I don’t just watch him walk away. I swivel like a possessed music box ballerina with a bad boy kink.
“Oh no,” I whisper to myself, one hand fluttering dramatically over my heart. I’m about to faint into a dick appointment.
The receptionist slides a paper toward me like it might explode.
“Here are your scheduled appointments,” she says, tapping the list with one perfectly square, French-tipped nail. Basic bitch gel set. Boring. The kind of hands that have never known spontaneous lust or glitter-based vengeance. “Six weeks of morning sessions. After the sixth, Dr. Hartwell will assess your case and determine if continued therapy is recommended.”
I nod like this is normal and I’m not already mentally cataloging which outfits best say “yes, I’m emotionally unstable, but also tragically hot and court-approved.”
Then I lean in slightly, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, um. That guy who just walked in?” I tap the air vaguely, as if it still holds his scent. “The one who looks like a whiskey-soaked sin dream in a gym shirt? What’s his deal?”
She gives me a look. The “I’m too old for this glittery nonsense” look. “You mean Mr. Ryker?”
Ryker. Of course his name is Ryker. Probably doesn’t even try to seduce people. He just breathes and ruins them. Says shit like “this isn’t gonna be gentle” and people start ovulating on the spot.
“He asked about ‘group shit,’” I clarify. “What’s that? Do I get group shit?”
She hesitates. “That’s the court-mandated Anger Management group. Thursdays. Late afternoon.”
I blink, deeply offended. “And I’m not in it?”
She blinks back, tired. “Miss Darling, you don’t have an anger-related citation on record.”
“Well that’s a technicality,” I say, puffing up like an overcaffeinated goose defending her honor. “I contain rage. Like a sexy, glitter-laced volcano. I seethe recreationally. Untamed, vengeful goddess levels of fury.”
“You don’t need anger management,” she says gently, in the tone people use for animals who’ve eaten tinsel.
I slam my palm on the counter like I’m in a courtroom drama directed by Ryan Murphy. “Enroll me, dammit. For character development. For arc. For righteous fuckin’ fury with a redemption subplot.”
“Miss Darling…” she begins, using the tone people reserve for toddlers and emotional support peacocks.
“Do I need a government-issued slip to be livid?” I shout, flinging an arm with such raw conviction I nearly send her herbal trauma-tea flying. I can be angry as hell if that’s what it takes to be in proximity to Biceps Von Thunderpants.
The woman sighs deeply, pinches the bridge of her nose, and then says, “We have other support groups you might benefit from.”
“Great! I’ll take them all. Load me up. Stuff my schedule like a therapy Thanksgiving turkey. But we deal with my angerfirst,” I snarl, aiming for savage and landing somewhere between Gremlin-on-fire and drama camp Valedictorian.
“You can’t just…”
“Do I look like a woman with boundaries?” I hiss, then kick the desk for emphasis. “Ow. Fuck. My toe.”
I grit through the pain, ready to hurl more sparkly rage. But it fizzles, just a little. Maybe I just want to belong somewhere. Even if it’s in a room full of rage and regrets. Even if it’s next to someone who smells like bad decisions and good sex.
She doesn’t answer just shoves a sign in sheet toward me.
I snatch a glitter gel pen from my bra, because I came prepared and wouldn’t dare use Rhys’s pen to sign up for Ryker. That’s just gross. I scrawl my name with a flourish worthy of royal decrees and kink contracts.
“Six weeks. Write it down. And if Biceps McCourt-Order is in for six too, I want us partnered. Trust falls. Rage charades. Whatever,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her. “Is the angry sex angel in for six weeks too?”
“That’s private information,” she snaps, yanking the sheet back like I might try to lick it for Ryker’s scent.
I slap my palms on the counter, freshly recommitted to both emotional healing and whatever sins Ryker’s forearms have planned for me.
“One more thing,” I say, lowering my voice into husky confessional booth at a strip club territory. “Is there a bathroom?”
The receptionist sighs. “Yes.”
“I need to… freshen up,” I say, already digging through my purse for emergency mascara, backup glitter balm, and a travel-sized vial of perfume labeled “Poor Decisions No. 5.” “You understand. First impressions. Sweat glands. Lip gloss logistics.”
