Finding Me (The Bad Boy Series) (10 page)

My hands started shaking again, I didn’t think I even had the strength to try and understand what the hell just happened, nor did I think I could get up from the bed. But there was a pull to the letter. Slowly, I stood from the bed and walked over to the guitar. I gently pulled the envelope from the strings and held it between my hands. I ran my fingertips over the dark flourish of my name. My heartbeat quickened and I suddenly felt as though I were about to faint.

Everything was a mess, a completely colossal mess. But I wasn’t naïve. I had done this, I had blamed everything on one man. Blamed all of my fear, guilt and pain on a single day of my life ten years ago, one that not only stripped me bare but completely ruined me. I had hurt the people around me, destroying everything within my path. Trying to come back up to the surface from the darkness that drowns me daily. No one understood, nobody got it. I lost my rock, my hero, my everything. He was the man destined to protect me, protect my family, but was cruelly taken far too soon. He made me strong, and as soon as he was gone, I became weak.  

Now, I was standing in the middle of a hospital room, wondering if I could ever come back from the pain, the fear, and the betrayal of a man who had built me up, only to break me, bring me down again.

I ached. My injuries, my heart. Everything hurt, yet felt numb. With Angel's letter in my hand, I walked over to my bed and sat down. I stared down at the letter in my hands for a moment before pulling it to my chest and curled into the fetal position. I gently cried myself to sleep.

Chapter Ten

Neva

It had been two days since I left the hospital. Three days since Logan left me sitting in a hospital bed, with no clue how I was going to move forward. Two days since Angel had come to see me, leaving behind his guitar. The letter that he had placed in the strings of his guitar was still un-opened. I just couldn’t bring myself to open it.  

I was told I couldn’t leave until I had given my statement about what happened to the police. They made me relive everything that had happened in Viv’s house that day, the day that completely shattered me. I gave them a blow by blow account of how I knew Angel, what my connection was to his father, and of course how I came to have a knife in my possession.

I was told that they wouldn't be arresting me, that what happened was self-defense and once Jack got out of his second surgery he would be going straight to the prison hospital wing until he was well enough to go to a cell, to await a court date. Because of his background, and his behavior in prison, it was highly likely that he wouldn’t be seeing the light of day for a very long time. 

Since leaving the hospital I had been staying in my old bedroom at my mom's house. It's just the way I left it after running here just over a week ago, wondering what the hell I was going to do. Who I was going to choose. But now I was here for a different reason. I was here because I did choose, but I chose the wrong man.

In my stupidity, I chose a man that was not only cut off emotionally, but completely broken. Just like me. Now I was facing the consequences of my decision. The decision I made that had nearly killed me. I was released from the hospital under strict instructions that I had to see my therapist again. I flat out refused, I didn’t want to go back to see Dr. Lanier again. He opened up old wounds that never really healed, nor that old either. I stood my ground with Dr. West; subsequently, he negotiated and referred me to a new therapist.

Now, I am sitting in my new therapist’s waiting room. It’s just like every other waiting room. Clinical. The receptionist was probably barely out of high school, her persistent filing of her nails told me that my guess on her age was accurate.

“Neva James?”

A soft female voice echoes around the small waiting area. Turning, I noticed a well put together woman. She must've been in her forties, but could probably pass as thirty-five. Her mousy brown hair was
pulled into an elegant bun. Her sharp, black skirt suit gave her an air of professionalism, but the flower pin attached to her lapel, though small, showed she could be personal within her business attire.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said softly.

I rose from my seat, slowly making my way towards my new therapist. Her hand slowly came out. I shook it gently. I was caught off-guard when her handshake was more powerful than I expected.

“Sorry. I’m used to dealing with men.” She chuckled. “Follow me.”

She walked into a room and motions for me to take a seat. The room's small but homely. A desk lined the back wall, and two chairs faced it. On the other side of the room were two large, brown sofas. An old, wooden coffee table was the only object separating them. A large bookcase lined the wall behind the sofa, filled with hundreds of books.

“Where do you want me to sit?” I asked tentatively.

I could feel my hands shaking already. Knowing what was coming was making me unbelievably nervous.

“Wherever you like, Neva,” she replied softly.

She didn’t sit down. I presumed she would sit once I decided which chair to take.

I opted for the left chair in front of her desk. Placing my hands into my lap, I locked my fingers together. Trying hard to try and stop the uncontrollable tremor in my hands.

“Hmmm. Pick a number between one and ten,” she said as she took her seat behind her desk.

What? I don’t even know her name and she's already asking questions?

“Um, I don’t know. I don’t even know what to call you?” I said nervously.

“Pick a number, Neva.” She pulls out a pad and pen and starts to scribble something down, her eyes never once moving from that stupid pad.

“Five,” I whispered. I didn’t understand why she was asking me to pick a number. As I thought about what the hell was going on, I noticed her eyes finally met mine. A small smile crept across her face.

“Five. Interesting. Was that a conscious decision? Or did you pick that because it was the middle number?”

Huh?

“I, I, I don’t know,” I said even more nervous than before.

“You can call me Dr. Marsh. I have read through your file, which Dr. Lanier forwarded to me, along with your medical records regarding your recent treatment. I also have the police report about why you received medical treatment. But before we go any further with this conversation, I want to make a couple of things clear. Okay?”

I nodded.

“In here, no one will judge you. Not about the past, the present, or the future. You are safe and secure in here, and if at any time you want to end your session, the door is just behind you. I specialize in patients presenting with PTSD and also anything that intertwines with it. In your case, Delayed Onset PTSD. Most of my patients are male. This isn’t a preference, this is reality. And in reality, the condition is more common in men than women. Your case is quite rare. You are female, but your PTSD stems from childhood. With that being said, it isn’t unheard of. In this room, you are Neva James. You are not defined by your condition, unless you make it so.” She paused, scribbling something down on that pad again. “In the first couple of sessions, we are going to ease in slowly. I want to get to know you as a person before we get into you as a sufferer of PTSD. Is that okay?”

“I think so,” I whispered.

I hadn’t really been paying too much attention. My mind was trying hard to stop my hands from shaking. It was no use, now my knees were shaking. They were shaking so much I thought I might shake right out of this stupid chair.

“Good. So, what is your favorite movie?”

              “Uh … I don’t know?
Father Of The Bride
?”

             
“Really? Steve Martin’s voice kinda irritates me. I prefer something with George Clooney in it.” She chuckled. “Okay, these next set of questions I am going to fire at you. Just answer them as honestly and as quickly as you can.”

             
“Favorite color?”

             
“Red.”

             
“Walk or run?”

             
“Run.”

             
“Bus or car?”

             
“Bus.”

             
“Life or death?”

             
“Death.”

  I gasped when I heard the last word leave my lips. I could feel moisture on my face. I was crying. What the hell? My eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape. I wanted to run. I started to stand, but before I'm even out of my chair, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“You did very well, Neva,” Dr. Marsh said softly. “I want to talk to you about what I just did. I know you have the fight or flight feeling, but I can explain everything to you. Let me do that, and if you still feel like running, then I won’t stop you.”

I hesitated. I was desperate to get out of this room, everything seemed to be closing in around me. But I also wanted to know what she had to say. I oddly felt at ease. She was giving me the option to run, not trying every trick in the book to make me stay.

“Okay.” I nodded.

I sit in the chair again, waiting for her to sit down and explain what the hell just happened.

“What I just did was the oldest trick in the therapy book.” She sighed. “I apologize, it wasn’t very professional. But in turn, I have some understanding of your thought processes. PTSD can happen to anyone.
Anyone
, Neva. People who have PTSD hold their own characteristics. Some people can live with PTSD for a long time without it being much of a disturbance to their life, but others have triggers. Your triggers are quite simple, they are connected to your father.
Father Of The Bride
is about a father and his relationship with his daughter. I also looked over the file about your father’s death, his truck was red. You would rather run than walk. And, you chose death over life. Everything you do in life is centered around the trauma of your father’s death. But that isn’t where your condition stops. You have survivor guilt. You, according to your mother’s statement, were supposed to be in the truck with him. It was a routine you shared, and for some reason, that night you decided not to go with him.”

The tears that had fallen only moments ago now dried against my skin. But new tears fell, showing the hurt from the deep seeded wound that Dr. Marsh had just jabbed with her fingers.

“If you want to, I can help you understand your condition. Not just try and work through it, but understand it. If you don’t understand it, then surviving it will be ten times as hard. Neva, I am giving you the option to take hold of your life and finally live. This time, you control the outcome. You can control whether we deal with certain issues, and in turn, I will help you remember your father from before that night. The decision is yours.”

My mouth responded before my brain has time to react. And for the first time, nothing but the god’s honest truth left my lips.

“I want to live.” 

Chapter Eleven

Logan

“She's back at Mom’s house.”

Tate’s voice penetrated the room as I lifted my gaze from the TV. There was no sound, I muted the football game hours ago. I just sat and stared. Tate sighed as he realized he isn’t going to get a reply out of me. Since I left Neva’s side that day, Tate made it his mission to keep me updated on her progress. I was desperate to see her, to see how she is. But I knew I didn’t deserve to. I missed her like fucking crazy. Now, all I have is second-hand information from my best friend about how she's coping.

“She is back in therapy,” he went on, his voice lower than before.

Tate was clearly upset that Neva had to go back into therapy. What did he expect? She had been through hell the last ten years. Then the man who she claimed to love shattered it beyond fucking repair. After everything, I was surprised she's still fucking breathing.

“Good.”

It’s all I can muster to say. I didn’t need to pour my heart out to my best friend about how much I love his sister. Right now, Tate was pretty pissed I up and left Neva lying in a hospital bed only twenty-four hours after she had been attacked. But I needed to do it. She can’t heal on her own, or learn to deal with it on her own, with me standing on the sidelines hoping that she needs me. This, this is my way of protecting her, even if Neva or her brother didn’t realize it.

“Is that all you have to say, Logan? I mean, shit! Surely she deserves more than 'good', right?”

Tate moved to stand in front of me, blocking the football game and looking me square in the eyes. He was seething. He was pissed that I couldn’t even string a god damn sentence together, but he had no fucking idea how hard it has been to think, never mind talk.

“I’m not doing this with you.” I grunted.

It’s the longest sentence I said in two weeks. They’re god damn lucky I could just about drag myself out of my own bed, and take my sorry ass to class. Every damn day felt like a fucking eternity.

“And why’s that, Logan? Because you know what you did gutted her?! You are my best friend, but she is my god damn sister. What you did was unforgivable. She needed you, and you left.”