Blurb
One look at the sixteen-year-old, prim and proper town goody-two-shoes, Hennessy Hanes, and Tate Casey knows he's in trouble. He knows he should stay away from the preacher's daughter, but there's something about her he's drawn to, and he can't resist the pull.
The more he gets to know her, the more he realizes that something isn't right. He may not be able put his finger on what it is, but he's determined to find out what's going on with the girl with the haunted eyes.
Tate didn't anticipate that someone else would be just as determined to keep Hennessy's nightmare a secret, and he never realizes just how far that person is willing go to keep those skeletons in the closet until it's too late.
With the very real threat of jail time hanging over his head, Tate leaves without a backwards glance at the town or the girl. The problem is that out-of-sight doesn't necessarily mean out of mind, and it's Tate who's now haunted by his decision and memories of Hennessy.
Hennessy Hanes knows better than anyone not everything is always as it appears to be. After years of being on the receiving end of her squeaky-clean preacher father's abuse, she seizes an opportunity to leave it all behind and runs.
Her only regret is that in walking away she loses any chance with the one person who tried to save her.
Fast forward ten years, and they're both back where they started.
Tate was never a good boy, and it turns out that the man he's now grown into isn't all that much better. Anger is a living, breathing part of him, and there's a court order forcing him to seek help from the one person he's never forgotten.
Hennessy never thought she'd see Tate Casey again, and certainly not on her couch. But now it's her turn to save him, and there are rules she must follow as his psychologist, not to mention a court order instructing her to help him manage his anger. If she doesn't follow those rules, he'll end up back in jail.
Tate Casey has never been a man who followed the rules, and Hennessy is no longer the straight-laced, timid preacher's daughter she once was.
His hands may be tied, so it looks like for the first time in Hennessy's life, she'll be the one breaking the rules for the chance to finally get what she's always wanted. Him.
Chapter 1
Is it bad to need a beer the moment you walk out of jail? Asking for a friend.
-Tate's secret thoughts
Tate
"I flipped on my blinker and looked left before I took the final turn that would lead me to my house. When I was fully on my street, I saw what looked like ten or so males gathered around something on the ground in a clearing right off the road."
I cleared my throat.
The woman's intense stare was almost emasculating.
I continued. "That clearing belongs to Dr. Foreman. Or did- I don't know if it does anymore or not since I haven't been here … " she waved me off. "Anyway, there isn't usually anyone in that field, so it made me pay attention. And that's when I saw the silvery blonde hair on the ground."
Something switched in my brain.
My past and present collided, and there wasn't a single thing that could stop me.
Not anymore.
"And can you tell me what happened next?"
I shook my head.
"No," I said. "I blacked out."
The woman, the one that was currently making my dick hard, dropped her eyes to her papers that were sitting in her lap, and started writing once again.
Her slim, breakable wrist-that would take nothing for me to wrap my fingers around-moved as she wrote furiously. The delicate charm bracelet that she was wearing jingled each time she moved lower on the paper.
"When you say you blacked out, can you describe it to me?"
I shrugged. "Not really. One second I was aware of what was going on, and the next, nothing."
She looked up at me, pursing her lips.
Jesus Christ.
She was wearing ruby red lipstick.
I'd never seen anyone in this town wear red lipstick.
Hell, hardly anyone looked good in that shit, but this woman? She really pulled it off.
She had white skin so fine that it looked like a fucking doll's, and her black hair was such a stark contrast with her skin that it kept drawing my eyes to where they met.
Right along the line of her collarbone.
She had the majority of her hair up in some complicated bun looking thing, but there was this one rebellious curl that had escaped the confines and was brushing along her collarbone.
"When do you remember ‘coming to yourself'?" she questioned.
She was looking at me over the rim of her cat-eyed purple reading glasses with four rhinestones on each side, waiting for the answer to her question.
If there was one thing I did not want to do, it was talk to this woman about my ‘anger issues.'
I didn't have ‘anger issues.' I had issues that weren't solely based on my anger.
I was one fucked up individual.
I'd been in the Marines for nearly half my life. My sister had been brutally raped, beaten, and then tried to kill herself four times after. I'd been in an on again, off again, relationship with someone since the beginning of time, and it was almost as if it was expected at this point. But, to be honest, I didn't find her nearly as attractive as I did when I was younger. Yet, she was easy. What we had was easy.
Convenient.
Then there were my parents. My mom was a hooker, and my father was nowhere to be found.
So yeah, I had fucking issues, and anger wasn't the only reason for them.
Being fucked up was the reason.
It just so happened that the judge that had let me off early for my ‘good behavior' had mandated that I see a psychologist that could help me work with those ‘issues.'
"I remember everything from the moment that the first cop shot me in the chest with a fucking sandbag."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Language like that is not needed to tell this story, Mr. Casey."
Goddamn, but she sounded like a haughty librarian that was chastising me for talking too loud in the library.
She dressed like one, that was for sure.
She was wearing a black blouse that was buttoned up from the top of her collarbone all the way into the high waisted, skin tight, black skirt. A skirt that came down to her knees.
She was wearing what looked to be stockings, too, but I could neither confirm nor deny that.
Not without actually checking, anyway.
"Sorry, Ms. Hanes," I apologized, trying to make it sound genuine.
Apparently, I didn't accomplish it, because she shuffled the papers she was writing on and uncrossed those goddamn legs.
She placed both high-heeled feet on the floor and stood up to her full height, which was all of five foot four, at most.
The heels she was wearing, however, made her height lengthen to about five seven, if I had to guess.
"That's forty-five minutes," she said, looking at her watch. "Thursday when you come in, we'll start where you left off, all right?"
I shrugged and stood, too.
Then I walked toward the door without a backwards glance.
Chapter 2
I've never really been the type of girl that wanted a sugar daddy. Now, if queso daddies were a real thing, I'd for sure need one of those.
-Hennessy's secret thoughts
Hennessy
This is not good, Hen. Not good. Not good, not good, not good.
If I repeated that to myself over and over again, maybe I could get it through my thick skull.
But I knew that me repeating that over and over wouldn't do any good.
Not with how I was feeling right then.
Tate Casey. Tate fucking Casey!
He was a bruiser of a man. Tall; over six foot five, if not a little more.
He was tan, muscled, and had a head of dirty blonde hair that looked like he'd just shaved it yesterday.
Oh, and let's not forget my current weakness.
The beard.
Oh, God. That beard.
It had a hint of red in it, and if there was one thing in this world I had a weakness for, it was a red beard.
Why, I didn't know.
But I knew that it was one, and I took simple steps to control myself around them.
Wouldn't be good for the pastor's daughter to be caught ogling bearded men. Hennessy Harmony Hanes was not a girl that went for the rough ones, especially a redhead.
Why?
Because Momma, God bless her soul, had once had a thing for a redheaded biker before she'd met my daddy, and now Daddy had a vindictive streak against men that looked or acted like him.
And Tate Casey was that man.
His arms were lined with tattoos, and it was clear that even while on the inside, Tate hadn't missed a workout session.
I wondered if he'd had to lift other men because the weights that they could fit onto one bar likely wouldn't be enough.
I looked down at my pad of paper that I'd done nothing but draw the man's freakin' tattoos on for the last half an hour, and wondered if he'd notice if I took a picture.
That would probably be against some psychologist code somewhere. Which I should probably know, but likely slept through that class.
The man currently staring me down was waiting for me to reply to what he'd just said, but I couldn't find it in me to tell him what he likely thought I should say.
You should really work on your anger issues was not something that I wanted to say to the man. Not when I felt that what he'd done was justified.