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I’m exhausted from grabbing a connecting red-eye flight just to make it here for the start of my first therapy session. I couldn’t leave my apartment until Katia finished her last shift of the weekend, causing me to miss the all too convenient private jet that would’ve brought me here last night. It also didn’t help that I checked my bag late when I arrived at the airport because Colin had another meltdown before I left. Changes, especially in routine, they’re hard for him.
Now, the late checked bag appears to be missing, and I’m sitting here in this gorgeous and enormous suite designed to hold at least three families, in my dingy black ripped jeans and old, oversized Nirvana shirt.
I suppose I could pull off the washed-up rocker look.
My hair looks like I’ve been on a bender after a night of partying with the groupies. And not only that, it appears as if my drummer and I got into a fight over some chick. This shiner I’m sportin’ from the grocery store incident is really completing this whole strung-out rockstar look.
The only thing that made it to Arizona with me is my carry-on backpack with my toiletries, exercise bands, and this stupid fold-up athletic table I’m glaring at. Thank God that made the flight, right?
I slap myself across the face to wake up, before standing and setting up the table to prepare for our morning session. About twenty minutes go by, and I finally hear a knock at the door.
It feels weird being in here like this room is mine. Especially knowing I’d never be able to afford anything like this in my lifetime. The only thing I can think about is how much Colin would love to watch his races on this monstrous flatscreen on the wall, or that he’d have already raided this mini-fridge and ample supply of candy and snacks within hand’s reach.
When I open the door to the room, I’m met with his hard eyes. If I thought the blue hue wasn’t assaulting enough, they’re even more striking when paired with a heated glare.
Even angry, he’s still hot. So much so, it’s damn near frustrating. Somehow, Arizona makes him even hotter. Arizona likes Lake because Arizona is a desert, and deserts love water. That's got to be it.
Realizing I'm lost thinking about geology, I shake my head to snap myself out of my crazed, sleep-deprived thoughts.
“Hello,” I say blandly, opening the door wider.
“Did you even look through the peephole before you opened the door?” he asks with a scowl. “I could’ve been anyone.”
His harsh tone and shit attitude are setting the day’s mood, I see.
I offer up my best fake smile, crossing my arms over my chest before moving out of the way to allow him inside.
“And yet, it's you,” I grumble.
I see him staring at my shiner. His eyes look wild, like he can't figure out if he should be shocked, sad, or angry, and it confuses me. I'm too tired to try to decipher it. He opens his mouth, and I know he's going to say something about it, but he surprises me.
“You’re wearing pants,” he states matter-of-factly, looking me up and down.
A harsh laugh leaves my chest at the random statement. “This may surprise you, but I always wear pants when I work.”
He makes a face at my snarky attitude and walks through the door, quiet as he heads towards the large living space. “Not what I meant,” he tosses over his shoulder.
“This room is ridiculous, by the way,” I comment, watching him take it in. “A single room would have sufficed…not this”—I wave my hand around—“massiveness.”
There’s a guest room in my suite. A guest room. As if I’d be needing space for a family of eight to come visit me while I’m working. The full-sized kitchen and expansive living room illuminated by the wall of windows are also unnecessary.
I can’t help but think how much a room like this costs a night, and how far the money for it could get Colin and I. Maybe I should run down to the front desk and see if I can get a refund, then get put in a normal room like a normal person.
He hobbles his large frame forward with his crutches, then stops to turn, looking at me over his shoulder. “Not grateful for nice things, I see.” He raises his brows, making a face.
“It’s not that I’m not grateful,” I snap back, following closely behind him. “It’s just that it’s unnecessary for me. If you can’t tell, I’m a modest individual.” I wave my hand over my hair and attire.
He takes notice, using the opportunity to take me in again. I don’t miss the tightening of his jaw, and I want to know what made him do it. Disgust? Distaste?
“I know. I saw the sweats.”
I stare at him for a moment, a permanent glare set on the face belonging to the mind that’s screaming,Be kind. Please, for the love of your brother, don’t say what you want to say.
Fuck him. Old sweats are more comfortable. They’re nice and worn in. Perfect for work.
“Besides, it’s not for you,” he says coldly. “It’s for this.”
He points at the table I have set up in the cleared guest bedroom.
