Time Out of Mind (Suncoast Society #43)(9)

“I’ll FedEx him a cashier’s check, or I can do a direct bank transfer, if that’s okay with him.”

“All right. I’ll find out from him tomorrow and let you know. Any final orders?”

“I gave you ninety testing kits and a portable breathalyzer. They’re in a box in the back of the car. You need more, let me know where to overnight them. I’ll also e-mail you the details about Chicago as we get closer to the date. The info on the rental car is in the glovebox, and you’re listed as the main driver. Full insurance, too.” Clark sent a pointed look at Mevi. “He is not, however. He’s not to drive.”

“Thanks.” Doyle had brought some of his own test kits, but that was handy, to not have to order more and wait for them.

“He’s sober now,” Clark added. “They tested him in front of me when I picked him up.”

“I’m sitting right here, you know.” Irritation and resistance threaded through Mevi’s tone. He also reminded Doyle of a petulant child.

Doyle glanced at Mevi. He didn’t have enough info yet to process how to deal with him. A raised finger? A touch of the hand on the shoulder?

A stern look and arched eyebrow?

Somehow, he suspected a kind and gentle approach would be totally ineffective at the start, and would let Mevi think he could steamroll him.

Figuring out their dynamic’s workings would be one of Doyle’s first tasks over the next twenty-four hours. That was crucial to him establishing the hierarchy with the client. Feeling them out and figuring out what role he needed to be—outside of their sober companion—to get them to be the most responsive in positive ways. It also depended on the contract. Sometimes he was as much a babysitter as he was a companion. Sometimes, all he could do was sit back and try to provide a voice of reason and conscience to his client.

Fortunately, he’d yet to have a client relapse while under his care like this, although there’d been a few close calls.

And sometimes his dynamic with his client fluctuated, evolved, depending on how long he spent with them and how well they handled their sobriety. Sixty days out, Mevi might not be white-knuckling it too badly right now, despite his apparently irritated condition.

Following final handshakes, Doyle rounded the SUV to get in after fishing his car charger and sound patch cable out of his laptop bag. After driving Clark home, Landry would take Doyle’s car back to their condo.

Doyle settled into the driver’s seat and started to adjust it, the steering wheel, and mirrors, and then went about plugging his phone into the center console and setting it up for the sound system.

All the while, he didn’t so much as acknowledge Mevi, whom he sensed first watching, then staring at him.

Apparently, Mevi was a man not used to being ignored.

Then I’ll keep doing that until I find his breakthrough point. Or his breaking point. Either one.





Mevi couldn’t help but watch the guy. He wasn’t used to people not deferring to him, at the very least. Not that he expected them to, but after nearly twenty years in the industry, when someone didn’t do it, it always stood out.

Not necessarily in a bad way. It wasn’t like Doyle was being rude.

Even at the rehab center, people he met there, including staff, made pleasant comments about his music.

Maybe he doesn’t know who I am?

Clark and the other guy had already left, and yet there they still sat, the guy doing something on his damn phone. Finally, after about five minutes of that, Mevi had enough.

“What are you doing? Are we just gonna sit here all night?”

The guy didn’t even look up. He held up one finger and kept going through his phone. Finally, after another couple of minutes, he lowered his finger but didn’t look up from the phone.

“Rule one—driver controls the music. I might ask you your opinion, but I get the final say.”

Mevi wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “What?”

The guy’s head didn’t move, but his gaze swiveled toward Mevi. “Did you not hear me, or not understand me?”

“What kind of * are you?”

Now Doyle turned his head, his dark brown gaze boring deep into Mevi’s. Instead of getting riled up, the guy actually seemed to downshift into a smoother, calmer, stronger gear.

“Rule number two—no insults. We’re adults. Act like one.”

Even the guy’s tone…it didn’t come off snippy. He couldn’t describe it.

“Fuck you.”

Doyle’s focus returned to his phone. “You’re good-looking, but you’re a client, so that’s a hard no, sorry. I don’t sleep with clients. Rule three—you do what I say, when I say it. You need me a lot more than I need you. I’m not an * unless you treat me like one, and the first few days between us will be rocky enough anyway, I’m sure. But my job is to get you to Chicago, and help you stay sober, and that’s what’s going to happen if you want to pull your assets out of the fire.”

Doyle’s answer to Mevi’s off-the-cuff insult had caught him off-guard. This guy was an experienced addiction counselor and sober companion? This guy acted nothing like any of the counselors he’d had in rehab.

“You’re not dragging my ass to any twelve-step meetings.”

“As long as you do what I say, that won’t be necessary.”