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Dr. Copeland is a man in his late forties with a neatly trimmed mustache that he touches more often than he should. It’s kinda creepy. He wears small, round glasses that sit entirely too low on the end of his nose, giving him the appearance of someone much older, but he’s got a decent physique, strong chest and thick forearms. He’s no dweeb, despite the way he dresses like a college professor from the 1960s. I swear all this guy needs is a pipe and a reclining chair, and he’s good to go.
Do people still own tweed jackets?
“Kael,” he says. His voice is gentle, calming, but there’s an undercurrent of something I can’t quite put my finger on. I get the feeling the good doctor has a little fire that he doesn’t want the world to see buried somewhere beneath the calm waters.
I sized him up the first day I arrived here at Rochester. It’s a trait I picked up years ago. Do a quick sweep of the room, size up the opposition. Who can hurt me? Who is a physical threat to me? Who can I take down if backed into a corner? Nothing positive can come from being unprepared. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
Dr. Copeland shifts in his seat. He’s getting annoyed that I’m still not acknowledging him, but he hides it well with a tranquil tone and soft words meant to defuse the situation.
“Still not sleeping?”
He watches me closely, too closely. He wants me to know that he sees me, but I’m sorry, Doc, you don’t see me at all. Nobody does. That’s the problem.
I may be reckless sometimes, but my self-destruction comes from the choices I’ve made, as well as the choices other people have made for me.
“I’ve never slept well,” I eventually tell him, repositioning myself a little straighter in the seat. “Not since I was a kid.”
Shit.Why did I just say that?I don’t need this guy knowing anything about my childhood. But it’s too late. I’ve just tossed him a tasty psyche morsel, and he’s lapping it up, licking his fingers, salivating, and desperate for more. He’s the shark in tweed clothing and I’m his prey.
“And why do you think that is?” he asks calmly.
Hmm?Let me think. I could tell him the truth, sure, but where’s the fun in that?
“Noisy neighbors,” I reply with a nonchalant shrug.
And all credit to him because I can tell he’s not buying it. Not even for a second. He sits forward, resting his leather-clad elbows on his knees. “I see.” Nodding slowly, he seems to be mulling over my words. “Would you like to talk more about theneighbors?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe another time then?”
Before I can respond, sarcastic laughter catches my attention from across the room, and I focus my eyes in that direction. Devon Lukas. The son of retired, high-profile NFL quarterback, Bradley Lukas.
Cocaine addict. Gambler.
Devon’s as tall as he is wide, with dark hair that’s been pulled up into a messy man-bun, and he’s got a skeleton tattoo inked down one side of his neck. The skeleton’s grinning like the Joker while wearing sunglasses and a black beanie on its head.
If tattoos were my thing, it would actually be a pretty cool tattoo. But they’re not my thing, so I drag my eyes away from his neck and gradually take in the rest of him, noticing a jagged scar that runs from the inside of his elbow all the way down to his wrist. I don’t know why, exactly, but that scar doesn’t make me feel any better about the way he’s glaring at me.
“Is there a problem, Devon?” asks Dr. Copeland.
“No problem,” he scoffs bitterly. “But I see how it is.” The insult is embedded in his mocking tone as he leans back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest. “The famous rock star gets special treatment and doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t feel like it.”
“That’s not true,” replies Dr. Copeland.
But, yeah, fuck that shit, because my blood instantly boils with the way he’s speaking about me like I’m not even in the room.
I frown at him. “What’d you just say?”
“You heard me,” Devon retorts sharply. “You think you’re special because you’re in a rock band? You think you’re better than the rest of us because your face is on the cover of magazines, and you earn a shitload of money?”
“Devon, stop—” interjects Dr. Copeland.
“No, come on, I really want to hear about it. Tell me how hard your life must be, traveling around in private jets, staying in fancy hotels, chauffeur-driven limousines with band whores riding your dick every second night.”
“Devon, that’s enough!” shouts Dr. Copeland.
“Everysecondnight?” I throw my head back with laughter. “Don’t insult me, kid.”
