“I beg to differ.” His calm, even tone spurs my anger even further.
“A chick? I have enough of a problem keeping my own ass safe here. I mean after everything that happened with Stella… you’re going to put me back in the same goddamn boat?” My voice hitches, and I hate that it fucking does, hate that after five months I’m still affected. I take a calming breath even though it does nothing for me. At least Stella knew the ground rules, the mistakes not to make – and yet she still ended up dead.
“You wanted to return and get back in the saddle. I told you I didn’t think you were ready.”
“So that’s what this is? Some fucking proving ground?” Fire is in my veins and ice in my voice.
“Having a tough time there, are you? Been back less than forty-eight hours, and you’re just starting to realize that whether you’re there or here in your house, Stella’s still everywhere. Not as easy as you thought, right?”
Is he fucking serious? I wasn’t aware that he ever got a doctorate in psychology. I run a hand through my hair and then lean my forehead to the glass as I recognize that Rafe’s trying to prove a point on which I really don’t feel like being the test subject.
And yes, he’s absolutely right, but hell if I’m going to admit it.
“I’m perfectly fine.” I mutter the words with more conviction than I feel. Fuck if I haven’t gotten good at repeating them over the past few months. I’m so damn sick of people asking how I’m doing. I’m alive. She’s not. End of goddamn story. How do they think I feel?
He laughs loudly into the line, and the sound grates on every frayed nerve that I have. “Keep telling yourself that and maybe one day you will be. But the fact of the matter is that you’re one of my oldest colleagues and friends, and I want to make sure you’re okay. What better way to get you on your feet again than by throwing you right back in the fire you were burned by?” He pauses momentarily to let his comments sink in and burrow tiny little grappling hooks into my nerves, forcing me to see his truth through the pain.
“This is such a crock,” I grit out between my clenched teeth, trying to figure out what’s really going on here. “Since when do I have to prove shit to you, Rafe?”
“You don’t.” He sighs in exasperation. “I don’t make the decisions, Tan. I just make sure they’re carried out.”
“How do those strings feel tied to your hands and feet?” I ask, followed by a circus tune to reinforce my puppet reference.
“Dude, her portfolio is really incredible. Top notch.”
“Uh-huh… Remind me of that when you bitch at me for losing the story because I’m so busy holding her goddamn hand so she doesn’t get us killed. I didn’t come here to put my jacket over puddles to make sure some fresh-out-of-college punk doesn’t get mud on her high heels.”
“Shit, and I packed my Louboutins too.”
The voice at my back has me whirling around, mouth lax, mind trying to catch up and put the pieces together. A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach when I see BJ standing with her shoulder against the doorjamb: Arms folded, she’s wearing a tank top with faded blue jeans, an arrogant smirk on those expressive lips of hers, and shoes that are most definitely not of the stiletto variety.
I blame the jet lag for the momentary lapse as the situation hits me full force. Rafe’s voice is in my ear babbling, and my one-night fling stands before me, but now she’s so much more than just that.
How did I not see this coming from a mile away?
“Seriously, Rafe?” They’re the only words I can form as I stare at BJ… well Beaux, I assume. My body reacts viscerally to both the sight and memory of what she feels like, but common sense tells me I’ve been played on so many fucking ends of the field that I might as well sit on the bench and throw in the goddamn towel.