Beneath This Mask (Beneath, #1)(20)

Margaret balanced on her tiptoes to kiss Simon’s cheek. “Have a good morning. Tell Jack I said hello and that we’ll be bringing Minka to see him before we leave town.” And then she was gone. A dark-haired tornado indeed.

I dressed in my jeans from the day before and put on my bra, but I wore Simon’s T-shirt, as mine was headed for the rag bin. When I’d mentioned that I was an idiot and had forgotten about my bike, Simon had shocked me by telling me he’d called Voodoo and asked Delilah to get it. Apparently she’d texted him while we were in the waiting room to let him know my bike was waiting for me at work.


Simon dropped me off in front of my place and drove around the block to find a parking spot. By the time he’d walked back to Harriet’s, I was ready to go. He’d called Jack on the way, and Jack had informed us that Huck was doing well, but they wanted to keep him sedated for another day or so to give his body additional time to recover. It broke my heart to think of Huck still knocked out in his stall, but Simon trusted Jack implicitly. And I was learning that I trusted Simon. It was yet another foundation-rocking discovery.

“You all right?” Simon asked as we drove to Jack’s clinic.

“Fine, just lots to think about.”

“Huck’s going to be okay.”

“I know.” I pulled a stack of hundred dollar bills from my purse, wrapped with a paper band with ‘$10,000’ printed on it. The money was a huge chunk of what remained from the cash I’d run with. I dropped it on the center console. “This is for yesterday and hopefully will cover some of the bill for this week. I’m sure I’ll owe you more though.”

Simon nearly swerved into a parked car when he looked down at the money. “What the f*ck, Charlie? Put your money away. I told you we’d figure it out.”

“No. I pay my debts. And I know Huck’s surgery had to cost a small fortune. Not to mention a week in doggy post-op. He’s my responsibility. My family. And I’ll pay for it.”

Simon shot me an annoyed glare. “I haven’t even gotten the bill, so at least keep it until we know how much we’re talking about.” His frown deepened. “I really don’t like the idea of you carrying around that much cash.”

I stuck the bills in my purse. “Well, I tried to give it to you, but you wouldn’t take it. So I guess that’s your problem.”

“You are so damn stubborn.”

“I’m not the one who won’t take the money.”

Simon growled. Like, actually growled. I laughed, thankful for the distraction.

“What am I going to do with you, woman?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Oh, I know what I want to do with you. But you’d go running for the hills if I told you.”

After this morning, that was doubtful. “Try me.”

He shifted in his seat. “I’d rather show you.” He gave me a meaningful look. One full of seductive promise.

Heat rushed through me and took up residence low in my belly and between my thighs, only to be doused when we pulled into a parking spot in front of the clinic. Jesus. My libido was inappropriate and schizophrenic.

As if he knew what I was thinking, Simon added, “We’re going to continue this conversation later.”





“Mr. Duchesne, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat.”

I supposed that my sitting down on the plush leather couch meant Dr. Carlson was officially my new psychiatrist. I also supposed I should be grateful that he’d agreed to see me on such short notice.

The session started as I imagined most sessions with a shrink did.

“Tell me what brings you here today, Mr. Duchesne.”

“It’s Simon, please.”

“Of course, Simon.” He waited with his pen poised over a manila file filled with sheets of paper. It was somehow comforting to know that he was still old school. The sound of someone tapping away on a keyboard while I spilled my darkest secrets would have annoyed the shit out of me.

“I have nightmares. Trouble sleeping,” I admitted.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Just over four years.”

He flipped a page, probably looking at the life story I’d been required to commit to paper before my appointment. “You were a pilot in the Navy?”

“Yes.”

“And the source of the nightmares?”

I told him much the same story that I’d told Charlie a few days before. It was easier the second time. Probably because she hadn’t judged me. Hadn’t responded with platitudes. She’d just let me get it out. I also told him about how I’d pinned her to the bed when she’d woken me in the midst of a nightmare. My stomach still knotted when I remembered how she’d carefully backed away from me afterward.

“I understand, given the high profile nature of your family, why you’ve opted not to seek treatment at the VA.”

This part made me feel like a hypocrite. Because most veterans didn’t have the financial means that I did—and would have no choice but to seek treatment at the VA. But I also didn’t want them to just write me a script for psychotropic drugs and send me on my way. I explained my reasoning, and he only nodded and continued with his questions.