Free Redemption by Eden Winters Page B

here is confidential. You can tell me anything. Let’s start with a little background information. Why are you here?”
    “Cut the crap, doctor. The last thing you need is another crazy person telling you their problems. Why don’t you write in your little book or whatever that I came here, I’m bat shit crazy, and save us both some time.”
    Her smile wavered, but didn’t fall. “And are you, as you say, ‘bat shit crazy’?”
    “I work for an outfit where getting shot at is a given, most folks think I’m a thug, and the average life expectancy is six to seven years after retirement. Isn’t that crazy enough for you?” Not that many SNB agents lived to retire. And if they did, they’d made so many enemies they’d have to watch their backs for the rest of their lives.
    “Then why are you here?”
    Like she didn’t already have a report from Walter. “Because, since I might have shot a man, I’m more crazy than even I can take.” No need confessing too much on their first meeting. Besides, with his tired brain and lack of sleep, his memories played tricks on him.
    “Might have?”
    Not remembering details sounded stupid, even to Lucky. And talking about his feelings did no good. Ever. “Actually, I’ve got a more pressing problem.” He flopped down on an ugly gold couch. The doctor sat up taller in her matching chair.
    “What type of problem?”
    “A fellow agent’s going through rehab for a forced drug dependency, on top of PTSD from his military days. He’s not very… stable right now. What do I need to do?”
    ***
    “You didn’t have to bring me and pick me up.” Bo folded his arms across his chest though he didn’t fight when Lucky steered him to the Camaro and buckled him in. Therapy must have gone to shit today.
    Lucky’s had been… informative. Scared him too, but forewarned was forearmed and all that. But keeping an even temper no matter what Bo said or did might be beyond Lucky’s abilities. Lord, help him try. The “don’t let him be alone too long” might be harder to solve.
    “What’s wrong with me looking out for you?”
    Bo’s scowl would make any dope dealer in Atlanta shit bricks.
    “I could take a leave, go hiking with you, spend time together.”
    “Don’t you dare.” Bo’s glare should’ve burned Lucky to embers.
    “What? Don’t wanna see my ugly mug day in and day out?”
    “I don’t want you to treat me like I might break. Tell me, if I was still in rehab, would you take time off?”
    “Well, no.”
    “Then I don’t need you burning up leave time or whatever. I don’t need a babysitter!” Bo sank against the door.
    Lucky hooked up his iPod to the stereo and played a song about sexy tractors. Bo didn’t flinch. Lucky tried Billy Ray Cyrus’ Achy Breaky Heart , screeching to the top of his lungs, more or less in time with the music.
    Bo said nothing. This wouldn’t do. Not at all.
    “Wanna get a sub?”
    Bo shrugged.
    “We passed a field back there. Wanna stop and graze?” Normally, those were fighting words.
    Vegetarian Bo didn’t respond.
    Lucky turned the music down. “What happened wasn’t your fault. You had no control over what Stephan forced on you.”
    Bo snapped, “Don’t you think I know that? That’s the part that sucks. Here I’ve been working my ass off, trying to stay on the straight and narrow, not let anything rile me enough to get me tempted, and some asshole sets me back to square one. I’m mad as hell, and if I start punching, I won’t stop, so please, whatever you do, don’t remind me it’s not my fucking fault!”
    It might take a few more sessions with Dr. Libby before Lucky learned the fine art of foot/mouth avoidance. Still, something had to be said. “I’m sorry.”
    “I’m sorry too.” Bo scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look, I’ll admit I should be grateful for all you’re doing for me, but right now I’m too pissed off to appreciate it.”
    Even with the apology, Bo’s words stung. Where was the