Follow the River

“I’m sorry, Ciaráin, but I don’t believe that for one second. You might want me to believe it, but we both know there is so much more to you and your story with your parents than is in that tiny folder.” She raises a brow. “So why don’t you stop deflecting and start talking?”

My jaw ticks. “I’m not talking about him. Nor my mother.”

“Okay,” she concedes, shutting the folder. “Then what brings you to Colorado?”

“College,” I reply, my a

“How is that going? I read in your file that you played football at Clemson for the past two years. Will you be playing for the Buffaloes this season?”

My brow furrows. “You really want to talk about football? No offense, but you don’t seem the type of woman to know a touchdown from a homerun.” I make a point to let my eyes travel the length of her body, starting at her fucking Louboutins and not meeting her eyes again until after I make it a point to stare at her rack.

The way her nostrils flare tells me I’m right.

Flipping open the file again, she glances around the sheet. “Then tell me about Roman.”

My blood freezes in my veins. “Off-fucking-limits.”

She inhales deeply through her nose. “Enlighten me. What are we allowed to talk about in our sessions? The weather?”

I quirk a brow. Balls of steel and feisty too.

I’d be willing to bet my left nut she’s a firecracker in bed. Not that I’m interested. I’m not a fan of being challenged.

Rising from my seat, I stare down at her. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about, Dr. Fulton. I’d say I’m sorry for wasting your time, but we both know I don’t actually give a fuck.”

I take my leave, heading back into the waiting room. My hand is already grabbing the door handle, ready to get the hell out of here when I hear Dr. Fulton behind me, calling my name.

“Ciaráin,” I pause for a moment, my back to her. “You can’t just walk out when you don’t want to talk about the hard stuff.”

“Fucking watch me,” I challenge, turning sideways to catch her gaze. “Besides, I have practice in an hour. I only came to this appointment to appease my poor excuse of a mother. But please, do us both a favor and forget I ever came here.” Nodding to the folder in her hand, I add, “Oh, and make sure you shred that damn file and set the pieces on fire the minute I’m gone.”

Just as I’m turning back to the exit, my eye catches the television again, Senator Theordore Anders’ image is still taking up the primetime news spot.

I slam the door behind me in haste as I exit.

Fuckers like that man deserve to die.