Page 29 of The Chemist

Zero gave him a wink.

Diesel’s eyes narrowed, hoping Zero could read thefuck youbehind his glare.

Under the table, Diesel felt another kick. He glanced over at Jared who was giving him a questioning look.

Diesel just shook his head. He didn’t need the guys explaining what he already knew—never shit where you eat. Jesus, could he fuck up any more?

Had he known, he would have told his dick to fuck right off and gone home to take a cold shower.

11

DIESEL

Standing outside the brown-and-black attached home, Diesel glanced at his phone to double-check that he got the right address.

65 Blossom St.

Yup, he was at the right place. Then he spotted it. The little brown plaque with gold lettering announcing that this was the office of Dr. Annetta Bloom, Psychiatrist.

Psychiatrist. Like he was crazy or something. The only people who went to places like these were schizos and psychopaths. Neither of which was he.

But he had to. He made a promise to Matteo, and this was part of Matteo’s sentence. If he was a good boy, perhaps one day, Daddy M would take off his protective jewelry and let him run free once again. Until that day, he needed to earn back Matteo’s trust.

Taking a deep breath, he slid his phone back into his jeans and made his way up the concrete steps.

“Mr. Pratt, welcome. Please come in,” the friendly young woman answered on his third knock.

The house was much nicer than the dump that they were currently staying in. The walls were covered in a soft blue wallpaper with silver-and-black trimming, no doubt meant to provide a calm and soothing environment.

Diesel already hated the place.

He followed the woman into the living room where there was a large comfy-looking chaise lounge—don’t ask him how he knew what the damn psycho sofa was called. He must have seen it in a magazine or heard Levi talking about getting one for his bedroom or something. The boy was so precious when it came to luxury items sometimes.

Next to the lounge was a plush-looking armchair—no doubt the queen’s chair. Her Majesty’s throne to sit upon while she writes down all the things that are wrong with him and his entire damn life.

Why was he here again?

“Please, have a seat.” The woman gestured toward the dissection couch and waited for him to take his rightful place… under the microscope and awaiting judgment.

“Diesel. You can call me Diesel.”

“Of course. Would you like some tea? Coffee? Water?”

“How about a whiskey?” Hey, it was worth a shot.

The woman stared at him for a moment before realizing that he was kidding.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

Diesel had purposely booked these sessions in the morning so that he could get the damn thing over with, then proceed to enjoy the rest of his day. Session one was off to a good start—that was sarcasm if anyone missed it.

Once they were both comfy in their respective spots—Diesel refusing to lie down like a helpless damsel in distress, instead choosing to sit with his leg over his lap and his arm resting on the back of the lounge—they began their session.

“Before we start, I wanted to make it very clear that whatever is said during these sessions stays between you and me. Nothing you say will ever be shared with anyone else, including your boss, Mr. Sabarino.”

The doctor had been working with Matteo and the guys for several years now, so she was well aware of the château and what they all did there. Mostly, she met with newbies who were having trouble coping with the heavy amount of trauma that they all brought with them. Levi was one of those guys who met with the doc once a month, just for “fine-tuning,” as he liked to say.

Diesel, on the other hand, didn’t see any reason to come and let some strange woman judge him. If it weren’t for the promise he made to his jailer, he wouldn’t be here.

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