“No problem. Enjoy.” She smiled and gave him a little wave before heading past him and out the door.
Lane wound his way through the main part of the rehab unit, which was decorated in muted grays and dark navy and looked more like a lobby at a posh hotel than a hospital. A couple of the patients were chatting in a squared-off section of plush couches. A few others were solo—reading, listening to headphones, writing in notebooks. He recognized a couple of faces from magazine covers and movies. That wasn’t uncommon. The Grove, particularly the rehab unit, often had its fair share of who’s who in Hollywood or the music industry—at least in recent years.
Initially, The Grove had mainly served wealthy southerners and the occasional actor or actress who happened to be filming in New Orleans, which had become known as Hollywood South after some favorable tax laws were put in place a few years back. But once word spread in the right circles about the level of care and privacy, The Grove had quickly become the facility of choice for those who didn’t want to be stalked by the relentless paparazzi in L.A. and New York. Even now, it was still a pretty well-kept secret, tucked away in the Louisiana bayous behind big gates. And the level of confidentiality employees had to agree to in order to work there was no joke.
When he’d gotten hired on, they’d required a full background check and he’d had to disclose his past, including a few minor criminal charges. He’d thought that would be the end of it, but Dr. Suri, the director, had been surprisingly accepting. You’ve come a long way to get to this point. I imagine in your previous profession, your job depended on keeping people’s secrets. You will find it is the same here, only with confidentiality clauses that will cost you a lot of money and legal problems if you break them. Straightforward and no bullshit. He’d liked her instantly. She’d also, as far as he knew, never shared his background with anyone else.
He skirted the edge of another seating area, trying not to disturb anyone. The door to the education room was only a few steps away, but he could already see the handwritten sign on the door. Session full. Come back later.
He let out a sigh.
“You lost?”
He turned at the voice, finding a woman watching him from one of the couches, a notebook and pen clutched in her hand. He hadn’t paid close attention when he’d first passed, but now he wondered how he’d missed her. She had the kind of rocker-girl beauty that would get her cast as the cool chick in a movie. Dark eyes lined darker, straight black hair with a pink streak in it, eyebrow ring. But she didn’t need a movie role, she was already the real deal. Jun Alexis, lead singer and bassist for Fractured Sun. He had all their songs on his playlist and had seen them play an arena show last fall. He loved their stuff and Jun was a badass.
He had a brief rush of starstruck-ness, but he’d learned to play it cool around here so kept his expression even. No one wanted to be fan-boyed while they were in rehab.
“Who am I kidding?” she said before he could answer. “We’re in rehab. Everybody’s lost.” A wrinkle appeared between her brows. She glanced down at her paper and scribbled something, humming a few notes to herself. “Hmm, that could be a good.”
He waited until she looked up again before he responded. “I’m not lost. Just looking for Dr. McCray.”
Jun glanced at the closed door. “Ooh, are you fresh blood? I’ve been in here two weeks as the new girl, and I officially hate everyone. Please tell me you’re checking in and that you’re not a self-involved douche canoe.”
He huffed a laugh. “Sorry to disappoint.”
She sighed dramatically and collapsed back against the arm of the couch. “So you are a self-involved douche canoe?”
“Probably at times. But it’s not that. I work here.”
She blanched. “Great. A white coat. So you’re someone I’ll be begging for a sleeping pill later?”
“No, I’m not a doctor, and I’m in a different department. I have no pills to give. The doctors around here aren’t so keen on giving them out either.”
“I’ve noticed.” She tilted her head. “That is really cramping that whole addiction thing I have going.”
He smirked. “This place is a total buzzkill.”
“Literally. They should just call rehab Buzzkill U.” Her lips pursed again and she pointed at him. “And that, my new friend, could be a great song title.” She scribbled another note and then gave him a rapacious grin. “Ooh, you’re muse-y. Sit down and keep talking, cute doctor man. I’m Jun and I’ve got half an album to fill and a whole bunch of group therapy to avoid.”
He couldn’t help but be charmed. Jun was spellbinding on stage, but in person, she was pure charisma. He peered toward the still closed door and then stepped around the couch to take a seat opposite Jun. If he was going to wait for Elle, he might as well sit and chat while he did. “I’m still not a doctor.”
She tilted her head. “So what’s your name and what do you do?”
“Lane. And I work on the sex therapy wing.”
Her pierced brow twitched up. “Like fixing people’s sex problems?”
He nodded. “Something like that, though I’m not a fan of the word fixing. It implies something’s broken. I assist.”
Something flickered in her dark eyes. “Right. So if I were to get a referral to that wing, you could end up assisting me?”
Her tone had his uh-oh sensors flickering to life. “In theory.”
She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. “Huh.”
“What?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Nothing. It’s just not in theory. Oriana, my social worker, wants me to talk to”—she flipped back two pages in her notebook—“a Dr. Rush while I’m here.”