Revived (Revved Series Book 2)(5)

Admitting that I have anxiety attacks is not easy for me.

She scribbles on the paper again. The scratch of the pen is driving me to distraction. That, and her fucking legs and her tits, which are rising up and down with each breath she takes.

I don’t want to talk anymore. I just want to fuck her and not think about any of my shit. Bury myself so deep inside her body until she’s all I can think about and feel and see.

“Now that you’re no longer racing, how do you spend your time?”

I let out a hard laugh. “You want the glossy version or the real version?”

“The truth. I only ever want you to tell me the truth here. If you don’t feel you can do that right now, that’s fine. But no lies. I can’t help you if you lie to me.”

“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “How do I spend my days? Regretting the day before, missing my life from before the accident, and nursing a hangover. Then, I go out to a bar, get drunk, and hook up with a woman. Take her to a hotel, her place, an alleyway, bar restroom—anywhere really, and I fuck her. Then, I do the exact same the next day and the day after.”

That’s the first time I’ve laid my life bare like that to anyone.

And she doesn’t flinch. I suppose she must hear all kinds of shit.

“Still think you can help me?” I give her a challenging look.

“Yes.” She gives me a steady stare. “You drink to cover the way you’re feeling. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that it’s a bad idea. The alcohol—are you addicted?”

“Straight to the point.” I laugh, but it’s hollow, even to my own ears.

It’s been so long since I laughed for real that I can’t remember the sound.

She uncrosses her legs. My attention is immediately brought to them. She has great fucking legs. And she’s wearing panty hose. I wonder if there’s a garter belt under that skirt.

“I’m sorry if that offends you, but it’s how I do things. I might ask you things that make you uncomfortable. You don’t have to answer, but it will help me help you if you do.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m not a drunk.”

“The thought of not drinking again—how does that make you feel?”

I think about it for a moment. “It doesn’t make me feel anything.” Not that anything makes me feel anymore.

“Still, I’d recommend seeing someone about the drinking. I know a great group that deals with substance—”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I bite. “I might have problems, but that’s not one of them.”

She carefully eyes me.

“Okay. We’ll shelf that…for now.” She puts her pen down on the paper on her lap and looks at me.

Her red lips are slightly parted, and all I can think of doing is smearing that lipstick all over her mouth as I kiss it.

“Our time is nearly up. The first session is always short. The next time, we’ll have a full hour to talk.”

I know what I’d rather do in sixty minutes with her, and it doesn’t involve a lot of talking.

But she’s the best, and I need to get better.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about before we end this session? Anything you feel I should know?”

I want to fuck you. “No. Actually, yes.” I scratch my nose. “I have to be back on the track by January, mid-January at the very latest, to allow me to prepare for the start of the Prix in March.”

She puts her notepad and pen on the table as she glances at the calendar on the wall, which is currently on the month of November. “That gives us three months. Three and a half, at a push.”

“Impossible?” The weak part of me wants her to say yes, so my coward has a way out. I fight against it.

“No. I like a challenge.” Her lips lift into a soft smile, making me smile. “But this means intensive treatment. I’ll need to see you at least three times a week. Are you up for that?”

I flex my fingers from the fist they were curled into. “I’m up for it.”

“Good.” She presses her hands together in a clap and rises from her seat. “Sadie, my receptionist, will be in touch with you tomorrow to schedule your appointments. We book them in batches for intensive treatments.”

“Okay.”

“So, I’ll see you in a few days, Leandro, and we can get started on getting you back on that racetrack.”

I follow her to the door, watching her ass sway as she moves. She’s heading to a different door than the one I entered.

“This is the exit door,” she explains. “I always have my patients leave through this door than the one they came in as I usually have another patient waiting to see me. Most people prefer anonymity—as I imagine you would.”