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Whatever. I pack up my things and leave my office to head home. “Bye, Laura.” My assistant is on the phone so she gives me a tiny wave as I pass her desk.
Grateful the elevator is empty, I use the opportunity to lean against the wall and close my eyes. Exhaustion washes over me, making my limbs feel heavy and my mind drained. Maybe I’ll be so tired by the time I get home I won’t have the energy to worry about Hawke. The lobby, however, is buzzing with activity, which is unusual to say the least. Over a dozen people are crowded around the front windows.
“What’s going on?” I turn to George, the security guard for the medical office building. Only, he’s not at his desk. That’s odd. Oh well. I’m way too tired to care. I push past a large man holding an even larger briefcase and shove open the front door.
To land right smack in the middle of a nightmare.
“Dr. Kessler!”
“Abby!”
Paparazzi swirl around me in a hurricane of flashbulbs and frantic shouting.
“Are you and Hawke dating?”
“Is it true you’re engaged?”
“Are you Hawke’s therapist?”
“Did you get pregnant to trap him into marriage?”
I duck my head, fumbling in my purse for my sunglasses, if for nothing else than to block out the blinding flashes of the cameras.
“Dr. Kessler!” A large hand wraps around my arm and I attempt to jerk away. “Dr. Kessler, it’s George.”
I glance up to see George in his security uniform, towering over me with his six-foot four-inch frame. “George?” I squeak.
“I’ve been trying to get rid of them, Dr. Kessler, but they won’t leave. I was about to call you and tell you to go around the back… but I guess it’s too late.” He looks menacing and embarrassed at the same time.
“Get me out of here. Please.”
George nods, slinging an arm around my trembling shoulders. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but my sympathy for patients who suffer from the debilitating illness increases tenfold. My legs feel like jelly and I’m having a hard time dragging in a full breath of air.
“Get back!” George does his best to keep the paparazzi from crushing us, but it’s not nearly enough. One man can’t control thirty determined reporters.
By the time we reach my car, I’m stressed out beyond belief and tears are pressing hotly against the backs of my eyes. Somehow, George manages to finagle my door open and tuck me in safely. I thank him before peeling out of the parking lot with a loud squeal of my tires in my haste to put as much distance between the paparazzi and me as possible.
Once I’m away and as positive as I can be that no one is following, I pull into the nearest parking lot. The adrenaline that kept me on my feet and got me to my car has left me a trembling, anxiety-ridden mess. I clutch my chest, my heart pounding hard enough to feel beneath my hand. I gasp for breath and lean my forehead on the steering wheel, sobs ripping from my throat on each exhale.
It’s been a long time since I had a panic attack.
With fumbling fingers, I dig for my phone and dial Hawke’s number. Tears streaming down my face, I pray that he answers this time, needing to hear his voice, needing him to tell me I’m overreacting, that I’ll be okay. To calm me down from the overwhelming crush of anxiety. Once again I get his voice mail. Instead of hanging up, this time, I leave a message.
Teeth chattering, I fumble my way through. “H-hey. It’s m-me. I don’t know if y-you’re around or what, but t-the paparazzi found me at w-work and it was… it was awful. I know you said… Anyway. Okay. Okay. I’m sure you’re busy but if you could c-call when you get a chance. Bye.”
The phone falls out of my hands after I hang up, thumping to the floor mat. I mumble as I talk myself off the mental ledge I’m standing on. “Okay. It’s okay. They’ll lose interest. You can do this.”
It takes twenty minutes of rambling and deep breathing for me to get far enough back from that dreaded ledge to drive home.
Hawke
Tired from my flight home, I drop my bag on the foyer floor of the condo and trudge over to the fridge to get a beer. One in hand, I change my mind and grab the entire six-pack. After twisting off the cap, flicking it into the sink, I cross to the living area and fall onto the couch, letting my head drop back on the cushion.
In between sips of beer, I close my eyes and grin. Three days of fucking the sexy Jessica Hamby in every single room of my house in Boulder was exactly what I needed to get my head on straight. Hell, I didn’t even need to go rock climbing, which was the original reason for flying to Colorado in the first place. The rush of acrobatic, near nonstop sex almost equaled the high I get from hanging off a cliff ten stories off the ground, with nothing but a metal hook and some rope to catch me if I fall.
Almost.
The darkness is still there, even if it’s dulled. I can hear it. Shouting at me, eating away at my insides. I finish the beer and open another, quickly downing that one as well. I’m halfway through my third when the buzzer at my front door goes off. Fuck ’em. I’m busy getting hammered.
