Page 3 of Color of Love

“Good thanks, how’s business? That ex of yours turned up again?”

“Nah, you must have scared him away for good.”

“Glad to hear it, any problems you just give me a call.”

“Will do, what can I get ya?”

“I’ll have a whiskey soda, thanks.”

He looked around the bar while she poured his drink, his stomach doing little somersaults at the groups of people clustering together. A few more people had come in after him, and he was starting to feel nervous about the size of the crowd. His eyes landed on Miss Sinful again and he could just about see her face over her date’s shoulder. She looked bored. Taylor put his drink down on the bar and her sharp emerald eyes followed to where he was staring, and she smirked at him again.

“Stare any harder and I’m gonna try and set you two up,” she joked.

He shook his head. “Nah thanks, she’s not my type, just trying to place where I know her from.”

“Not your type, huh? Well, she’s here a lot, she performs here, you should check it out. She’s singing next weekend.”

He nodded and Taylor turned away to serve a group of guys who had crowded round the bar. Blake started to feel uncomfortable but pushed himself to stay there. Forcing himself to endure the discomfort, harness it and overcome it. But try as he might, he couldn’t. The men got rowdier, the volume in the bar increased. His eyes swept around the room, trying to find something to latch onto to ground him. His gaze clashed with Miss Sinful’s, her soft honey eyes seemed to lighten as she stared at him. He looked away, not wanting her to witness his rising panic. He jolted as the group of guys all burst into raucous laughter. His breathing started to speed up, he felt himself growing hot, his palms sweating.

A loud crack from behind him had him spinning around, ready to strike out, but it was just a ball rolling off the pool table, landing on the wooden floor. Taylor shouted at the guys to be careful, and Blake turned back to the bar, trying to get himself under control. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down. He gripped the cool bronze railing on the bar, attempting to use the sensation to ground him. His breathing remained labored, he could feel his panic attack rising, he tried to fight it down as his surroundings started to blur together.

“Hey man,” a deep voice said from behind him before a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. Startled, Blake switched into combat mode, grabbing the hand, and flipping his attacker over his shoulder. The body crashed into the barstools and landed hard on the floor. Blake stared down at the man, his fists raised, teeth bared, ready to use lethal force if necessary. But as he stared into his enemy’s face, his surroundings came back into focus, and he realized he’d attacked Beau.

Beau stared up at him from the ground, a mixture of anger and confusion on his face. Blake’s breath sawed out of him as he realized what he’d done.

“Shit, sorry man,” he muttered, his voice like gravel through his tightening throat. He needed to get out of there, needed to be away from the crowd. There was silence as everyone watched him. He needed to get away from these prying eyes before they figured out just how fucked up he was.

He stormed out of the bar and into the warm night, the thick air and citrus scent suffocating him. His chest began to tighten as he got into his squad car, his hands shaking as they jabbed the key into the ignition and he slammed his foot down on the gas, tearing out of the lot. He finally slowed down a few blocks later and pulled over on the dark, quiet street. He couldn’t control his breathing, his panic attack in full swing, his vision blurred, his hands gripped his knees tightly as he struggled to regain control of his body. He was fighting a losing battle, knowing it would consume him. He surrendered, his weakness overwhelming him and then passed out.

When he awoke a few minutes later, his breathing had returned to normal, but his body ached, tired from the strain, tired from stress, just tired. He waited a few minutes before starting the engine and driving home. When he got into his house, he went straight to bed, praying his exhaustion would override his insomnia and he would finally get some rest.

*

The next morning, he got up, dressed in his uniform of black t-shirt and jeans, clipped his badge to his belt and his gun to his hip. He headed over to Dr. Rodríguez-Hamilton’s office, trying not to think about what had happened at the bar last night. He was due at the doctor’s office first thing and then after his hour-long session he could head to the station and start his working day.

It was another bright, sunny day in Citrus Pines. The gentle tang of lemons drifting by on the breeze, pine needles littering the pavements; it was peaceful and quiet. So far, he wasn’t missing Anderson County. He didn’t have any family there, they were back in California, still pretending he didn’t exist. His only friends had been his co-workers and they had all abandoned him when it was clear he wasn’t okay.

He watched as the small businesses began to open up, a few owners waving at him. He reluctantly returned the gesture. He pulled up outside the practice, parked the squad car and, with a sense of trepidation, he went in. He was greeted by an older woman who sat behind a desk, dressed in a smart pantsuit. She offered him a bright smile.

“Hello Deputy Miller, you’re right on time,” she said gently.

“Good morning,” he read her nameplate, “Hilda.”

“You can go right in, Dr. Rodríguez-Hamilton is ready for you.”

Blake looked toward the door, the pit in his stomach growing. He thanked Hilda and went over, knocking sharply on the door. He took a deep breath and entered. The office was brightly lit by natural light shining in through the large windows. It was decorated in soothing cream and brown tones with large leafy green plants dotted around the room. There was a long brown leather sofa and a matching armchair facing it, separated by a glass coffee table.

Bookcases filled with books on psychology, psychiatry and human behavior stood along one wall. His eyes landed on the cream desk at the other end of the room and the black leather high-backed chair, which was facing the wall, hiding his new psychologist.

“Dr. Rodríguez-Hamilton?” he called, shutting the door. The chair swiveled and at the same time he was hit with the scent that tantalized him in the bar last night. Oh shit, his stomach bottomed out as he came face to face with his new psychologist. Miss Sinful herself sat there, a professional smile frozen on her bowshaped mouth. She stood up and gestured to the sofa.

“Nice to meet you Blake. No need to be so formal. Please, call me Justine.”

Shit.

---