Last Second Chance

Chapter Eight

She’d just shut down on him and walked away. Pretty damn quickly, too. He’d watched every step. Something about the way she walked had caught his eye. Either he was finally stroking out from all the drugs, or she had a slight limp.

Why in God’s name would a twenty-two-year-old, obviously healthy woman have a limp? If that asshole doctor had hurt her in some way, he didn’t even want to think about what he’d do.

While he walked back toward the facility where he currently resided, an idea struck him. One that would put him in close proximity with Stella Jo Chandler on a regular basis.

Once he made it to his room, he smiled to himself. He’d affected her. Somehow all the tattoos and piercings hadn’t mattered to her. Or if they did, she liked them. Because the cold stare she’d been aiming at Dr. Dickhead at lunch said that she wasn’t interested. Loud and clear. So loud, that Van had heard it from across the room. But the look she’d given him in the barn when he’d lost control of his mouth and told her what he wanted to do to her? That look had said that she was definitely interested.

So she could shut down and stomp off or whatever she wanted. But he had ninety days—well, close to it—to make her admit it to herself. To him. Suddenly the mandatory stay that had seemed like a lifetime felt entirely too short.

For the first time in years, he drifted into sleep peacefully. No unwelcome memories. No booze. No pills. Just the image of her in that sexy cowgirl outfit, begging him to be a better man so he’d be worthy of her.

“I overheard some staff members talking about how they need help with the animals. I’d like to volunteer. It’d give me something to keep my mind off…things. Too much time doing nothing drives me nuts,” Van informed his therapist.

Dr. Miranda McLendon furrowed her brow and stared at him as if she could tell that his motives for volunteering were a little less than honorable. Surely she couldn’t know about his infatuation with a certain sexy employee. This was his third counseling session with the good doctor, and it hadn’t gone much better than the first two. Yet, he no longer felt the need to carve a countdown into his arm with a rusty knife. But that had less to do with the actual treatment and more to do with the woman he’d dreamt of the previous night.

“I can check with Dr. Ramirez and see if we can make that happen. Meanwhile, we’ll sign you up for the riding lessons and animal care classes so that you can get familiar with the horses.”

Van swallowed hard. “Uh, no thanks. I’ll pass on the riding lessons.”

Dr. McLendon tilted her head to the side. “But you just said—”

“Look, I want to help out in the stables. Clean up. Fill feed bins. Stack straw bales. I’ll shovel shit or whatever. But getting up on one of those enormous creatures from Hell? I’ll take a pass on that if it’s all the same to you, Doc.”

“I see,” was all she said in response. But the look in her eye was a knowing one, as if he’d shown his cards without realizing it.

He hated how doctors did that. Said two words that meant nothing but made you feel like they knew everything. No one really knew shit about him. And he intended to keep it that way.

Well, for the most part. There was a certain brunette employee he wanted to show a few things about himself. Mainly how hard he could make a woman come if he put his full effort into it. Which he would. Because if he ever got a shot with the mysterious goddess that was Stella Jo Chandler, he’d give her everything he had and then some.

“Have you invited anyone to next week’s family session?” The doctor adjusted her glasses. He wondered if she was piercing his brain with her x-ray doctor vision.

“No, I haven’t.” He could’ve added that he hadn’t because there really wasn’t much family left to invite. His sister had been dead for going on ten years, his mom had crawled off into some gutter and hopefully died, and his dad had never been in the picture. He was pretty sure his mom had never even known who he was. But this woman was a professional. If she wanted to know all this shit, then she’d have to use her skills to pull it out of him. No sense in volunteering all the dark shit the voices in his head constantly told him.

“Do you intend to? Is there someone we could contact for you?” She perched on the edge of her seat. Her legs were long and smooth, and he was a man. He noticed. If he’d met her somewhere else—a coffee shop, a bar, wherever—he probably would’ve been a bit more charming. Worked his broody musician angle to get her likely pink—the same shade of her lipstick—panties off. But here, in this place, even his dick was downtrodden.

“No. And no, thank you.”

She raised her brows and sighed. “Mr. Ransom, it’s my understanding that your career is dependent upon the effectiveness of this treatment program. But I want to be perfectly honest with you.” She paused to slide her thin silver-framed glasses off and rub beneath her eyes. “It’s only as effective as you’ll allow it to be. So if you just shut off or shut down every time I ask about your family, your past, and so on, I don’t think we’ll be making much progress at all.”

Van nodded. “I get that. It’s just… It’s complicated.” He rubbed a hand roughly across the back of his neck. “There’s no right place where I can start. No beginning and no clear-cut ending. There’s no ah-ha moment, Doc. No point where I can just shine the spotlight and say, ‘Here it is, the place where everything went to shit.’” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

Her forehead wrinkled and her lips pressed into a thin line. “There usually isn’t, in my experience.”

“Your professional experience or your personal experience?”

One corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “Both.”

“Well, then. You see my dilemma.”

“You want to know what I actually see?”

Well this was new. In all of his previous encounters with head shrinkers, he’d never had one volunteer to share their actual opinion of him. Usually he just assumed they thought he was a lost cause while they answered questions with questions.

“Sure. What do you see, Doc?”

She pulled in a deep breath and looked at him. Really looked at him. Long and hard. If he were younger and gave a shit, her penetrating stare would’ve made him squirm. But he’d looked the devil and all his demons straight in the face on multiple occasions. A pretty Ph.D. wasn’t about to rattle him.

“I see a man.”

He let out a sarcastic snort. But she continued.

“One who carries things with him that weigh him down. That taunt and torture him. I see walls, thick steel ones, meant to keep everyone from seeing the vulnerable part of him. From slipping into that tiny crevice where someone might actually get in. For fear they might start to mean something to him. And then he’d really be in trouble. Because the man I see has lost everything, is in danger of losing the small semblance of a life he has left, and will do whatever it takes—drinking, drugs, sex, whatever—to keep from feeling the fear and the pain and the loss that he carries.”

Van cleared his throat. “Not bad. You forgot to mention that you have no fucking clue what I’ve lost or stand to lose. And that I should keep a journal to get in touch with my feelings.”

“I take it you’ve heard something similar before?”

“I have.” Maybe not in such exquisite detail, but close.

She set her notebook and pen on a small table beside her chair and sighed. “Let me be clear, Mr. Ransom. This isn’t every other facility you’ve been in. It’s not the traditional twelve-step structure you might have encountered in the past. And if other doctors have failed you, well that’s unfortunate. But we can’t get to know each other until you let go of that, rid yourself of that chip on your shoulder, and be straight with me.”

“So no journaling then?”

She smirked. He kind of liked her. For a doctor, anyways. She was honest, straightforward, and she didn’t give him the impression she’d be writing out her grocery list when and if he actually decided to tell her what had led him here.

“Sorry. It’s really not that type of place. Second Chance Ranch is more about facing the reality of what tempts you, triggers your addictions, and finding ways to build up a resistance to them.”

“I see.” He did his best to mimic her knowing confidence. “And you think you can do all that in ninety days or less?”

“No,” she said, surprising him. “In ninety days or less I think you can do that.”