Last Second Chance (23 page)

Sid met his stare. Drake just drummed his fingers on the table and looked around.

So that’s how it was.

“We discussed this,” his manager began. “You’ve had more chances than anyone, Van. Enough is enough. No sense in taking down the whole band.”

He let out a harsh laugh. “
My
whole band, you mean. The one
I
started. The one named for me, because it’s
my fucking band
.”

“Van—”

“Ease up,” Drake broke in. “We’ll all get your face tatted on our asses if that’s what you want. This is why I came along on this visit. To tell you that the band already talked about this. You go, we all go.”

He let out a breath, but the tension in his chest didn’t leave. Not completely, anyways.

Van looked over at Sid for confirmation. Drake wasn’t a liar, but Van didn’t trust anyone really. Sid had been the only one to really come through when he’d needed him.

Sid nodded, and Van finished signing and initialing. He slid the papers back across the table.

“That it then? Meeting over?”

He felt claustrophobic as fuck in private corner of the Atrium that Dr. Ramirez had let them use. And he was aching to see Stella again. He needed to hear those sweet moans, his name on her lips. Even if all they did was talk and give each other hell down at the barn. He’d take what he could get.

“That’s it for now. I’ll check in with you in a few weeks. Behave yourself,” Sid said as he stood.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Sid.” Drake made no move to get up, so Van remained seated.

Once the manager had stepped out of sight, Drake’s wild blue stare met Van’s.

“Hey, man, seriously. All that pretentious shit with the label… You know none of us give a fuck about all that. You do what you do. We do what we do.”

Van leaned back in his chair. “Meaning?”

Drake lifted a shoulder. “Meaning this is all bullshit and we all know it. Epitaph jerking your chain like this is fucked up. You shouldn’t be stuck here.”

Van was silent for a moment. A few weeks ago he would’ve agreed. He’d bitched Sid out the entire flight from LA to Dallas. Taken shots in the back of the SUV that drove him here from the airport. Tried to talk his way out of it all the way to the front door.

But then…he’d bumped into
her
on his way in. And strangely, he hadn’t felt
stuck
at the Second Chance Ranch for a single second after that.

“It’s not so bad,” was all he admitted to his drummer. The truth was, if he thought about it—really thought about it—if he weren’t here, he might actually have been dead by now. And they could joke about tatted-up asses all they wanted. The dirt would still be fresh on his grave and his band probably would replace him before his permanent headstone was up. Not that they wouldn’t be sad or some shit, but money was money. And even though it was music and it was personal to all of them, bands didn’t go around turning down major labels just because their lead singer had fucked himself all up.

“Yeah, I got something for you. Help you make it through for the next few weeks ’til you’re the fuck out of here.”

Before Van could ask what he was talking about, Drake pulled a small bag from his pocket. Red and blue pills filled it.

“What’s this?”

“A favor. It’s from Vanessa. Said she tried to get in but couldn’t.”

Van clenched his fist and eyed the bag on the table between them. Fucking Vanessa. Drake probably
was
actually fucking her. Not that Van cared.

When Val had left him, everything had gotten all fucked up and he’d no longer cared about much of anything. Not that it had been picture perfect before, but without Val, he’d lost his sense of gravity. Nothing had held him here. Nothing had mattered. So he’d gotten wasted every chance he got.

But now, freedom stared him in the face. A chance to float through the rest of this prison sentence in bliss, smiling and nodding. He wouldn’t feel the pain of the sessions with Dr. McLendon. The rabid claws of his memories would find no purchase when he was high.

Last week in a group therapy session, a woman named Brenda Buchanan had broken down, bawled her eyes out because her young daughter had endured so much because of her addictions. She’d said that the girl was a woman now, but she’d practically had to raise herself, and he’d thought of Val. Van had struggled to swallow as the woman’s pain had flowed over right onto him.

It had sucked.

Taking these pills, the ones he knew would check him right the hell out of here mentally at least, would also mean risking the one woman he wanted to have a clear head around.

He kept his hands clenched to keep from grabbing the plastic baggie.

“Naw, man. I’m good. No sense giving Epitaph some shit to cut me loose for before I even get out of here.”

The shock was clear on Drake’s face. “You sure? Or are you fucking with me?”

Drake had probably never seen Van turn down a single thing. Not women or drugs. He wasn’t the type to deny himself anything he wanted. Since he’d been in SCR, he’d turned down both.

And he hadn’t jungle fucked Stella like his dick had wanted to when she’d been tied up and helpless. He’d slowed down and given her what
she
needed instead of what he’d wanted.

A realization set in, surrounding him and separating him from his drummer.

He was different. He felt different. Somewhere between the hospital where Sid had told him he was going to rehab and this moment with Drake, he’d changed.

“Yeah, I’m fucking with you.” Van reached out and tucked the baggie in his waistband beneath his shirt. If he didn’t get rid of them, Drake would just take them. And while he couldn’t control what anyone else did, he could at least get rid of the junkyard shit Vanessa had probably bought from one of her tweaked-out junkie friends.

Drake laughed as he stood. “You had me for a minute there.”

Van forced a chuckle and they both stood. “Take care, man. See you in a few weeks.”

Van didn’t go straight back to his residence once his visitors were gone. He went to the restroom and flushed the pills. A slight twinge of pain as they swirled down the toilet forced him to realize that what Dr. McLendon had said was true.

He was an addict. And temptation wasn’t ever going away completely. But he had a choice. He always had a choice.

It felt good to make the right one for once in his life.

S
tella took a deep breath and headed into her small office Monday morning. She hadn’t seen Van since he’d left her place on Saturday afternoon.

She had no idea what the protocol was for their unique situation. It wasn’t like he could call, as he’d pointed out.

As much as she tried not to think about him while she checked and responded to emails, her body seemed determined not to let her forget. He was a ghost in the room with her, his hands teasing their way up her thighs, his ink-covered arms wrapping around her, those eyes gleaming as a self-congratulatory grin spread across his face.

Every time she tried to become absorbed in the words on her computer screen, a slow steady throb would begin, reminding her of what he’d done. The more he invaded her thoughts, the more severe the ache for him became.

If uncontrollable lust wasn’t bad enough, the questions plaguing her made it nearly impossible to do her job.

She wondered if he was thinking of her, if he was ever going to let her reciprocate, if he was going to fuck her like he’d promised. She blushed at the memory of how she’d begged him.

She’d just clicked on a staff-wide updated policy memo when her searing memories went ice cold. The attachment was a very detailed list of discretions for which employees could be terminated.

Inappropriate relationships and interactions with clients was first on the list.

She was pretty certain that letting Van Ransom tie her up and make her come on his tongue would be considered inappropriate. She was also fairly sure that it wasn’t a coincidence that this less than friendly reminder was being sent out.

With the exception of Miranda McLendon, Stella had overheard nearly every single female employee plotting her way into Van’s pants. Even Miss Roberta, one of the custodial staff members who was well into her seventies, had mentioned how much she’d like a piece of him. Which had made Stella grin. But the rest of them treating screwing him like a competition made her feel sick. Was she the only one he was messing around with?

She wasn’t sure she had the right to ask, but she was damn sure going to. And if the answer was anything other than a solid yes, she was done.

Realizing she was setting parameters on her forbidden relationship that wasn’t even technically a relationship, Stella propped her elbows on her desk and dropped her head into her hands.

This was her problem. This was what she did. Tried to fit everyone and everything into a box with her rules and guidelines. Kept things neat and compartmentalized. She was pretty sure Van Ransom was not going to fit into any box or abide by any of her rules. He’d already broken them all, and she’d loved every second of it.

Per the instructions of the email she walked to Dr. Ramirez’s office and did her best to focus on the task at hand. A checklist, one about client comfort and preferences that she’d modified for him.

Knocking softly on the door, she heard voices coming from inside Dr. Ramirez’s office, so she waited until the current occupant stepped out.

Her eyes met Jesse Ramirez’s dark ones.

“Well, hey there, Stell. Look at you all cleaned up. I barely recognized you without the riding boots.” He winked, and she smiled in return.

“Hey, Jesse.”

She opened her mouth to ask him if he’d checked Mother Maybelle’s eyes lately because she’d noticed them looking a little glassy, but Dr. Ramirez called out to her before she could.

“Miss Chandler? Come on in.”

“See you at the barn, Jess. And hey, Mother Maybelle’s eyes looked a little hazy to me yesterday. Maybe check her out?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse answered with a nod. His fingers miraculously appeared on her upper arm, encircling it without her having seen him reach out to her. “And um, about that fraternizing situation we talked about?”

Stella’s heart slammed into her ribcage as she fought to keep her face expressionless. She’d read somewhere that the heart was a wild thing, that’s why ribs made a cage. It made total sense in that moment. Her heart was ready to take flight.

“Yeah?”

“Just…be careful, okay?”

Stella nodded as he released her arm and walked away. She wanted to ask if he meant be careful because he’d just told his dad what he’d seen or be careful because he was privy to some information about Van that she wasn’t. Her mind threatened to race off with her worries, but Dr. Ramirez effectively distracted her.

“Did you bring the notes on the checklist?”

“Yes, sir,” Stella answered, handing him the folder with the notes as she stepped into his office.

She straightened the skirt of her navy dress and sat in a plush leather chair across from him. Dr. Ramirez took the folder and scanned its contents. Fidgeting with the buttons on her cream-colored cardigan sweater, she waited for him to reveal that he knew everything, that he was disappointed in her, and that she was fired. A career in crime was definitely out for her. She felt like her every transgression was displayed on her face in Technicolor.

Instead, he pulled off his glasses and smiled warmly at her. “This will do just fine, Miss Chandler.” He handed the folder back to her. “The goal is to have all of these completed by the end of the week. Probably best to go in order of client surname.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, standing. “I’ll get them back to you as soon as possible.”

One week. There were nearly sixty clients currently at SCR—one who she was especially nervous about asking some of the questions on the checklist. But this was the job. She’d signed up for it, sought it out before she’d had any idea that she would encounter the enigma of a man that was Van Ransom.

O
n Thursday, Stella made it to the W’s.

Van had helped out down at the barn Monday and Tuesday evening, but Jesse had been there as well. Other than a few sly grins, he hadn’t even really spoken to her.