While Silbie waited for the tattoo decal to dry, she called Dante. According to him, Owen walked Dash twice a day. The dog had made a difference. A major breakthrough.

"So, is he dating?" Silbie asked.

Dante chuckled. "I just told you Dash is the only reason he leaves his room. Hard to date when he stays holed up all the time. He's so damn depressed, he has no desire to see anyone. Not even family. It's time for you to see him, Silbie. If you show up, I can't guarantee he won't send you away, but I don't think he will."

"As soon as I finish this new movie, I'll be there."

She could hear his sigh on the other end. "That could take months. He needs help now."

"It won't. They plan to shoot it in forty-five days. After that, I'm taking a break so I can spend time with him. Hopefully, Dash will help until I get there."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Dante said.

"Me, too."

After she ended the call, she breathed a sigh of relief. At least Owen wasn't seeing anyone. It would serve her right if he was. She'd accepted everyone's advice about giving him space, and maybe that was a mistake. Didn't really matter since she had obligations and no time for a trip to Dallas.

She glanced at the clock. Last word from Maia had been six hours ago. And her text had made Silbie laugh.

I've been a bad girl and need to be published.

I mean punished.

It occurred to Silbie, the dog in Maia's life had also made a difference. That caused Silbie to laugh again. At least she found humor in her friend's love life, while her own was dismal.

Liz tapped Silbie's shoulder. "Okay, keep your arms wrapped around the chair, so your back stays taut. I'm going to peel off the paper. Let's hope the tattoos don't come with it."

Silbie followed instructions and held her breath.

"Just a little more," Liz said. "Are you nervous about today?"

"I have to lay in a bed almost naked with a man I just met." She worried her lip. "Of course, I'm nervous."

Liz removed the last corner and switched on a small fan. "Let this dry a couple of minutes. Then you can get up. I gotta say, they look real." she giggled. "There are people who'd cut off a finger to get naked with Tal Aiden."

"Even if they were being filmed?"

"Are you kidding? They'd post it on instagram. Did Aoife have y'all rehearse?"

"You mean the bedroom scenes?"

"Yeah. Okay, you can get up now."

Silbie raised and twisted to put her feet on the floor. "No rehearsal. It's the first time the characters have sex, so Aoife wanted the scene to be organic. Not that there will be anything natural about it. But she is the director, so I'll let her direct." Silbie walked to the full-length mirror and eyed the handiwork. "Wow. These do look real. I actually love them. Makes me feel like a badass. My mother would die if she thought I'd had my entire back inked." Silbie chuckled. "I should tell her they're real."

"You have a little evil streak."

She grinned saucily. "You don't know the half of it."

"The tat should last about two weeks if you stick to showers. When they switch locations to New Orleans, you'll get to meet the artist who designed the layout. He's won like a hundred ink competitions."

Silbie twirled back to the front. "I don't even look like myself. Red hair. And now the tattoos. I wish Owen could see me. I'd love to know what he thinks."

Owen gazed out the window of Dr. Sequig's office and tried to come up with a way to ignore the doctor's question, but there was no getting around it. The last thing he wanted to discuss was his sex life—or lack of one.

"If you're uncomfortable talking about this, just say so. No judgment here," Dr. Sequig said.

Owen turned to face the therapist. Hell, might as well get his money's worth. Or, he should say the government's since they were picking up the tab for these blab sessions. "No, I've not been intimate with anyone." He shook his head, "Actually, I don't think about it."

"And why is that?"

He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. "I don't think about Brussel sprouts either. It's just a subject that doesn't cross my mind."

Dr. Sequig smiled. "I suspect you don't like Brussel sprouts, so you'd have no reason to think of them. But, you're a healthy man in your twenties, who I imagine enjoys sex, so to never think about it is a bit unusual. Wouldn't you agree?"

Owen wanted to get the hell out of here. Anger flared. "What the fuck does my love life have to do with anything?"

Sequig leaned forward, unperturbed."If you don't want intimacy, that's one thing, but if you're avoiding it for a reason, that's something we need to address. As I recall your main objection to medication was that it could decrease your sex drive, hinder orgasm, and produce abnormal ejaculation. If you've taken a vow of celibacy, then those things are no longer factors. So your excuse isn't valid."

Owen clenched his fists. He'd like to knock some common sense into the head doctor. Instead, he pounded the desktop. "I didn't say I'd taken a vow! I just don't want to talk about it!" The doctor didn't even flinch. God, Owen hated that the man stayed so calm when Owen's insides were firing like an M-16.

"Do you think your short fuse might have something to do with dodging the opposite sex?"

Well, that was a new wrinkle. He'd not considered it a possibility, but in truth, it was. What if a woman said something to set him off? His lack of control put her at risk and hurting an innocent bystander would be something he'd never get over. He couldn't live with himself if he flew off into a rage and hurt a woman-hurt anyone.

"Owen?"

"No, doc. I've never considered it—until now. Maybe it is. I'm aware of my issues. Hell, they're the reason I see you."

"So, if lack of control hasn't consciously made you avoid women, what has?"

The man was relentless and had every right to be. At age fourteen, he'd been held hostage by a crazed aunt for over six months. It's why he'd become a therapist and the reason Owen had chosen him. At least the guy could somewhat identify with his situation. Now in his forties, he'd had plenty of years to recover. Owen couldn't help but wonder how long it had taken him before he felt normal again.

Owen drew a deep breath. Might as well get it over with or he'd be here all day. "I'm not sure I can be with a woman. Are you happy now?"

"Nothing about sexual dysfunction makes me happy. My job is to help fix it. So, why do you think you can't perform? Can you get an erection?"

He fidgeted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. "Do we really have to talk about this?"

"No. Not if you don't want to. But until we figure out what the problem is, we can't fix it." Dr. Sequig leaned forward again and rested his hands on his desk. Owen recognized his expression. He was about to lay down some serious psychobabble. "Would it surprise you to know that ninety percent of PTSD patients suffer some form of sexual problems?"

Owen blinked. "That many?"

"Yes. So you're not alone. I think we can rule out any physical condition as the cause. You're not obese. You don't have high blood pressure or diabetes or any other medical history that would cause it. However, you do suffer from depression, anxiety, stress, and sleep disorder. All of those can affect performance. Like I've said from the beginning, if you're willing to take medication to alleviate those symptoms, you'll see a difference in your mood swings."

"It doesn't make sense to take a pill that might cause the same problem I already have."

"Any side effect listed may have only been experienced by a few people. A lot of factors determine if it's a true side effect or a combination of those things. If you're already experiencing the problem, then what do you have to lose?"

"I get it, doc. But during our first visit, didn't you tell me that sometimes PTSD patients recover on their own? With just therapy. No drugs?"

He nodded. "I did."

"Then that's what I want."

"But for that to work, you'll have to push yourself. I recommend you join a support group. And, before our next session, I want you to interact with at least one man and one woman. Family doesn't count. Will you do that?"

Owen's stomach spiraled. How hard could it be? No matter. He had to because he didn't want to feel like this for the rest of his life. "Yeah."

On the way back to the hotel, Owen mulled over the therapy session. Despite his promise to Dr. Sequig, the thought of engaging strangers in small talk made him sweat. Other than the cost of dog food and weather, what could they possibly have in common?

Ever been held hostage and beaten for months? Yeah, that was a real icebreaker. Chit-chat pissed him off. He didn't give a crap about trivial problems. What if they hated their jobs? Missed a shoe sale. Bitched about the price of gas. None of that was important so why talk about it?

Maybe Dr. Sequig didn't see it, but Owen was getting better. At least, Dante noticed or he'd still be driving Owen to his sessions. And now the doctor wanted Owen to join a group? What good would come from that? Okay, he got the premise. Like only alcoholics could help other drunks, the shrink thought talking to other anxiety-ridden people would help Owen with his. Not true. Just as he couldn't identify with a rape victim, unless he talked to another hostage, how the hell would they understand what he'd been through?

But a promise was a promise. Might as well get started. He wheeled into the hotel drive, gave the car key to the valet, then headed to the bar.

I'm a bad girl who needs to be published should be my autobiography title. Kidding.

Lots of PTSD therapy stuff in this. I didn't want to gloss over what it does to people. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint/bore you.

TEASER: "And I thought it was my dazzling beauty that got your attention."