Fallen Angels 04 - Rapture (4 page)

“And you have a relationship with him or her.”

“Him. I do.”

“So you’re in a stronger position than your coworker, right?” The therapist made a gesture with her hands, a physical representation of “no problem.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She’d been too pissed off.

“You should. Although I will say, there is something I’m a little confused about. Why did the CEO feel the need to intercede? Especially if the client is not only under contract with the company, but satisfied?”

“He didn’t approve of some of the … methods … used to secure the business.”

“Yours?”

As Devina hesitated, the woman’s eyes made a quick dip downward in the décolleté direction.

“Mine, yes,” the demon said. “But come on, I got the client, and no one can fault my work ethic—I’m on the job all the time. Literally. I have no life except for my work.”

“Do you approve of the tactics you used?”

“Absolutely. I got the client—that’s all that matters.”

The silence that followed suggested the therapist didn’t agree with the whole ends-justify-the-means thing. But whatever, that was her problem—and probably the reason why she was shaped like a sofa and spent her days listening to people bitch about their lives.

Instead of ruling the underworld and looking hot as fuck in Louboutins—

As the anxiety spiked again, Devina started a re-count, shifting the lipsticks one after another from left to right. One, two, three—

“Devina, what are you doing.”

For a split second she nearly attacked for real. But logic and a reality check kicked in: The compulsions were on the verge of taking her over. And you couldn’t be effective against an enemy like Jim Heron if you were trapped in a closed circuit of numbering or touching objects that you knew perfectly well hadn’t been lost, moved, or fingered by someone else.

“Lipstick. I’m just making sure I have my lipstick.”

“Okay, well, I want you to stop.”

Devina looked up with true despair. “I … can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Remember, it’s not about the things. It’s about managing your fear in a way that is more effective and permanent than giving into the compulsions. You know that the split second of relief you get at the end of a ritual never, ever lasts—and it doesn’t get to the root problem. The fact of the matter is, the more you comply with the compulsions, the stronger a hold they have on you. The only way to get better is to learn to bear the anxiety and reframe those impulses as something you have power over—not the other way around.” The therapist leaned in, all earnest cruel-to-be-kind. “I want you to throw one of them out.”

“
What
.”

“Throw one of the lipsticks out.” The therapist eased to the side and picked up a wastepaper basket the color of Caucasian skin. “Right now.”

“No! God, are you crazy?” Panic threatened on the periphery of her body, her palms breaking out in a sweat, her ears beginning to ring, her feet going numb. Soon enough, the tide would close in, her stomach doing flip-flops, her breath getting short, her heart flickering in her chest. She’d been through it for an eternity. “I can’t possibly—”

“You can, and what’s more, you have to. Pick your least-favorite shade out of them, and put it in the bin.”

“There is no least-favorite color—they’re all the same red.
1 Le Rouge
.”

“Then any of them will do.”

“I can’t. …” Tears threatened. “I can’t—”

“Little steps, Devina. This is the linchpin of cognitive behavioral therapy. We have to stretch you past your comfort zone, expose you to the fear, and then get you through it so you learn that you can come out on the other side in one piece. Do that enough times and you begin to loosen OCD’s grip on your thoughts and decision-making. For example, what do you think is going to happen if you throw one of them out?”

“I’m going to have a panic attack. Especially when I get home and it’s not with me.”

“And then what.”

“I’ll buy another to replace it, but it won’t be the one that I threw away so it’s not going to help. I’ll just get more compulsive—”

“But you haven’t died.”

Of course not, she was immortal. Provided she could win against Jim Heron. “No, but—”

“And the world hasn’t ended.”

Well, not under the lipstick scenario, no. “But it feels like it.”

“Emotions come and go. They are not forever.” The woman jiggled the little bin. “Come on, Devina. Let’s try it. If it’s too much for you to handle, you can take the lipstick back. But we need to start focusing on this.”

Sure enough, an anxiety attack bloomed on her, but ironically, fear was what got her through it: fear that she was going to get hobbled by this problem she couldn’t control; fear that Jim was going to win not because he was the superior player in the Maker’s game, but because she cracked under the pressure; fear that she was never going to be able to change. …

Devina shoved her hand into the bag and grabbed the first lipstick
that hit her palm. Then she ditched it. Just let the thing go into the wastepaper basket.

The dull sound as it hit the Kleenex balls of previous clients was like the jaws of Hell shutting on her.

“Good job,” the therapist said. As if Devina were a five-year-old who’d done the alphabet right. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m going to throw up.” Eyeing the bin, the only thing that kept her from vomiting was the fact that she’d have to lose it
on
the lipstick.

“Can you rate your anxiety on a scale of one to ten?”

When Devina threw out a ten, the therapist went on a roll about breathing through the panic, blah blah blah—

The woman leaned in again, like she knew she wasn’t getting through. “It is not about the lipstick, Devina. And the anxiety you feel now is not going to last forever. We won’t push you too hard, and you’ll be amazed at the progress. The human mind can be rewired, new pathways of experience forged. Exposure therapy works—it is just as powerful as the compulsions. You need to believe this, Devina.”

With a shaking hand, the demon wiped the sweat from her brow. Then, gathering herself inside her fitted overalls of human flesh, she nodded.

The couchlike woman was right. What Devina had been doing up to this point was not working. She was getting worse, and the stakes were only getting higher.

After all, not only was she losing … she was also in love with the enemy.

Not that she liked to remind herself of it.

“You don’t have to believe that this is going to work, Devina. You just have to believe in the results. This is hard, but you can do it. I have faith in you.”

Devina locked onto the human’s eyes and envied the therapist’s
conviction. Hell, with that kind of confidence, you were either delusional … or standing on the concrete floor of experience and training.

There had been a time when Devina had been that sure of herself.

She needed that to come back.

Jim Heron had proven to be so much more than a worthy opponent and a good fuck. And she couldn’t let him keep this upper-hand thing going. Losing wasn’t an option, and as soon as this session was over, she had to return to work with a clear head uncluttered by any bullshit.

Closing her eyes, she leaned back into the soft chair, put her hands on the padded arms, and dug her nails into the velvety fabric.

“How are you feeling?” the therapist asked.

“Like one way or another I’m going to beat this.”

“Just tell me if he’s alive.”

As Mels spoke up, the ER nurse at her bedside gave that one a total pass. Sticking out a pen, the woman said, “If you’ll sign these discharge papers, I’ll give you your prescriptions—”

Screw the Bic routine. “I need to know if the man lived.”

“I can’t divulge anyone’s condition. HIPAA. Sign this so you can be discharged.”

Subtext:
Get off my back, wouldja. I got work to do
.

Cursing quietly, Mels scribbled on the line, took the two slips of paper and the copy that was hers, and then Nurse Ratched went on to terrorize the next patient.

What a night. The good news was at least the police had called it an accident, recognizing that she hadn’t been negligent or under the influence. But there were still problems …

Glancing down at her ticket to leave, she scanned the notes. Mild concussion. Neck strain. Follow up with her primary care in
a week, or earlier if double vision, nausea, dizziness, worsening headache presented.

Her car was probably totaled.

There was no way that man was alive.

With a groan, she sat up from the pillows, and her bandaged head registered the vertical shift with a ballerina spin. As she gave things time to settle, she eyed her clothes on the orange plastic chair across the way. She’d gotten to keep her camisole, bra and her slacks on during her examinations. Blouse, jacket, and coat were just waiting to be put back into service.

She hadn’t called her mother.

The family had already been through one automobile accident—and in that case, the person who hadn’t lived through things had been her father.

So, yeah, she’d just texted and said she was going out with friends and would be home late. The last thing she needed was her mother upset and insisting on picking her up, especially given what she wanted to do now.

Mels took the whole getting-dressed effort slowly, although the foot drag wasn’t just about being a good little patient. Evidently her shot at being a crash-test dummy wasn’t the kind of thing you could brush off. She felt ancient and decrepit—and oddly terrified.

To have killed someone was … unfathomable.

Shoving the paperwork into her pocketbook, she pushed aside the pea green curtain and faced off at a crapload of managed chaos: People in scrubs and white coats were ping-ponging around, jumping into rooms, jumping out of them, giving orders, taking them.

Considering she’d already been in one collision tonight, she was careful not to get in anyone’s way as she headed for the exit.

Which she didn’t use.

The waiting room out in front was filled with various versions of the halt and lame, including one guy with a black eye and a badly
bandaged hand that was bleeding. Looking up at her, he nodded, like they were bonding over the fact that she’d gotten into a bar fight, too.

Yeah, you shoulda seen what that oak tree looked like after I was done with him. Word
.

At the front desk, she propped herself at the counter and waited to get noticed. When a man came over, she smiled like nothing was a big deal. “Can you tell me what room the John Doe from that car accident is in?”

“Hey, I know you. You’re a reporter.”

“Yeah.” She dug into her bag, got out her laminated press pass, and flashed the thing like it was an FBI badge. “Can you help me?”

“Sure.” He started tapping on the keyboard. “He’s been moved to an inpatient room. Six sixty-six. Take the elevators over there, and follow the signs.”

“Thanks.” She knocked on the counter: He was still breathing, at least. “I appreciate it.”

“You know, you don’t look so hot,” the nurse said, making a circle around one of his eyes.

“Rough night.”

“Clearly.”

The ride up to the sixth floor was an exercise in data processing that her brain flunked badly. Unsteady to begin with, the ascent gave her middle ear a workout that left her hanging on the rail that went around at hip level. Good idea to put one there; then again, they’d probably had a lot of woozy people on this thing. And the fact that the panels were matte gray metal was another bene. She hadn’t seen what she looked like, but given her reception down in Reception, the air bag she’d tried to eat hadn’t done her complexion any good.

The ding was Disney-cheerful, but the doors opened slowly, as if they were exhausted.

Doing as she’d been told, she followed the signs and found the right place, entering a long, broad hall that was marked by countless oversized doors. Things were quieter up here, although no one looked over from the nursing station as she approached. Just as well—she didn’t want to run the risk of someone asking questions, not liking the answers, and shutting her down.