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“According to an article I read while searching your buddy’s name, Hayes Crawford Jr. inherited every dime old-man Stanton had. Apparently, he hated his own son, your lover’s daddy.”
“I know he’s got money. He told me he did,” I said, suddenly worrying if he’d hidden a few zeros in his admission.
“Did he tell you his net worth starts with the letter B?”
“Bullshit!” I snarled.
“That’s a B alright, but not the correct one, Bo. The dude you rescued or found, or however he ended up in your bed, is filthy rich. And do you think a guy like that wants a boy who lives in an old shack?”
“Money doesn’t matter to him,” I said. “I knew he had money and I’m not worried about that.”
“Hmm?” he mumbled, exaggeratingly looking around. “I don’t see him. Where is he, Bo?”
“The sheriff made him leave.”
“Of course they fucking made him leave. You think they want their cash cow wallowing on a river in some busted up shack?”
“Fuck off!”
“Sorry, man, but I’m getting my payday. What are you getting besides more heartbreak?”
I had a million reasons to bash his face in, but what would that achieve? I turned away and headed for the docks. I had a boat to untie and a long ride home. A long and lonely ride back to my shack, on a river, in the middle of nowhere.
He said he loved me.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: Hayes
The room was sterile white. No windows, just a door, white of course, and a metal desk. I was seated across from an empty chair that was pushed under the desk. Even my hospital gown was white. I held my arm up and compared the tan I had from weeks on the water to the bleached tone of the entire room. I missed him.
I stared at the camera mounted high in the corner, which was also white. I smiled and thought about how fun it would be to flip the bird to whoever might be observing me. This was my third day of seeing the hospital shrink and like the previous two, he was keeping me waiting. “Asshole,” I mumbled, desperately trying to keep my middle finger under control.
The door knob twisted and the elderly psychiatrist I’d met forty-eight hours ago shuffled in, pulling the metal chair from under the desk which made a hideous screeching sound before he sat down and casually placed my file between us.
I placed my hands neatly on top of the desk and waited.
“How are you today, Hayes,” he asked, pressing the end of his ball-point pen until it clicked before opening my file. “Any suicidal urges today?”
“Wow,” I remarked. “Right for the jugular, huh, Doc?”
Like every surface of the room, his face gave no hint of life. “Would that be anoor ayes, Hayes?”
“Just like every other time we’ve spoken Dr. Hiller, I did not try to commit suicide,” I stated. “I have never attempted suicide in the past. I have no desire to commit suicide. I am not a suicidal person. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Do you normally have the habit of jumping from boats in the middle of the ocean during tropical storms,” he asked, holding his pen in the ready and once again pursuing his suicide line of questioning.
“Once again, doctor. I am not suicidal. I do not think about suicide. Not then. Not now, and not when you sign off on your report and get me released from here,” I argued. “I did not jump or leap off of any boat. There was no storm when I carefully dispatched a dinghy with the intention of leaving an environment that had become untenable for me.”
“Was it your desire to commit suicide or harm yourself in any way?” he persisted.
“No,” I answered.
He wasn’t interested in what I had to say. “Do you know who you are and where you are?”
“Yes, I do,” I hissed, slamming my fist on the table top.
Silence hung like mist in the room. I was done offering explanations after two going on three days.
He stared at my file, not looking up or uncomfortable in the least about the deafening silence.
