. . . Max could barely breathe. His chest constricted as the memories pummeled him in torrents, unyielding and fierce. His heart thundered in his chest, causing his vision to tunnel and his face to burn. He had to get out of that fucking office, but his brain couldn’t send the signals to his feet quick enough. And there was pain in his chest. He rubbed at it, while trying to tell Elliot that he thought there was a high chance he was having a heart attack. But no words came from his breathless mouth.
He didn’t see Elliot move, but there he was, kneeling at Max’s side, imploring him to breathe deeply, calmly gripping his forearm. Although Max could feel his psychiatrist’s urgent fingers, he couldn’t answer. The panic choked him. It was almost funny. Here was his shrink, begging for Max to talk, to open up, and the one time Max wanted to, he couldn’t. Now, that shit was ironic. He collapsed in his chair, aware of voices, but unable to respond. It was almost as though he was outside of himself; floating above his body, watching the tsunami of emotion drown him.
And that was his last thought before the jaws of suffocation consumed him completely: I’m dying.
“I was wondering when you’d call.”
Max blinked. “You were? But . . . how did you know I got your number?”
She laughed. It was a lush, sweet sound that made Max smile. “Riley may have told Amber. Amber told me.”
“Amber?” Max frowned. “Oh, you mean body shots girl.”
She laughed again. “That would be her.”
Max chuckled. “Fuckin’ Riley.”
The silence that overtook the phone line was hesitant but exciting. Max’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He pinched the bridge of his nose, silently pleading for a rush of testosterone or something to help him grow some balls and ask the girl out.
“So you called . . .” Lizzie prompted.
“Yes!” Max exclaimed quickly. “Yes, I did. I . . . well, I didn’t get a chance to speak to you at the party the other week and—”
“Yeah, you stood on the other side of the room smiling at me all night and never made a move. Were you waiting for an invitation?”
Max barked a laugh. Her attitude was incredibly sexy. “Well, damn, woman, don’t go easy on me, huh?”
Her laugh got louder. “I won’t! Am I really that scary?”
“No! No, you’re gorgeous, I mean, you know, and not scary and, fuck, I mean, I just, well, you were with your friends and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Max?”
The way she said his name made the muscles in his stomach tighten. “Yeah?”
“I’d love to go on a date with you.”
Max awoke slowly. Sounds, smells, and sensations nudged him into consciousness, where, for two awesome seconds, he forgot that he was a zillion miles from home and in a strange bed. Wait. He was in bed? He glanced around. Yep, he was back in his room. What the hell? The last he remembered, he was in Elliot’s office—
“You had a panic attack.”
Max startled at the sound of Elliot’s voice. He lifted his head from the sumptuous pillow and, through tired eyes, searched the room for him. Elliot was sitting in one of the fancy, high-backed chairs on the far side of the room, right leg crossed over left, watching him carefully.
“I gave you a shot of midazolam, which made you sleep.” He waved a hand, gesturing to the bed. “I thought you’d be more comfortable in here, rather than the sofa in my office.”
Max rubbed his face, a dull ache tapping at his forehead. “Great.” He sat up gradually, his surroundings swimming. “I forgot how fun they could be.”
Elliot didn’t miss a beat. “You’ve had panic attacks before?”
Not like that.
Elliot nodded into the ensuing silence, his jaw twitching. “It can be caused by any number of things. In your case I think a combination of your low blood sugar and the topic of conversation contributed to an attack of considerable severity.” He sat forward. “You need to make sure your hypoglycemia is under control, Max.”
“I know.” Max’s appetite had been through the damned roof thanks to his coke withdrawals and his meds and, despite the clucking of the kitchen staff, he’d been eating all the wrong shit and not testing his bloods regularly. He just ate. And ate. Dammit, he’d be going back to New York looking like the fucking Pillsbury Doughboy. Hoo-hoo!
“Check bloods. Eat better,” he muttered. “Got it. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Elliot replied sharply. He stood quickly from his seat and approached the bed.
Unused to hearing Elliot so annoyed, and feeling less than golden, Max snapped, “What’s your problem, Doc?” Elliot was usually so calm, so passive.
“I don’t have a problem, Max,” he replied quietly. “You do.”
Max snorted. “I only have one? You need to get with the program, man.”
Elliot ignored his attempts at levity. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Max in a way that made him want to hide under the covers of his bed. “Do you realize that today was the first time since you were admitted that you spoke at length about your past, about Lizzie?”
Max swallowed the bile that crept up his throat.
“Max, brief comments about your father aside, today you unleashed a decade of grief in fifteen minutes. Grief that’s been sitting inside of you, festering, buried under a quick wit, a ton of coke, and emotionless fucking.”