The next two appointments weren’t great either but only because reliving that shit sucked.
That said, there was something about unloading it on someone objective, watching the expressions on his face mirror some of the shit I felt bottled inside, not having to worry about what I said or how I reacted hurting him or affecting him like I would if I shared it with Creed or even Knight or Charlene that was such a massive relief, it was hard to express.
What it was, was instantaneous.
After the first appointment where I shared, I left feeling almost f**king giddy. The next, the same. My doctor warned me that when I began to dig further into what happened in order to move past it, I would have times when I would not feel giddy. Where it would be difficult, draining and even painful. I got that. It was just good to know that therapy actually worked. I was in the hands of someone who knew what he was doing and it was about me and only me, unloading a huge wad of crap and I didn’t have to drag anyone I loved into it.
Not to mention, I had not had a single dream since I decided to trust my psychologist which, in and of itself, was worth the money.
So all was good in Creed and Sylvie Land. My house was sold. My shit was going to be sold. Charlene and the kids were going to be in a good place. Most of my jobs were sorted and Charlene had billed so those files could be closed. Creed’s shit was sorted. And, after tonight when hopefully we’d tie the bow on Hawk’s job, I figured I had about a week of crap to deal with then I was in my girl and driving down to Phoenix to finally, f**king, f**king finally begin my life with Creed.
I couldn’t wait.
So I wanted this done.
Now.
I lifted the martini glass I’d asked the bartender to fill with cranberry juice, took a sip, put it down and murmured into my microphone, “This dress sucks.”
“Shut it, Sylvie,” Hawk ordered in my ear.
I didn’t shut it.
I muttered, “And I’m sitting down and these shoes still hurt.”
“Quit bitchin’,” Hawk replied.
“I didn’t sign up for this crap,” I told him which was a lie. It was anything goes with my jobs and this wasn’t the first time I tricked myself out. Usually it was to be a honey trap though I didn’t take that role all the way, ever.
This time, it was different.
“You’re gettin’ paid, babe, and I bought the f**kin’ dress and shoes you get to keep. Stop moaning,” Hawk returned.
Like I would ever wear this dress again.
The shoes… that was a different story.
I didn’t tell Hawk that.
“I hope you read the fine print in my contract that says if I have to show cle**age and wear shoes with a heel over three inches, my rate doubles,” I shot back.
“Baby,” another voice came into my ear and this was my man’s, “shut the f**k up, concentrate and don’t sit there muttering into your tits makin’ it look like you’re waitin’ to f**k over some ass**le. He sees you doin’ that shit, these guys we’re hunting will take you out and tonight is not my night to lose you.”
That made me shut up and my eyes slid down the bar to take in the reflection of Creed sitting alone across the restaurant in a semi-circular booth with a martini glass in front of him too. He had his hand resting on the table next to the glass and the liquid was so high, I knew he hadn’t brought that glass to his lips.
I was not surprised. Even undercover, he wasn’t a vodka man. He was all about beer and tequila.
Like me.
His eyes were aimed at the room, not me and, since I didn’t have anything better to do, I felt it safe to study him in the mirror.
An excellent way to pass the time.
He was in a suit and I’d never seen him in a suit, not even back in the day.
Needless to say, he rocked it.
Hawk didn’t buy that suit for him, it was Creed’s. It was also made for him as in, literally. And, earlier that night, when I touched the lightweight wool fabric, it was so plush and fabulous, I wanted to rip off my clothes, rip off his jacket, wrap it around me and roll around in it naked.