Tacker (Arizona Vengeance 5)

Dominik isn’t like other organization owners. He takes a very personal and vested interest in his players. He’s already gone to bat for several of us on the team in one form or fashion, and apparently, I’m not any different. In addition to helping me find a good lawyer and giving me another chance to stay on his team, he took me aside after our meeting on Monday.

Pushing a business card in my hand, he’d told me, “My personal cell phone is on that card. I don’t give it out to many people, but I’m ordering you to use it if you think I can help you in any way. I want you to succeed, Tacker. I want this team to succeed.”

And that was all he’d said, but I know, without a doubt, I need his help now.

While I wait for my Uber to show up, I fish his card out of my wallet and stare at it for a moment. I debate if it’s wise to call him.

I could suck it up, go back into Dr. Dumbfuck’s office, and make another appointment. I’m required to attend at least twice a week, and I could suck it up. I could tune him out when he drones on and on, and I could even muster a few fake tears to mollify him.

But fuck… I don’t want to do that. If I’m going to confront my demons and try to purge some of this guilt from my system, I want to at least see some results. I know damn well I’m not going to get them from the dumb shit in that building.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, then dial Carlson’s number.

I fully expect to get his voice mail, and I’ll make my message to him short and sweet. He can return my call at his convenience.

I’m surprised when he answers on the second ring, and even more stunned when he calls me by name. “Tacker… what can I do for you?”

I don’t know whether to be impressed he has my number programmed in his phone or creeped out. To have it there, he would have had to make some effort in tracking it down. Probably had his personal secretary call the Vengeance personnel office for it, so he could program it in. Which probably means he’d fully expected me to use it.

Which also means he’s probably more intuitive than I gave him credit for, which I’m thinking is definitely more creepy than not, but whatever.

“I can’t continue to see the counselor you suggested,” I say succinctly. “Just got done with my first session, and it was a disaster.”

“Why?” he asks, clearly not willing to just accept my word for it.

Let’s see… how to put this into words without sounding like an unenlightened jackass. “He’s a douche. Wants me to hold hands with him and cry out my lament.”

Dominik snorts, but he isn’t swayed. “I believe that’s generally how therapy works.”

“Not for me, it doesn’t,” I mutter.

“Well, choose someone else on the list. I believe you were given several names.”

“No offense,” I tell him, rubbing at the nape of my neck. “But I’m going to assume whoever culled this list of names probably put a bunch of other dumbshits on the list as well.”

“I can’t let you out of the requirement,” Dominik replies stiffly.

“Not asking for that.” I sigh, scanning the parking lot. “I need someone who…” My words trail off. I don’t know what I need, but it’s not what I just walked out of.

“I think I know exactly what you need,” Dominik says, and I jolt.

How the fuck does he know when I don’t even know?

“I’m going to text you the information,” he continues. “It’s called Shërim Ranch, and it’s just outside of Phoenix.”

“A ranch?” I ask in confusion.

He doesn’t clarify. “Ask for Nora Wayne. She’ll get you set up.”

“What is this place?” I ask.

“Good luck,” he says before disconnecting.

A chime sounds from my phone. It’s the text Dominik said he’d send. It’s a link and when I tap on it to open Safari, a website comes up for Shërim Ranch. The header picture is of several horses galloping through the Arizona desert.

I read the first line. At Shërim Ranch, we provide equine therapeutic services for people with physical, mental, and emotional needs.

Equine therapeutic services? What the fuck is that?

A sharp toot of a car horn catches my attention. My Uber driver sits there with an impatient expression on his face. I glare at him, but move to his car, opening the back door.

After sliding in, I say, “I need to go somewhere different than what I put in.”

“You’ll have to change it in the app,” he says, some young punk of a kid who doesn’t even glance back.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.

He shifts to see over his shoulder, eyes flaring wide when he takes a good look.