Page 30 of Torched Spades
His smirk fades. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but—”
Johnny’s fingers tighten around the armrests. “I’ve shown up every Tuesday for three weeks, haven’t I?”
Controlled chaos. His body is a coiled spring, ready to strike. I’ve seen the pendulum swing between regret and ruin in men before, and I know better than to let outer charm overshadow inner demons.
I shift my gaze to the silver picture frame sitting on the corner of my desk. I’m painfully familiar with the hero-laced devil phenomenon, and from what I’ve seen, Johnny Malone is a textbook case study: a beautifully deceptive coating concealing an unapologetic monster.
The longer I stare, the more control I recover.
The straighter my spine…
The icier my tone…
Johnny may have taken my deal, but I’m not foolish enough to think he’ll make this easy on me. He’d be wise to assume the same.
“It isn’t enough just to be present,” I say tersely. “You have to want—”
He shifts forward, his expression bordering on lethal. “I want a lot of things I can’t have.”
He’s close now. Closer than a patient should be. My head knows he’s using the innuendo as a defense mechanism, but my body doesn’t care.
It’d be so easy to tip forward and press my lips against his.
I grit my teeth.No.I won’t be manipulated into weakness.
Not again.
Trapping my lower lip between my teeth, I clear my throat. “Let’s take a step back and regroup. How have things been at the docks?”
Johnny remains so quiet I nearly snap my pen in half. Finally, he lets out a brittle laugh and slumps back into his chair. “Uneventful. I unloaded, stocked, and logged half a dozen overseas shipments, but no cargo ship left the port in a blaze of glory if that’s what you’re really asking.”
I keep my expression blank, denying him the reaction he’s obviously trying to provoke.Especially because he’s right.
“There was a fire in Cranston over the weekend,” I say, turning the tables on him. “I saw on the news that the old Langley building burned down, and—”
“And you thought maybe I’d hopped county lines, lit it up, and drained my balls over the flames?”
Thought, no. Fantasized, then hated myself for it later, yes.
“I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask.” My heart skips a few beats as a tense silence stretches between us.
“I watch the news, too, Becca. The Cranston fire was set on Friday night at approximately eleven-fifty p.m.,” he says, finally. “If you check my dock timecard, you’ll find I clocked in at eleven-forty-one.” When I don’t respond, a wolfish smirk spreads across his face. “Feel free to call and verify for yourself. You’re famous around there, anyway.”
My cheeks burn again. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Why?” He pins me with that searing dark gaze, and I squirm in my seat. “Is it because you believe me or because you’re afraid of what they might say?”
Both.
“Because I’m your doctor, not your probation officer, Mr. Malone.”
“And again with the formalities.” He chuckles, a low, condescending rumble I find infuriating. However, clinging to the remnants of professional propriety, I ride out the silence as his gaze wanders around my office. “He really did a number on you, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
He nods his chin over my left shoulder. “I’m no psychiatrist, Doc, but I do have two eyes and a brain, and they pay just as much attention to you as other parts of me. I don’t see a ring on your finger, so I assume that frigid attitude and all those self-imposed rules stem from daddy issues.”
