Page 4 of Wicked Sin

It took me way too long to figure out how to be good.

Deep down, I know I have nothing to be proud of.

So I push away the thoughts of myself—don’t intrude now, don’t ever intrude here, I’m trying to be fucking helpful—and lean in.

“We are the hardest on ourselves,” I murmur to my peer counseling client. Easy to say. Not easy to do anything about.

“I just…” The woman sitting across from me sobs and wraps her arms tight around herself.

“You took a big step by coming here and talking to me.” I scribble that on the pad of paper between us. The first point on a tangible list of successes I want her to look at over the next week until session number two. “What else are you proud of?”

“Boundaries,” she mumbles.

Maintained healthy boundaries, I add to the list. “Great.”

It takes twenty minutes to get two more things jotted down, but when she leaves, she’s clutching the list tight in her hands, and I’ve done my job for another day.

I put my notes in her folder, and then lock that away in my filing cabinet.

Then I sit back down in my chair and close my eyes. I share this office with two other peer counselors, and one of them will be coming in shortly. But I have a few minutes to myself. I’m going to take them.

Deep breaths. In and out. Focus on the now.That was a good day. It was. There’s something calming about coming in for a shift here. I turn my phone off when I arrive, and the outside world fades away.

Nothing but healing. Nothing but service.

It comes with a price. I’ll be exhausted and need to have a nap when I get home. But later…maybe later I’ll go dancing.

I need to cut loose.

I’m wound tight, tighter than usual. There’s a faint, nervous tremor in my belly and my chest, and it won’t go away. I don’t believe in full moon stuff, but there’s something in the air today, and it’s not good.

Taking one last long, slow breath, I open my eyes and stand up. Time to go outside. Head home and figure out how to bring some of this calm with me.

Three days until my next shift.

It’s not healthy to need this job to be mentally stable.Nope. But that’s how it is, anyway.

I grab my bag, put on my sunglasses, and lock up. In the anteroom, one of our volunteers is staffing the front desk. She points to the video monitor we have that shows a live feed of the front door of the building.

“There’s a guy loitering out front, FYI. He hasn’t tried the front door or the intercom.”

There are a few other agencies in this building, and people are allowed to wait in the parking lot. But our general practice is to keep each other, and our clients, appraised of people at the entrance. Just in case it’s someone we know—and want to avoid.

I peer at the screen.

I don’t recognize him. Tall, fit, with dark hair, long on top—enough that he could tie it back if he wanted to, but he clearly doesn’t—and short on the sides. He’s wearing jeans and heavy boots, and a leather jacket even though it’s close to ninety degrees outside.

He looks like an extra from a show about a romanticized biker club. No, he’s too good looking to be the extra. He looks like the star.

He looks like sex on legs.

He looks, most definitely, like danger.

But I stare danger in the face and give it the finger, so whatever, I don’t care.

Shrugging, I pull my phone from my bag. “I’ll steer clear of him, thanks.”

She waves goodbye, and I head for the stairs. As I take them down to the lobby, my phone starts to vibrate with the incoming messages I’ve missed while it was turned off today. I slow down as I hit the ground floor, scanning the space beyond the locked entrance. I could check those messages, but that guy has wandered away from the entrance, so now’s a good time to get outside and make sure the door locks behind me.

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