Rock My Body (Black Falcon #4) (12 page)

He taps his thumb on the cover a couple times and then shrugs. “Just one song.”

I slip my glasses on, ready to take some notes. “Care to share what it is?”

“‘Man in the Box’ by Alice in Chains. I know that’s probably not exactly what you were hoping for, but it was all that I could think of.”

I ponder over the song he’s just given, trying to recall in my brain the lyrics, but nothing comes up. “I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with that song. Can you tell me a little about what it’s about?”

Tyke smirks. “Not a metal fan then, huh?”

“Not really, no, but I know that’s what Black Falcon plays.” I blush again, knowing full well, after all my research that it’s the type of music he plays.

He picks at the thick leather cuff on his wrist. “It’s cool if you’re not a fan. Metal isn’t for everyone, I suppose, just please tell me you’re not one of those chicks who’s into the bubblegum sounding top forty hits. That would break my fucking heart.”

I laugh. “If you’re talking about all the music that sounds like it could be on the Disney channel then, no, but I won’t say I’m a pop hater. I like anything with a good beat, but I’m more of an alternative girl.”

That earns me a smile. “Alternative? Nice. I can work with that. I’ve been really diggin’ the Artic Monkeys lately.”

“I love them,” I say, excited that someone else appreciates the complex sound of that band. “‘Do I Wanna Know’ is one of my absolute favorite songs.”

That causes him to raise one eyebrow. “That’s a pretty deep song. Does it make you think of anyone when you listen to it?”

I instantly shake my head. “No. What makes you ask that?”

“That song is basically about a guy who is so lovesick he doesn’t know what to do with himself. I was curious if I need to be concerned that you’re already in love with someone else, and you turning me down a few minutes ago had more to it than just the off-limits factor. I like to know exactly what I’m up against.”

My stupid blush rushes back to my cheeks in full force as his eyes stay locked on mine, waiting for my answer. The heat of his stare is almost too much to take, and I’m tempted to drop my eyes away from his gaze, but I don’t. I want him to know that I’m in control of the situation going on between us.

After a long moment, I sigh. “There’s no one else, but—”

“That’s good to know,” he says, seemingly delighted by the news.

“I meant what I said before. Nothing can happen between us.”

He holds up a hand and tries to fight back a grin, like he knows no matter how much I resist, my giving into his advances is inevitable. “Strictly professional, I got it.”

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and say, “Good. Let’s get back to the song. I’m going to guess it’s about a man being trapped.”

Tyke nods. “Yeah. After being basically on lockdown in my room last night and ordered to be on time for breakfast, I feel a little closed up in this place.”

I make a note about checking into the daily routines of the clients a little more with Wayne. “What did you do when you went up to your room last night?”

“You want to imagine me in my room? Sleeping in the buff, perhaps?” His teasing tone doesn’t go unmissed, and I shake my head again at his crassness.

“I simply meant do you feel that you’re not getting adequate time to reflect on the day and unwind?”

“I never get that. Doing what I do for a living, there’s always somewhere to be, or something to be doing. I typically keep going until I pass out,” he answers.

“Pass out?” I question.

Tyke rolls his eyes, not missing what I was getting at. “From exhaustion.”

I frown. “That’s a shame. What good is it to be so successful if your life is no longer your own?”

“It is what it is, Frannie. Sacrificing your personal life is sort of expected in the music business.”

I knew musicians were always busy, but hearing it from him directly that he basically has no life other than his job makes me sad for him. “Why do you continue to do it if you’re not happy?”

“I love making music. It makes me happy. All the bullshit that goes along with it is what I hate. Once music is in your skin, it’s impossible to just scrub it away. It sticks with you, and like it or not, you’ll never be able to walk away, even if you want to. Just the thought of not being able to do this for a living makes me so fucking anxious that I can’t breathe.”

I make another note, beginning to understand where his addiction began. “So when the business side of the music came into play, adding pressure to your creative process, is that when you first began taking benzos?”

He fidgets in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with me getting down to the nitty-gritty so quickly. “I think so. It all began when I went to see my doctor and mentioned that I constantly felt anxious that something was going to happen with the band, that everything we’ve worked for would be yanked away from us.”

“And he wrote you a prescription for benzodiazepine to help calm your nervousness about the inability to control the outcome of your future?”

He nods. “Yeah. And then once I started taking them, I liked the way they made me feel. The way they helped me forget sometimes that the band falling apart is always a possibility.”

“So what led you to the point in your life where you determined that benzodiazepines alone was no longer enough of an escape?”

He rubs his palms up and down his thighs, along the material of his jeans, as he stares down at the floor. “I’m not sure exactly. I think everything began gradually. A bump of cocaine here and there, topped with the alcohol that we always partied with . . . I don’t know . . . I like the feeling of not worrying.”

My heart breaks for him. While I might not have turned to drugs to help mask the pain I felt after Annie died, I did turn to the one thing I found helped take my mind off it. “I can understand wanting to forget for a while.”

His eyes flick up to mine, and I can see the relief in them. “You can?”

I nod, feeling myself teetering on the edge of professionalism. Exactly how much of my own personal life should I be revealing to him? “I think everyone reaches a point in their lives when they want nothing more than to forget something, or forget the possibility that a good thing can go terribly wrong at any time.”

“You’ve felt that way?” he asks, his need to know the answer burning in his eyes. It’s like he wants confirmation that he’s not alone in struggling with the crazy feelings going on inside him.

I know it’s not professional, but I think sharing might be the only way to make him understand that everyone feels the way he does from time to time. “Yes, for a long time. My sister—my twin—died, and it’s a pain I’ve been running from for nearly four years.”

He licks his lips slowly as he digests what I’ve just told him. “What’s that like? Losing your twin?”

I sigh as the familiar pain grips my heart like a vice as I think about Annie. “I imagine losing anyone you love is probably hard, but in my mind there’s nothing that could be harder than losing my sister. She was the one person who understood everything about me, the one person who knew all my secrets and understood my crazy personality. It’s hard not having her in my life anymore. Annie” —I take in a ragged breath— “she was my other half, my soul mate, someone who can’t be replaced.”

I fully expect him to pepper me with more questions, but instead he returns his stare to the floor. I wonder if any of what I just told him makes sense.

I open my mouth to continue to push him for more about his reliance on benzodiazepine to forget, but close it the moment there’s a knock on my office door. “Excuse me a moment.”

I rise from my seat to answer the door, laying my notepad and pen on the couch next to Tyke.

I find Kimmy standing on the other side, wearing a hot pink top and jeans, chomping on a piece of gum. “Hey, Frannie. I’ve got to go into town to pick up some cleaning supplies in a bit. Do you want to come with me? It’s the perfect time to get out of here for a while.”

I glance down at the wristwatch I have on and nod. “Sure, our session time is up anyway. Let me wrap up, and I’ll be ready in a few minutes, okay?”

She nods. “Sure thing. I’ll wait for you on the porch.”

I close the door behind her and turn my attention back to Tyke, who is standing in the middle of the office now, watching me curiously, like he’s seeing me for the first time.

I interlock my fingers in front of me. “Sorry about that. I don’t mean to rush you or anything. If you need more time, I can—”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. Go. I’ve got a splitting headache anyhow. I should probably go and lay down.”

This is it, I bet. The beginning to the detox he’s been so adamant that he’s not going to experience. “All right. I’ll see you again when you’re feeling well enough to continue our sessions.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s just a headache. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

I give him a small smile. “Okay, then.”

Tyke doesn’t say another word, just walks past me and out the door.

As soon as I’m alone, I drop my head into my hand and rub my forehead. I hope I can help him. There’s always that little bit of niggling doubt in my head as to whether I’m cut out for this job or not. Can I really help people who have addictions when I still struggle with one myself? An addiction that’s become a whole lot harder to fight since I succumbed to that kiss? I should’ve known better and never allowed him to get so close. His physical presence just does something to me that I can’t explain. The moment I laid eyes on him, I knew he’d be my biggest professional challenge, but I didn’t anticipate the personal challenge as well. No matter how much I want him, I have to remain focused on the reason he’s here and try to help him overcome the darkness that threatens to envelope him.

I slump down in the chair next to the couch and reach for the notepad, my gaze pausing on what Tyke’s left behind.

A single green guitar pick.

I hold the thin piece of plastic between my fingers and examine the words he’s written on the back.

Thank you.

I fold my fingers around it and clutch it to my chest as pride washes over me.

I’m doing this.

I’m getting through to him.

“Behind Blue Eyes” – Limp Bizkit

Climbing the massive staircase back to my room takes forever. The pounding in my skull began when Frannie and I were talking in her office. Through most of our time together, I could ignore the constant thumping, but now it’s almost unbearable.

My door swings open with ease and I collapse on the twin bed, facedown. Sweat pours out of me and drenches my shirt. I must be coming down with something. It feels like the fucking flu. This is not the most opportune time for me to be sick.

I rub my forehead and then fling the sweat from my fingers when it hits me.

“Fuck. Am I really fucking detoxing?” I mumble to myself.

But as my entire body trembles, I already have my answer.

Detoxing:

Day One: It’s not pretty.

Day Two: Definitely not fucking pretty.

Day Three: Still bad, but nowhere as bad as yesterday.

Day Four: Almost there, but my anxiety levels are through the fucking roof.