Just before Cassie makes contact with my belt buckle, I snap out of it and push her hands away, taking a step back from her for good measure. “Get out of here, Cass. I’m not interested.”

She laughs hoarsely, taking another step toward me, completely disbelieving every word I’ve said. I’m sure that’s because every other time she’s done this, I’ve capitulated and lost myself in an orgasmic stupor with her. “Let’s go inside, baby. I’ll make you feel good. You know I will.”

Stepping past her, I walk up to my apartment door and unlock it. I push the door open and step inside, turning abruptly to stop her stride because I know she’s walking right behind me.

“We’re done,” I tell her simply, noticing just for the briefest of moments that her eyes go wide and uncertain. But that’s all I see because I close the door in her face and lock it.

Pressing my forehead against the cool wood, I stand there for a second but then she’s kicking at the door, yelling from the other side. “You son of a bitch! You can’t just cast me aside like that!”

I turn away and head back toward my bedroom. Cassie stays out there, banging on the door and cursing at me. I ignore her, taking my clothes off and crawling into bed. I hear one of my neighbors open his door and yell at her to shut up. It doesn’t even slow her down and she renews her efforts to kick and punch at my door.

Finally, I hear another neighbor yell, “I’m calling the cops!” and that seems to do the trick. She goes absolutely silent and then I don’t hear anything else. I assume she’s left but I in no way believe that’s the last I’ll hear from her. In fact, I’m sure I’ll get an earful from Kyle tomorrow at practice, but I’ll deal with that then.

I roll over on my side, staring out into the dark of my bedroom. I let my mind clear and think of Sutton. I wonder to myself, how can this woman cause my heart to squeeze in pleasure one moment, and become black with anger the next? Is she purposely playing my emotions, or is she truly able to see through to my demons and confront them?

She makes me uncomfortable…the clarity with which she seems to see me.

She makes me curious as to what else she might see.

She makes me want…something, but I’m not sure what.

Chapter 8

Sutton

Oh, Mara…please stay strong, girl.

That’s the mantra I keep repeating in my head as I type notes in her file. I just hung up the phone with her a few minutes ago, and she’s not doing well. Now that she’s past the fear of her overdose, she’s fixating on the rush she got from the crank. She talked to me, almost longingly, of how great the euphoria felt to her. It broke my heart when she told me that she knows it felt so good because her life is so painful. It was an escape from having parents so mired in their own drug addiction that they don’t have anything left to give to their only daughter.

I urged her to come in to talk to me but she refused, and there’s not much I can do at this point. My talks with her are confidential, so I can’t reach out to anyone else for help. I certainly can’t reach out to her parents, who are the root cause of her issues. All I can do, and this is what is frustrating about my job, is talk to her, support her and pray to God she stays strong. I’m always terrified I’ll say the wrong thing. Even with all my training, and having lived through this stuff myself, I’m always painfully weighing my words and trying to gauge if I’m going too far, or maybe not far enough. It’s a constant battle with myself, wondering if I’m doing right by my kids, or could potentially say the wrong thing that will launch them into a spiral. I have many sleepless nights because I can never let it go when I get home.

Tonight will be one of those nights, I can tell.

Pushing back from my computer, I lean back in my squeaky chair and rub the bridge of my nose. I’m almost thankful for the distraction Mara provided me this morning, because I had been obsessing about Alex since that disaster of a meeting last night. Not for the first time in my professional career, I question myself. I’m thinking maybe I went a little too far with him last night, voicing a concern that maybe shouldn’t have been a concern at all.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with having a hangover. God knows I’ve had my share. And based on Alex’s reaction to me last night, I get the feeling that the subject of alcoholism or addiction in some form may be hitting close to home. It’s just a guess—a gut instinct; maybe I’m even recognizing something in him that I see in myself or in the kids I counsel. There’s definitely something there.

But, if I’m completely honest with myself, I may not have been so much worried about Alex’s use of alcohol as I had been a bit angry that he blew me off because he had a hangover. So that took this whole screwed-up scenario in my head and moved it from a professional consideration to a personal one, and I have no business thinking about Alex in a personal light at all.

Which is easier said than done, because there is something about him that absolutely fascinates and appeals to me as a woman. Which makes me want to lean forward and bang my head on my desk to chase those thoughts away, because it is absolutely wrong, wrong, wrong to look at him like that.

First, Alex and I are working together on a professional matter—a matter that is extremely important to me—and I need to maintain focus. On top of that, I was chosen for this project by my boss and I need to do a good job so that it boosts my career.

Pushing up out of my chair, I walk to the window that overlooks the small parking lot at the rear of our building. Resting my hands on the ledge, I lean my forehead against the cool glass and think about the most important reason I need to put Alex Crossman far from my mind.