Dr. Dickblock opens his mouth. Then closes it, deciding living is more important.
He starts the group by asking Randy about his week, which sounds like the world’s most boring episode of Cops. A few more men go. Blah blah blah rage. Blah blah blah toxic masculinity. Then Dr. Dickblock’s gaze lands on Jett.
“Mr. Ryker, can you please share with us what happened this week?”
I brace, but it’s already too late. My whole body’s gone still, keyed up like a dog about to bark at a thunderstorm. Jett shifts next to me and God, he still smells like sex and danger and sandalwood soap.
“Didn’t kill anyone,” he says, voice flat.
A win. I think.
“Said some shit. Rude shit. Meant it all. Hated that it hurt someone I care about.”
My heart goes full trampoline. That’s about me. That’s definitely about me.
“Hate that I fucking care,” he keeps going, like he’s talking to the wall across from us. Like he’s not gutting me with every word.
I sit on my damn hands because if I don’t, I’ll touch him. I’ll reach for his wrist, my scrunchie still there like a neon sign that says, “this man has been sinned against and is still simping.”
He inhales sharply. “Took it out on some shitheads in a bar.”
Oh. Oh. I knew he was beat up but hearing it? Knowing he bled for me while I was crying into a pint of Cherry Garcia and spiral-texting Rhys? My stomach flips.
“Chad pushed my button.”
“How did you respond to Mr. Petergrind?” Dickblock asks, pretending he doesn’t get off on this shit.
“Forgot my mantra,” Jett says. “Last line won’t stick. I knocked him out.”
The room tilts. My lungs decide now is a good time to half-work.
“Jett,” I whisper, soft and sorry and useless.
“Miss Darling,” Dickblock snaps, “how was your week?”
Oh. We’re doing this now. Public execution via oversharing. Cool.
I sit up straighter. My spine is a mess, but my lipstick’s still perfect. “Chad called me very rude things.”
Dickblock checks his notes, because it’s just now occurring to him that I’m not here for Chad, I’m here for Hank and his crusty-bitch-woman from hell.
“Mr. Petergrind?” he asks. “How did you respond?”
“I smacked my name out of his mouth.”
“Right on,” Rabid Randy grunts.
“That’s not the appropriate way to respond,” Dickblock says, clearly unfamiliar with the restorative power of a slap.
“Well you never gave me a mantra, so really that’s on you,” I say sweetly.
The man across from me snorts and hides a laugh in his arm. Good. I hope it haunts Dickblock forever.
“Anything else?” the good doctor asks.
Yes. So many things. But I don’t tell him about Chad’s car or Kira’s door or the chicken man incident.
I look straight ahead. Jett’s knee is a heat source beside mine. My fingers twitch with want.
