Her smile was an immediate reaction to the quick wink Nasa tossed her way. “Or something.”
“Your doctor?” Nasa reminded her with a persistent hike of his brows.
“Collette White. I'll have to look up her number because I think I got an email not too long ago that she was moving her practice from Dallas. What? What's that face?”
Instead of enlightening her as to that Cheshire Cat grin of his, Nasa pulled his cell out of his vest, bopped a few times across the screen, and handed the ringing phone to her. Three rings in, and the phone clicked.
“Thompson and White Clinical Services, how may I direct your call?”
Dillon's lip curled in distaste, recognizing the familiar voice. She glanced up at Nasa to find him smiling happily while he mixed up Elka's food in the pan.
“Hi, Cher. This is Dillon DeLoughrey. I need to make an appointment with Dr. White.”
“Dr. White isn't accepting new patients at this time, Miss DeLoughrey,” the receptionist informed her tartly, a C-hair shy of being blatantly rude and condescending. “Do you have a referral from another psychiatrist?”
Dillon ground her teeth and did her best not to be rude in return. “No, I don't. It hasn't been that long since my last appointment.”
The sound of Cher's ridiculously long fingernails clacking on the keyboard filled the line.
“Actually, it's been two years and eight months since your last appointment. Per her notes, Dr. White has repeatedly attempted to contact you regarding follow-up appointments or to simply check on your well-being and was unsuccessful.
"You didn't want her help when she offered, so without a referral, I'm unable to schedule an appointment for you. Have a nice day.”
Dillon didn't get to respond because Cher abruptly hung up on her.
“What happened?” Nasa asked in response to Dillon’s growl.
She shook her head, very carefully setting his fancy phone down on the bar when what she really wanted to do was throw it across the room.
“Nothing. Dr. White's receptionist is a stone-cold C-word.”
“A what?” he chortled, clearly daring her to actually say the word.
“You heard me,” Dillon huffed petulantly. “Dr. White isn't accepting new patients without a referral from another psychiatrist, and I really freaking hate her receptionist. If that was my business and I heard the things Cher says to clients, she'd be out on her ass and looking for a new job.”
The spatula in Nasa's hand jerked in response to the tightening of his fist, sloshing some of Elka's lunch across the cook top. “What did she say?”
Dillon repeated what she'd been told, hoping the counter wasn't marred by the rough bang of the pan as Nasa took it off the heat to let it cool.
He picked up his phone, booped the screen again, nostrils flared, cheeks pink, lips pinched as he waited for the call to connect.
“It's Nasa. Get Collette on the phone. Now.” Whatever he was told made his eyebrows rise slowly into his hairline, and his tone drop to that same burr that had the power to calm and steady Dillon, only there was a decided bite of anger flavoring it, and in response, the muscles along the backs of Dillon's thighs gave an uncomfortable ripple.
“See, that's funny. I distinctly recall installing the software on those fancy fucking computers in every single one of the treatment rooms, and the software that programs all the appointments.
“It looks like Collette is in her office doing paperwork right now, Cher, but I'd be pleased as punch to shoot Master Teague a text to let him know what a complete cunt you're being to the patients of his practice.”
Dillon rolled her lips together and bit down, not bothered even a little bit to hear Nasa use that word.
She had no idea who Master Teague was but, apparently, being threatened with hearing from him caused Cher to get Dr. White on the phone.
Nasa's tone completely changed, though he still expressed his displeasure at being given the runaround by Cher. Whatever Dr. White said had Nasa popping open a can of sarcasm.
“Oh, I wouldn't hire that bitch to answer my phones if every secretary in the world dropped dead. It sounded that way, but I'm not joking.
"Yeah? So, then it's no big deal if Cher tells one of your patients—whose experienced a severe traumatic regression within the last week and had to shoot a man dead in her front yard—that she can't get an appointment without a referral, because she quote, 'didn't want your help when it was offered, so have a nice day?'”
Nasa paused to listen to Dr. White's response and made an affirmative noise.
“I didn't think so either. I'd prefer not to say her name over the phone, I'm still in the process of determining whether or not I have a ghost in my system.
"Suffice it to say, she's blonde, six feet tall, and has a K-9 effective dog about my size. Mmhm, sitting right here across from me.
“I'm sure you can discuss that with her, assuming you have an appointment available? Good. I'll bring her then.
"Yes, me, in person… You say that like I never leave the compound. I'll have you know, I've left twice, unscheduled in the last three weeks… No, obviously, I didn't die.”
Nasa scoffed as he hung up, his phone disappeared into his pocket, and as though he made psych appointments for other people every day, he said, “You're scheduled for three-thirty tomorrow afternoon.”
And that was that.
Nasa dished Elka's food into her bowl—testing a bite himself to make sure it wasn't too hot—and with a watchful eye, Elka followed every move Nasa made in setting the bowl in her new elevated rack. At Dillon's go ahead, the meal Nasa spent a good twenty minutes preparing was gone in twenty seconds.
“I do love a girl who enjoys her food.” Nasa chuckled,
