagged rocks that someone had added to the bottom below the cliff.
“Looks like you’ve added some stuff since I last came here,” Dean says,
pointing out the half set up crib in the corner of the living room as we come
to what looks like a split living space. One side is a massive open den area
with lounge couches and a flat screen TV that would make any sports jockey
weep with envy, and the other is a state of the art, black and chrome kitchen
complete with an island bar and double ovens. It even smells like someone’s
already been baking and that’s because someone has, I realize when I glance
to the top oven and note that the timer is already going, meaning something’s
in there. From the smell of it, I’d guess blueberry muffins. I glance, once
more, out of the corner of my eye at Dr. Viks. Dean and I are definitely going
to have a long talk on the way home.
Dr. Viks grins. “Haley’s pregnant,” he says.
“Shit.” I stiffen at Dean’s voice and glance at him out of the corner of my
eye, but I’m relieved he doesn’t look jealous or even particularly interested.
The happiness is all for his friend. “Congrats, man.”
Dr. Viks nods and then heads for the staircase we passed on the way here.
“You two hang out, I’ll be right back. Grab a drink from the fridge if you
want anything.”
After he heads up, I don’t say anything for a long while. I just turn and
survey the house. It’s interesting. The chalkboard walls run (?) down the
entire length of the front hallway. Everything in the kitchen and living room
is more normal—beiges and grays. Monotone and boring. Very unlike the
man who lives here. A psychologist doctor with a body full of tattoos. I turn
and eye Dean once more.
“So, how do you know him?” I ask.
Dean shrugs, moving past me as he heads into the kitchen. “He’s helped
me out before,” is all he offers as he cracks open the refrigerator and pulls out
a carton of orange juice. It’s more than that. I can tell from how comfortable
he is. He just casually goes looking for the glasses and pours himself a drink
before settling in at the bar. I step closer until I’m right next to him.
“With what?” I press.
Dean scrubs a hand down his face before reaching out and fingering the
side of his glass. “He used to work for my father before he decided to go back
to school and after he did … I don’t know, I just started coming to him for
“So, he’s your therapist,” I conclude. “Never would’ve called that.”
“I didn’t say he was my therapist, but there ain’t nothing wrong with
having somebody to talk to, baby,” he replies quietly.
Tension fills the air between us—once so natural there and now foreign.
It hits me what he’s waiting for. Judgment. Though not all of the anger leaves
me, a lot of it fades away after I make that realization. I set a hand on his
back and lean down, pressing my face against his shoulder. I’m tired as shit,
cranky, and my spine aches, but this needs to be said.
“I don’t like being tricked into coming here,” I admit, my voice barely
above a whisper. “But I’m never going to criticize you for doing what needs
to be done—even if that means needing to talk to someone.” I’m not that
selfish. I know I’m not the only one with scars from my past. They all have
them—Dean, Abel, and Braxton—and though some of the scars may be
visible, I know more than most that the majority of them are hidden deep
down, buried within. Those are the ones that hurt the most.
Dean stretches back on the bar stool, the crinkle of gauze and wrapping
sounding from beneath the front of his shirt, making my lips twitch.
Footsteps on the staircase have both of us looking back as Viks makes a
reappearance. He finishes tugging the fitted gray Henley he's slipped on
down his ink stained abdomen, and I'm surprised by just how normal he looks
without all of those tattoos clearly visible. If he wasn't such a massive figure
as he strides through
the hallway towards us and cuts into the kitchen, he
might actually pull off a doctor look.
"Eggs?" he asks, reaching beneath one of the cabinets and withdrawing a
skillet.
"Whatever you're cooking, I'm game for," Dean says.
"You?" Viks glances at me as he speaks.
I shrug. "Don't really care."
He nods, accepting my answer. "Eggs it is, plus the muffins..." He sets the
skillet down on the stove and frowns. "And bacon. Can't go wrong with
bacon."
I don't want to like him. He's a doctor, but the second he says bacon, goes
to the fridge, and pulls out a huge package of thickly sliced meat, he's my
new favorite person. My stomach rumbles at the sight and both Viks and
Dean chuckle. I roll my eyes and scoot over to take the seat next to Dean.
Silence descends as Dean and I watch Viks cook. He seems comfortable
in the kitchen, no tension in his shoulders even though he's got strangers—or
well, one at least since he appears to know Dean well enough—just sitting
here watching him. The timer on the oven goes off and he leaves the eggs and
bacon alone long enough to move over and take out the muffin pan.
As soon as he's done whipping up scrambled eggs and frying the bacon to
a perfect crisp, he dishes up a few plates and slides them to the bar along with
a few forks. "Thanks," I mutter absently as I dig in.
Viks smirks at me before reaching back for his coffee and lifting it
towards his lips. His eyes shift to Dean. "How's your dad?" he asks. Dean's
previously relaxed expression darkens and Viks shakes his head. "Still like
that, huh?"
I pause, watching as Dean's fist clenches around his fork until his
knuckles turn white. His eyes cut upward. "When was the last time you talked
to him?" Dean demands.
Viks arches a brow before contemplating his answer. He drinks deeply
from his mug before responding. "Couple months ago now, wasn't anything
'bout work. You know I don't have anything to do with the companies
anymore."
Dean nods. "And her?" He nods to me, surprising me. "You know her?"
Viks presses his lips together into a thin line and then sighs. "Yeah, I
knew who she was when y'all were coming up my steps."
"What?" I blurt.
"It's nothing against you, Ms. Manning," Viks says. "I'm not really one
for giving out information that's not asked for."