Journey (Soulless Kings MC: Marble Falls, TX #2)

16. Wren

CHAPTER 16

WREN

Remember, Wren… a biker is a biker is a biker. They’re all the same.

“How have you been since your last appointment?”

My leg bounces, vibrating the couch in Dr. Young’s office. It’s been two days since I saw Journey at the grocery store and got that package, and I’ve been full of nervous energy ever since. Coming here is the first time I’ve left my apartment since then, and I was looking in the rearview mirror the entire drive. It’s a wonder I made it here alive.

“Wren, what is it?” she asks when I don’t respond. “Did something happen?”

“What?”

“You seem distracted,” she says. “Did something happen that is upsetting you?”

I shake my head as I rest my hand on my thigh, silently willing it to stop bouncing.

“Wren?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me.” I wring my hands in my lap and make a snap decision. “I saw Journey again.” Dr. Young tenses at my statement, and I hone in on that. “What?”

She leans forward and levels me with a look that makes my anxiety deepen. “Before you go any further, there’s something I need to tell you. But before I do, I want you to remember that you’re in a safe space.” I open my mouth but no words come out, so she continues. “Journey came to see me yesterday.”

I shoot to my feet. “What? But… why? How?”

“Sit down, Wren,” she orders. “Remember that this is a safe space.”

My chest heaves, but I do as she says and sit. “Why would he come see you? How does he even know about you?”

“From what I could gather, he wanted to know more about you.” She holds her hand up to keep me silent. “Now, I didn’t tell him anything. I would never do that. But I thought you should know.”

“I don’t understand,” I cry. “What does he want from me? When I said I saw him again, I didn’t specify that it happened twice.” I tell her about our encounters, about his vow to not give up, and about the fact that I’m pretty sure he witnessed a switch.” I take a deep breath before launching into a recount of the package on my doorstep. “I’m just… I don’t know.”

“And you think the package was from him?”

“Who else would it be? The note said the same thing that he said to me in the store.”

“Okay. Let’s back up a bit and take things one at a time, okay?” she suggests, and I nod. “When you initially saw Journey again, how did it make you feel?”

I shrug. “I guess I was excited, which scared me.”

“Why did it scare you?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” I counter. “I’m broken, Doc. All I have to give is good sex.”

“That’s not true,” she insists. “Wren, your diagnosis is not who you are.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Uh, I’m pretty sure my diagnosis is exactly that.”

“You know what I mean. Plenty of people with Dissociative Identity Disorder live normal lives and have normal relationships. Your disorder doesn’t have to define your life.”

“I don’t think a relationship with the man who’s stalking me is exactly smart.”

“Probably not,” she agrees. “But he’s not the only man out there.”

He’s the only one who’s stuck around long enough for me to be confused as hell.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Even if I do like him, he’s a biker. I’d never fit in with his lifestyle. And that’s assuming he isn’t a threat to me like his stalking suggests.”

“You keep saying he’s stalking you,” she points out. “Have you made a police report?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed?

“I… Well…” I lower my head and fiddle with my hands. “Because he’d never actually hurt me.”

Dr. Young clears her throat, but I refuse to look at her.

“Kirby?” she asks. “No, wait… Annie?”

“Kirby hasn’t been around lately,” I say. “He’s afraid of the biker guy. But I’m not.”

“So it is you, Annie.” I nod, and Dr. Young continues. “You’ve met Journey?” Again, I nod. “And you’re not afraid of him?”

“No. He promised he would always protect me.”

“He did?”

Finally, I lift my head. “Yeah. He said he’s not a liar, so he can make promises. He also didn’t let Daddy hurt me or Wren, so he’s nice.”

“Did you know that I met him, too?”

My eyes widen. “You did?”

“I did,” she says. “He came to talk to me about Wren.”

“I think he likes her. She’s a little afraid of him, and I keep trying to tell her he’s okay, but she doesn’t hear me.”

“Maybe I could tell her for you,” she suggests. “Could you get her for me, and I’ll do that?”

“I’ll try.” I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate real hard. When I raise my chin, I stare at Dr. Young, who’s watching me intently. “What?” I ask.

“We were talking about a police report.”

“Right.” I shake my head. “No, I haven’t filed one. His actions tell me I should, but something is holding me back.”

“I think a part of you trusts him.”

I squint at her as if that will make her words make sense. “You just told me he came here yesterday asking about me, and he left me that package. Now you sound like you think I should invite him to live with me. Make up your mind, doc.”

My snippy tone isn’t lost on me, but I have enough going on in my head without the one sane person who’s supposed to help me, making things more confusing.

“It’s not my mind that needs to be made up. Look, I can’t tell you what to do. That’s not what therapy is about. But I’m also not going to let you flounder.”

“Okay.”

“What if you file a police report and let them do their job?” she suggests. “If he’s not a threat, they’ll determine that for you. If he is, then you’ll be protected.”

I consider it and decide it’s a logical solution. “I’ll go to the station tomorrow.”

“Good.” Dr. Young leans back and relaxes in her chair. “Now, we’ve got a few more minutes before our time is up. Is there anything specific you want to talk about?”

We spend the rest of the session going through the steps of what I can expect when I make the report, and by the time I leave, I’m feeling less anxious. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last because as soon as I walk into my apartment, my cell phone rings.

“Hello?”

“This is a call from…”

I listen to the prison’s recording, fully intending to hang up, but my gut shouts at me to stay on the line.

“‘Bout time you accepted my call,” my father gripes once the recording ends.

“What do you want?” I ask, resigned to at least a short conversation.

As much as I despise the man, he is my father.

You owe him nothing.

“I had your Uncle Craig leave something for you,” he says, and my mind flashes to the carnations and note. “He said you’ll find it in the nightstand in your bedroom.”

A shiver runs through me at the thought of Uncle Craig in my home, and I make my way to my room. Pulling open the nightstand drawer, I gasp and stumble backward.

“What the fuck do I need a gun for?” I demand.

Dad chuckles, and it scares me just as it did when I was a child. “If you’re gonna be hanging around with bikers, you better be able to protect yourself.”

With those parting words, he disconnects the call. Question after question runs through my mind, not the least of which is how my dad or Uncle Craig found me. I’ve done everything I can to make sure my address isn’t listed anywhere they could find it.

After slamming the drawer shut, I stomp out to the living room and curl up on the couch to ponder the situation I find myself in. It isn’t long before I’m having an internal debate with myself about reaching out to Journey, but I quickly dismiss the idea.

Remember, Wren… a biker is a biker is a biker. They’re all the same.