Page 44 of By the Hour (Pleasure Principle 2)

“Okie dokie.” Mitchell typed something into the computer. “Well, our specialist is booked up until the end of the month, but I’ll get you on her schedule after that. I’ll email you the time and date.”

Lane wasn’t up for that either but it would buy him some time with his paper, and he could always decline the appointment later. “Thanks.”

Mitchell wrapped things up and gave Lane the computer program with a few more instructions, but Lane just nodded and did what he had to do to end the appointment as quickly as possible. He was so ready to get out of there, he was surprised his shoes didn’t leave scorch marks on the carpet as he escaped.

He climbed into his car, thankful for the solitude and quiet, but it didn’t last long. His mind got loud fast, the words disability and accommodations rolling around in his head and rattling old ghosts as he drove back to The Grove.

Ghosts from his fancy prep school: Did you hear Lane try to read in class? What is he? Retarded?

Ghosts from his family: Son, don’t get ideas in your head from those rich kids. You get your diploma and then find a trade. You’ll do just fine.

Ghosts from his escort days: Oh, sweetheart, we don’t need to talk. I’m not paying you for stimulating conversation.

Lane pulled into the parking lot of The Grove, not missing the irony that he was heading into a mental health hospital while hearing voices in his head. Maybe he should be checking in instead of offering help. Get it together, Cannon.

The unseasonably warm afternoon enveloped him and sunlight hit Lane’s face on his way into the building. He rubbed his fingers over his brow, trying to chase away the dark memories. Logically, he knew that a learning disability wasn’t something to be embarrassed about. It wasn’t something he’d caused. If he had a client share that information about herself, he would tell her as much. But shame still burned hot in his chest, the demons from his past vicious and relentless. He took a deep breath through his nose, shoving down his own internal drama as best he could, and pasted on a pleasant look as he stepped inside the building. Here, his problems couldn’t exist. When he was working, he needed to be fully focused on the clients.

A few of the staff waved or nodded at him as he made his way through the hallways. Psychiatrists, social workers, doctors, nurses. People were friendly here. But now more than ever, he felt like he was cast in some movie role instead of actually belonging there. I’m not a real therapist, I just play one on TV. Because when it came down to it, he was only allowed at an elite facility like The Grove because he wasn’t scared to sleep with strangers—a job that was undesirable to most—and because he was appealing enough not to be a turn off to a wealthy clientele that placed a high value on looks. He was here because he could make women feel comfortable, get them talking, and get them off if they were having trouble with that. A hired dick with a fancier title. Maybe Elle had been right about him from the start.

Elle.

She was somewhere in this building. They’d agreed not to interact at work unless it involved a patient, but she’d told him to let him know how his test results came back and suddenly, he had the urge to see her. He checked his watch. He had an appointment in twenty minutes. He probably had time to swing by her office to see if she was busy. He could always make up an excuse that he needed to discuss a client case if anyone was nearby.

He took a left, hopped into an elevator, and once he’d reached the right floor, headed toward the addiction wing, or the R and R wing, as most of the staff called it. Because it contained the rehab facility, that section of the hospital was a secured unit, so he had to use his keycard to get in. Oriana was walking out right as he was walking in.

She gave him a bright smile when she saw him, her brown skin glowing with her trademark friendliness. “Hey, it’s my cupcake savior.”

“Reporting for duty.” He gave her a mock salute. “Any other baked goods need rescuing? I skipped lunch so I’m willing to take one for the team.”

; “Sadly, not today. There are some bran muffins in the break room but I don’t recommend them unless you need a colon cleanse.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that.”

“Good move.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “But thanks again for helping me out. You saved my butt. McCray has been in a better mood and she never figured out that I screwed up. Whatever you said to her worked.”

“A better mood, huh?” he said, trying to sound only mildly interested and not one-hundred percent smugly satisfied that his hookups with Elle had helped her mood.

She peered back over her shoulder to verify they were alone. “Yeah, to be honest, it’s freaking me out a little. I love working with her because she’s hella brilliant and a great teacher, but I’m not sure how to handle her being…somewhat pleasant. It’s like the earth’s off its axis or something. I keep expecting an explosion. Or to find out she’s been taken over by a body snatcher or something.”

He had to bite back his grin on that. Well, he had been snatching her body on a regular basis, but he couldn’t tell Oriana that. “I’m glad things have improved. Is she around? I had a case I needed a consult on.”

Oriana pulled her phone out of her jacket’s inner pocket and checked the time. “Yeah. She’s wrapping up a training in the education room, but should be done in a little while. You can probably catch her before she goes on rounds. And the session’s open to employees if you want to slip in the back.”

“What’s the training on?”

She dropped her phone back into her pocket. “Working with patients who have a dual diagnosis of bipolar disorder and substance use disorder. That’s her specialty.”

“Is it?” he asked. He should probably know that about her, but she never brought up work and he never asked.

“Yep. She did a groundbreaking study on it a few years ago, researching the incidence of that particular dual diagnosis among people in the arts. That’s what got her the job here. She’s one of the country’s leading experts in that area.” She jabbed a thumb behind her. “You should go pop in and hear her speak. Any time people talk shit about McCray, I tell them to withhold judgment until they see her with a patient or hear her give a training. The woman’s a genius.”

Genius. He didn’t doubt it. She was a genius, and he was getting assigned student tutors to help him read. Fantastic. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the disturbing thought. “Which room is it?”

“E-one.”

“Got it. Thanks.”