Black Falcon: Complete Series Collection (107 page)

“Yeah.”

“Have you two always been close?”

My mind wanders back to when we were kids. Every event I picture, I see Trip standing right next to me. “Yes. Since birth we’ve been inseparable.”

Her pretty pink lips twist. “Until now.”

I pick at the leather cuff on my wrist and shrug. “That’s not what this is all about.”

Frannie pulls the black-framed glasses away from her face, revealing a clear shot of the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. “I don’t mean to sound as if I have already pinpointed anything. I just want to get to know you—to understand what you’re feeling.”

I stare down at the thick leather cuff again. “Even I have a hard time understanding that sometimes.”

“What do you mean?” The softness in her voice wraps around me, making me almost believe she actually cares.

“I...it’s just, I’ve never been great at telling people what’s really on my mind. Talking
feelings
has always been difficult for me.”

She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them in the opposite direction. “But aren’t you the predominant songwriter for your band?”

I quirk an eyebrow, and my mouth pulls up into a half smile. “You’ve been researching me?”

A simple shrug and the slight blush staining her cheeks tells me she’s definitely looked me up. “I wanted to be prepared. Songs usually convey the emotion its writer is feeling at the time. Knowing facts like you’ve written most of the songs tells me that you’ve been able to express yourself through music in the past.”

I pull my lips into a tight line as I consider what she’s saying. I guess I’ve never really thought about it, but she’s right. Thinking back on most of the songs I wrote completely alone, the lyrics have always evolved from something that was going on in my life. Maybe she’s on to something, but it still doesn’t mean I can completely open myself up to a stranger when I’m not even sure what the fuck is going on with me.

I sigh. “Maybe that’s true, but that sure doesn’t help right now. What’s all this have to do with me talking to you, anyhow?”

She levels her gaze on me. “Why not use music to express your emotion?”

I laugh. “You mean like sing to you? No way. That’s ridiculous.”

She raises her brow. “Is it?”

“Yes,” I tell her simply.

Frannie stands and walks over to her desk and grabs a black notebook from a drawer. She comes back and stands before me. “Here.”

I take the notebook from her outstretched hand. “What exactly do you want me to do with this?”

She remains standing in front of me. “Since you seem to find it difficult to express emotion through traditional channels of communication, let’s try something different. If a song comes to mind that touches you for any particular reason, write it down, and we’ll discuss it.”

I twist my lips, attempting to hide my smirk as I rise from my seat. “I’d much rather
you
touch me.”

“Tyke—”

I raise my hands in surrender. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, and that it won’t happen again, but I’m afraid lying to my therapist is bad karma.”

Frannie shakes her head. “Please try and write your feelings in the notebook. It’ll give us something to talk about when I see you again in five days or so.”

I tilt my head. “Five days? I thought we’d be seeing each other on a daily basis.”

A small frown crosses her beautiful face. “The last thing you’ll feel like doing for the next three days is talking to me about your feelings. Detoxing will not be pleasant, and you won’t be able to focus on anything else.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes again. Why does everyone and their fucking brother keep saying that? “Don’t worry, Frannie. I’m no crackhead. I’ll be the same as always for the next few days.”

I fully expect her to answer me, but she doesn’t say another word, just simply sighs again, and leads me toward the door. “I’ll see you once you’re able, Tyke.”

When I leave her office, I catch myself shaking my head. Everyone always fucking doubts me. I hate that shit. I’m about to show everyone that I’m the one in control of my life and body, not some substance.

I toss and turn in the small twin bed in my room all night; the craving that usually creeps in late at night when I have too much idle time to stress over the ultimate demise of the band coming at me in full force. Thanks to Timothy and Dr. Shepherd flushing all my benzodiazepines and oxycodones, along with everything else I brought, down the toilet right in front of me, I have zero chance of scratching that stupid itch for a high. But still, it’s not anything I can’t handle. I’m still in control.

A loud knock on my door jerks me awake, and I squint at the morning sun pouring through my window. “Mr. Douglas, breakfast in ten minutes.”

I groan at Timothy’s voice, wanting no part of getting up yet. “I slept like shit, and I’m not hungry.”

“There’s no sleeping in, either.” I toss my pillow across my face and will Timothy to just go away. “I’ll be back in ten minutes to assist you if you aren’t downstairs.”

“Jesus. This is a fucking concentration camp,” I mumble to myself before sighing and tugging the pillow away from my face.

The dark hardwood is cool against my bare feet as I make my way over to my duffel bag and pull out some clean clothes. I eye the notebook Frannie gave me, lying on the dresser as I tug my black T-shirt over my head.

Think of songs that express how I feel, huh?

I grab the pen on top of the notebook and grip the cap between my teeth, pulling the pen free. I stare at the blank page that’s just begging for some words to be scratched on it. I glance around the small room, suddenly feeling very trapped in this place. Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box” pops into my head, and I begin to hum the iconic intro and sing the words to the song, wondering if the front man of that band, Layne Staley, felt trapped in his own prison when he was writing that song.

I smile as I close the notebook, not elaborating on the lyrics of the song, simply writing the title and the band down. I’m sure that’s not exactly what Frannie had in mind when she asked me to document my feelings through the use of songs, but hey, at least I’m fucking participating in her little assignment.

I open the door to my room just in time to see Timothy, arms poised, ready to knock on my door once again to no doubt help me find my way to breakfast like he threatened moments ago.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise the moment I step past him and clap him on the back. “Heading there now, big guy, and as you can tell, I’m fit as a fucking fiddle—told you guys that I didn’t have an addiction problem.”

He sighs as he follows behind me. “Being hooked on benzodiazepines is no less threatening than any other addiction, Mr. Douglas. Anti-anxiety medications are powerful medications. It can take twenty-four hours for the first effects of withdrawal to appear. I’m guessing you dosed up before coming to us yesterday, so you’ll be jonesin’ for your next fix soon. But we’ll be here to help you through it.”

I open my mouth to protest again, but quickly close it because I’ve said it enough times to know now that, no matter what I say, they’re going to believe what they want—that I’m an addict. It’s why I’m here. Everyone working here, including Frannie, has lost sight of the fact that drugs can be used purely recreationally.

The moment my boots hit the first floor, my mouth begins to water and it’s not because of the delicious aroma of buttermilk pancakes wafting through the air. Frannie stands in the dining room, talking to a short balding man. She’s laughing again, and her face bears the same carefree expression she wore the very first time I spotted her—the one that drew me to her and made me crave the time in my life when I was that happy. She’s truly an exquisite creature; one I shouldn’t be thinking about the way I am. Frannie is off-limits. That’s been made clear to me by not only her, but the staff as well. That still doesn’t deter me. If anything, it only increases her allure.

She turns to me, smile still on her face, and says, “Good morning, Tyke. You look well this morning.”

I grin, knowing she, along with the rest of the crew here, fully expected me to be brought to my knees this morning, but I’m glad to prove them all wrong.

“Told you I’d be fine today.”

She tilts her head and examines my face like she’s ready to argue with me, just like Timothy did only moments ago, but she doesn’t. “Well, maybe I will see you today then.”

“Looks like it.”

I wink at her as I pass by her and head into breakfast.

F
rannie The green and orange sweater that Arnold, my nine thirty session, is wearing completely distracts me. First of all, it’s September, and while the constant beating heat of the summer has begun to drift into the crisp feeling of fall at night, it’s still too damn hot for a sweater.

I study Arnold’s features as he prattles on about never being liked in high school. It’s what he believes has led to his addiction issues. His short stature, coupled with his obvious beer gut and balding hairline, makes it hard for me to picture him as ever being young enough to be a teenager.

“The turning point is when I asked Lesley Peacock to the Junior Prom. When she turned me down, I couldn’t get over it,” Arnold explains as he continues to shrug his shoulders over and over as if he, himself, isn’t exactly sure about the story he’s telling me. “I think she broke my spirit, and I turned to drinking to cope.”

I’m not buying that. I know it’s not professional, but I want to roll my eyes. “Arnold,” I interrupt. “Are you saying that
that
one moment was
impossible
to get over? That one simple rejection sent your life onto the path of self-destruction? There’s nothing a little deeper that haunts your mind every day? Something you turn to alcohol to forget?”

Arnold’s lips pull into a tight line as his eyes drift up toward the ceiling. “Nothing that I can think of, Frannie.”

I glance down at my cell on my desk, noticing a new text message. “Our session time has come to a close. What I would like for you to think about is if there’s something else that bothers you, other than a girl turning you down for a date. Something else you try to escape.”

He nods and stands. “See you tomorrow.”

The moment he leaves the room, I swipe my finger across the screen of my phone. My eyebrows shoot up when I see that the text is from my mother, asking for me to call her. Something must be wrong because I rarely hear from her. She’s either too busy donating her time to one of her multiple charities, or caught up in planning some over-the-top affair at the country club she and my father are members of.

I press the green phone symbol and wait as two rings pass before Mother answers. “Frannie, darling, thank you for returning my call so quickly. What are you doing this weekend?”

My lips pull into a tight line. Has she forgotten so quickly that I’ve recently moved? “I’m in Kentucky.”

She sighs heavily into the phone. “What are you doing in that god-awful state?”

It’s with that one sentence she confirms that, once again, she has paid no attention to what’s going on in my life. “I took a job here, remember?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right.” I can tell by her exasperated tone that she still doesn’t understand why I felt the need to go into a career field that doesn’t exactly meet her standards. “Your weekends are still free though, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“Perfect!” she exclaims, completely cutting me off. “I need you to housesit this weekend. Your father is flying to London on business, and I’ve decided to go with him. You know how I love that city, and I simply can’t resist going even if it’s only for a couple days.”

I furrow my brow. “That sounds great, but I don’t understand why you’re calling me.”

“Penelope already requested the weekend off, and there’s just no one else I trust to take care of Spencer and Ruby.”

I roll my eyes as I think about my mother’s obsession with her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel dogs. She treats those dogs better than she ever treated Annie and me. My sister would always laugh when I would complain that those stupid animals weren’t my siblings like Mother would refer to them as. Even if they are undeniably cute. “Give mother a break, Frannie,” Annie would say. “They’ve actually softened her up.” Annie would only laugh harder when I would mumble that her twin daughters should’ve been the ones to unfreeze that icy heart of hers.

Needless to say, I’m not a fan of how much Mother loves those dogs.

“Can’t one of the other staff take care of them since Penelope is off?” I ask.

“Frannie, you know I don’t just trust my babies to anyone. I’ll need you to come home for the weekend and take care of your brother and sister.”

Ugh. There it is again. I swear to God the woman is delusional.

“I can’t,” I tell her simply. “That’s a long train ride and—”

“Oh, Frannie, don’t be silly. We’ll send the jet to pick you up and take you back,” she says in a nonchalant tone.

“Mother, you know I don’t do planes since...” I feel the emotion pique in my voice, and I choke it back.

“Pish-posh. You can’t let what happened to Annie stop you from living your life. It’s been four years, Francine. It’s time to move on.” My mouth gapes open at her words.

Am I the only one who loved my sister? How can she act like being up in the air, helpless, under some random pilot’s control, isn’t a big deal after her own daughter died in a plane that went down somewhere over the Atlantic. The search went on for a couple of weeks, but all they found was part of the wing. The rest was never recovered.

There’s so much I want to say to her—no, to scream at her—about how I don’t understand how she’s not broken by Annie’s death like me. Unlike Arnold, I can say with the utmost certainty that the moment I knew my sister wasn’t coming back—that her body was likely deep in the dark water abyss, never to be seen again—I lost it. Things that mattered once before—parties, finding a husband, having a family—no longer registered. Zero attachment to anything became my new motto, one that led to me having numerous, purely physical relationships with men. I never want to feel the kind of pain I felt from her loss ever again.