But like a fucking bloodhound following a scent, I couldn’t stay away. They were so enthralled by whatever it was they were talking about, they didn’t even notice me. Idiots.
Rowan. Fucking. Davies.
I can’t fucking stand him.
Maybe coming to Black Diamond wasn’t my punishment. Maybe Rowan is. Or he’s the test. To see how far I can be pushed before I snap. Bet Sebastian sent him.
Can see that slimy little fucker doing something like that.
He’s never fucking liked me.At least, not since I wrecked his brand-new Audi the night of our brand-new record label party two years ago.
Guess I probably shouldn’t say that.
A group of residents came out of fucking nowhere mid-follow, and I lost sight of Rowan and stupid fucking Blow job Josiah. By the time they got out of my way, I lost them. My chest tightened and my pulse raced, trying to find them, wondering if I was going to walk through a clearing and see Rowan on his knees for the asshole. The thought of seeing Rowan’s big, perfect fucking lips stretched over somebody else’s cock instead of mine made bile churn in my gut, made me see fiery red.
I ended up going back to my room when I couldn’t find them, so I wouldn’t commit fucking murder.
Fuck this place.
Fuck the rules.
Fuck the staff.
Fuck the residents.
Fuck Rowan Davies. Again.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Rowan
“Why don’t you tell me about your parents, Rowan.” Dr. Weaver’s voice is quiet, gentle, as she peers at me through her dark-framed glasses.
The golden sunlight beams in through the many floor-to-ceiling windows in Dr. Weaver’s office, making its descent over the shimmering water in the distance. It’s warm in here. I can feel the air conditioning floating around the room, but it’s overshadowed by the heat permeating from the natural light.
It was a nice day today. Really nice. Rain has come and gone, as did a dreary overcast sky, for the last several days. My mood seems to be affected greatly by the weather. It’s Tuesday, which means it’s my first therapy session of the week. Dr. Weaver apparently had to rearrange her schedule for whatever reason, so my normal midday meeting is now bordering on evening. These ones aren’t that bad, honestly.
The group therapy sessions, though…
Dr. Weaver is still watching me patiently, waiting for me to dive into the topic I loathe talking about the most.
My parents.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, head cocked marginally to the left.
She smiles. I have a feeling she knows how much I don’t want to talk about them. “What were they like growing up?”
“I wouldn’t know, Doc.”
Jotting something down quickly on her notepad, she asks, “Could you elaborate on that statement?”
I pause, going over in my head how I’d like to get this out. “I feel like most kids—at least those innormalhouseholds—know their parents’ favorite foods, colors, what they like to watch on the TV, their favorite movies. At least, while they were living at home with them. I couldn’t tell you any of that. Not a single answer.”
“And when you saynormalhousehold, you mean what?”
“Parents who are home for dinner with their kids, at least most nights. Parents who show an interest in their kids’ lives.”
“Yours did not?” She asks the question genuinely, with no judgement.
