Page 1 of Done with You

Chapter One

“You know, one of these days you should probably say something,” Greg said with a slight chuckle in his voice as he rested a hand on Aiden’s shoulder. “You can’t just come to an anger management class and not participate.”

Aiden glared at the man and jerked his shoulder, so Greg’s hand slipped away. “Start seeing a therapist tomorrow. There’s no need to talk here. Just gotta show my face, so you can sign the papers.”

Greg’s brown eyes turned sad. “No, Aiden, it doesn’t work that way. You need both. You need to participate in both. Therapy and anger management together. The therapist is going to help you in a different way. Discuss your trauma and triggers more in depth, get to the root of it all, and give you long-term coping tools. But anger management will help, too. It’s comforting to be around others who experience similar intense emotions. To hear how they cope. To hear how they have slip-ups and how they handle day-to-day triggers. How they can come back from difficult episodes, and make amends with those they’ve hurt. We have tools here, too. But both this class and therapy are required for you to get back to work.”

Aiden ground his teeth together and bunched his fists as he slowly turned around to face the gray-haired man old enough to be his father.

Greg’s dark brown eyes shone like a glass of Coke being held up to the light, with sincerity, then slowly drifted down Aiden’s body until he focused on his fists. His mouth twisted beneath his thick mustache, which had twice the amount of salt as it did pepper. “You want to punch me, don’t you?”

“Did you drink and then drive here?” Aiden asked through clenched molars.

Greg’s brows pinched together in confusion. “No.”

“Then it’s not you I want to punch.”

“See, now we’re getting somewhere. Why can’t you discuss this in class?”

“Don’t need everyone else knowing my business. I’m a cop, and I’ve probably pulled over at least a few of these people. And I know I went to a domestic dispute regarding that tall motherfucker over there and his wife.”

Greg pivoted for a moment to see Damien, who was closing in on six-foot-seven, standing next to the refreshment table with a paper coffee cup in his hand. He was smiling and talking with Terry, a long-time participant and a veteran.

Understanding flashed in Greg’s eyes when he faced Aiden again. “That’s fair. Perhaps this might not be the right class for you. Maybe you need to go to one out of town, or geared specifically for police officers, where you don’t run the risk of being in a class with civilians you’ve witnessed at their worst.”

Aiden snorted and rolled his eyes. “I just want to get the fuck back to work. So just let me come here, sit, listen and stay quiet. These people don’t need to know why I’m here. We’re all here for the same reasons, anyway. We’re angry and we can’t control it.”

Greg shook his head. “No, that’s not it. At least, not all of it.”

Huffing out a breath in frustration, Aiden shoved his fingers through his short brown hair. “Look, I’m doing the best I can. I’ve been waitlisted for this therapist for months, and I finally got in to see her. She’s apparently the best for PTSD and anger. So that’s gotta count for something, right?”

“It definitely does. But you need to actually go to your appointments with her for the healing to begin. And you need to actively participate in anger management, as well.” Greg pulled his phone from his pocket. “Let me call around and see if I can pull some strings to get you into a class elsewhere, where you’re less likely to run into people you know. People you’ve encountered while on the job.”

Aiden grunted. He appreciated Greg’s effort and understanding, but the whole situation just pissed him off. Yes, he’d overreacted when he punched that drunk driver he pulled over. But the guy had his fucking nine-year-old daughter in the car with him. They’d been at a friend’s barbecue, and the dad tied on one too many, thought he was fine to drive home, and was swerving all over the fucking road.

Aiden pulled him over and was furious enough to see the man had been drinking and was driving, but when he noticed the kid in the back, Aiden lost it. He lost his temper, his cool. He lost all sense of composure, reached into the car, hauled the man out, and decked him hard across the jaw.

That’s when he saw the camera-phone vigilante who’d pulled over behind them and was filming the entire thing.

It went semi-viral, and Aiden was cast as the villain in the story.

Not the negligent father who could have killed his daughter.

Aiden was suspended from work—normally he’d have been fired, but someone somewhere was apparently looking out for him—however, in order to return to work, he had to attend mandatory therapy and anger management classes.

But everything was full and wait-listed because the world was an angry fucking place.

He’d been out of work for four and a half months and was going stir-fucking crazy doing nothing every day as he waited for the call that he was next on the list to see the therapist.

He was even willing to see other therapists. And travel to do so. He didn’t have to see this Dr. Young. But apparently, she was the best and the one who was recommended for him. So he had to at least try to see her first. And besides, all the other therapists were booked, too.

“If you want to come by and just chat one-on-one, I’m happy to listen,” Greg said. “I understand what you’re going through.”

“Do you?” Aiden bit back, his voice loud enough that it echoed around the room. All other conversations halted like cars screeching to a stop so a mother duck and her ducklings could cross the road, and every set of eyes in the room pivoted to him.

Greg swallowed, and his eyes darted sideways.

With his face on fire, Aiden squeezed his fists even tighter, shifted his eyes around the room for a hot minute, then spun on his heels and stalked out of the rec center basement into the frigid early December evening in Montreal, Quebec.

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