I know! I shouldn't be allowed to publish any more stories when Rosemarie Returns is still going, I'm having second thoughts about a My Saving Grace sequel...oh, and then there's Matched...AND I promised a sequel to No Ordinary Fairytale...Ahh! But the plot bunny bit, and I'm really intruiged about this plot, because I'm taking psychology courses and...the rest is history. Enjoy!
Summary
Rule# 1: Don't put your life in danger. Rule# 2: When undertaking covert observation, don't lose sight of your goal. Rule# 3: Never, ever, under any circumstances get attached. Especially not to a gorgeous, extremely dangerous underworld leader with a mysterious and heartbreaking past, because that's a surefire way of screwing up not only your research, but your heart, too.
Rose Hathaway's a rising name in psychology with a fascination for the complex gang underworld. Dimitri Belikov's a notorious underworld lord with a mysterious past. When their paths collide, the consequences are bound to be catastrophic. Can Rose write the research paper of the century without compromising her identity, her heart and the rules of engagement?
8th January, 2011
Dear Diary,
Tomorrow is the day we're going in. More than ever, I'm so glad that I managed to convince Dr. Petrov to let Lissa participate, too. I was surprised she wanted to, but she knows that if my paper is successful, having her name in it will do both our careers well. I never thought of her as the kind of psychologist who'd want to be out in the field, but she's a surprising person. I think she's looking forwards to investigating the youth side of the group, with her background in developmental psychology. Still, it's good she'll be around: It'll be intimidating enough- I'm glad there will be at least one familiar face, even if we have to pretend we don't know each other.
All of a sudden, I'm really nervous. I mean, I've done stuff like this before, but well, this is a bit more personal. I'm afraid of what I might find- there are some rocks that really don't need turning over, you know? The worms on the other side are bound to be ugly, but I get the feeling that this time, it'll be worse. Call it a premonition, maybe. Psychologists need to trust their gut. My three years in the LAPD taught me that much.
Originally, when Dr. Tanner suggested I keep a diary of my time while I'm under, I snorted at him. Called him a few names he probably didn't appreciate. 'Soul-searching, holistic namby-pamby' was probably the worst one. At least he didn't throw me out of his office, that time. If you ask me, I think he's glad to have me out of the university for a while; apparently I scare some of the interns. I mean, I get it. I probably wouldn't want to cross me at seven am. In the morning when the coffee maker's broken, either. There's also the thing about being the youngest doctorate-qualified forensic psychologist in the university's history that seems to put them on edge.
I tried to call my mom before I go, but she isn't answering. She's probably off somewhere in Africa again, trying to save a country, or in South America, trying to single-handedly save the rainforest. She was always disappointed that I didn't follow her path. What with moving around so much as a kid, and being forced into all those extra-curricular activities, I'm sure she thought it was a surefire thing that I'd become some kind of humanitarian. I can still see her face the day I told her I wasn't applying for the diplomatic service. I know, right? Instead, I got a full ride for psychology at Stanford, then a professorship, but noo. Still not good enough for mother dearest, not that I'm bitter, or anything.
She never really understood my interest in the human side of life, the one that didn't involve dealing with the mess people make, but why and how they make it. But that's an argument for another day. I could psycho-analyze myself to death with just the last two hundred words of this stupid diary entry. It's going to be a hoot re-reading this in a year's time. Mikhail'll finally realize that instead of teaching abnormal psychology, I should be in a zoo, with 'Exibit A' for ADHD plastered to my forehead. If I, like, die during this experiment, or something, and end up disemboweled in the streets like the rest of the idiots who were stupid enough to backstab Dimitri Belikov, here's a shout-out to Mikhail; you're an asshole for making me write all of this down. My hand is seriously starting to cramp. Damn you.
But seriously, if something does go wrong, and I don't come back… Promise, whoever you are, that you won't tell anyone what happened. I don't want to be known as the psychologist who got killed by her own experiment. There I go again, my maternally-inherited fear of failure.
I have to go. Lissa's banging at my door, and I think I smell Chinese takeout, yum. We're going to eat the last semi-decent food we'll have in six months, and watch a few movies, and just be us for a night. I'm going to enjoy it- come tomorrow, I'll have to slip on another persona, become somebody else, lie about everything. So, well…I guess I'll go. I used to keep a diary when I was little, lasted about a week, usually. I never knew how to finish it. Anyway. So, this is me, Rosemarie Hathaway, signing in for the last time before going under.
See you on the other side.
-Rose.
So, good start? Interested? Let me know!