THIS STORY CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE AND MATURE THEMES THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR ANYONE UNDER THE AGE OF 18
Although this book does contain a couple love scenes this is not a smut filled book, and is instead more of a sweet, emotion filled romance...
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I see Heather a few times throughout the morning.
Every time I look at her, I can't help but smile, thinking about waking up with her in my arms.
I can't help but wonder what she's thinking when she looks back at me.
I walk toward the room where my anger management class is held.
It's a group class, but we each have a one-on-one session with one of the therapists one day a week.
Guess who has a one-on-one today?
Yep.
This should be interesting.
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Dr. Howard.
I guess I'm in the right place.
I walk in and see a tall man in his late 40s or early 50s sitting in a dress shirt and slacks in an overstuffed leather chair. He has on a tie that I'm assuming goes perfectly with his suit, but his blazer is thrown casually over the back of his seat. He has his sleeves pushed up, showing some faded tattoos on his forearms.
Not what I was expecting, but okay.
"Please take a seat. I'm Dr. Howard, and you are Dylan, correct?" His voice is deep but gentle.
Maybe this guy isn't so bad, or maybe he's just acting nice because that's his fucking job.
Give him a chance, Dylan.
I really don't see the point in any of this.
What exactly do they expect me to do here? Undo almost eighteen years of making me the asshole I've become in the next three months?
Fat fucking chance of that happening.
The only person I've been able to halfway open up to has been Heather, and I don't even know if she counts. We have an agreement.
I nod and flop down on another chair.
"Why don't we start off with you telling me a little about yourself?"
What is there to say about me? My parents are shit, and my life is shit. Basically, everyone I've ever come across has treated me like some evil bastard.
Besides, I'm sure he's read my file; what else is there to say?
"Well, my name is Dylan; I'm seventeen and a senior." I repeat what I'm sure he already knows.
He has an unreadable expression plastered across his face. He jots down something on the yellow notepad he has on his lap.
He looks at me for a few moments before speaking again.
