Chapter 4 – Ethan
Four
Ethan
M y stomach burns. It feels like someone poured gasoline down my throat and made me swallow a cigarette. Therapy. It’s for bitches. Pussies. But I need something to make me stop and if I don’t pull myself out of this hole now, I’ll do something much worse than what I’ve done already. Fuck.
Owen convinced me to come here, but now I think he only did it to torture me. Come to think of it, that was definitely his motivation. He threatened to tell Wyatt that I was out here if I didn’t go… But Wyatt can’t know about mom. Not until we have answers. We can’t get answers if I screw up and lose all my money at poker, craps, dice, or even sports betting.
No more late night German scythe mowing competitions. You can make a killing betting on rare sports like that and all you have to do is a little bit of legwork…
Maybe my brother is right. I’m fucked up. There’s a reason dad never pegged me as the future club leader. I tell myself I never wanted it, that it wasn’t in my nature, but from a young age, I never did right by anybody. Mom called me her little bear partly out of love, but partly because I destroyed everything I touched.
I made Boston a dangerous, unlivable hellhole within a few months of being here even though mom still has treatment at Mass General. Medical bills piling up. More medical bills than I can even comprehend. Even if I could call an Italian connection to whack somebody over this shit, I wouldn’t know who to put down.
This system is fucked and her screw up son isn’t making it any better.
My losses at the card table directly cause her suffering. I should be better than this. But I’m not.
The door to the waiting room opens and I nearly fall out of my chair. This woman is the therapist? She looks like she belongs on a stripper pole. I don’t mean that in a racist way but holy shit, she has an ass on her. Like, a big ass that would make any outfit look inappropriate for work. My jaw slackens.
Maybe I do belong in therapy.
“Mr. Shaw?” she asks, peering over thick dark lashes to look around the room, even if I’m the only one in it. I don’t look like the type of guy who belongs in therapy. Good.
“Here.” I raise my hand sheepishly. What the fuck was that for? I’ve never raised my hand like that in my life, but this woman instantly melts me. It’s not just the ass.
She gives me a warm smile, but not one that’s overly friendly. I look away from her to stop myself from ogling her rack, which is just as blessed as her ass.
“Come on in,” she says. “I’m Dr. Yancey.”
Amanda Yancey & Mallory Knowles
I saw their names on the door. I didn’t realize Amanda Yancey was a black woman’s name – not like it matters. I’m just saying that I didn’t know. For years, I fought against the club rule. It’s just fucking stupid. We don’t need those sorts of rules as much as we need rules about loyalty. Having each other’s backs.
This sexy ass Dr. Yancey reminds me of my first grade teacher, who wasn’t black, but definitely had a set of tits on her. I knew I wanted a woman the second I laid eyes on those things, before I ever even knew what sex was or anything like that. I got in trouble one time for stealing dad’s flask – the nicest thing I could find – and bringing it to my teacher as a gift.
Flirting is easy when you’re a stupid ass kid.
I get up, my hands suddenly sweaty and duck through the door to follow this therapist to her office. She’s small. Must be at least a foot shorter than me and looking at the top of her head makes her look like a cute ass munchkin. I wouldn’t give a second thought to gambling with my face buried between those tits.
Her perfume smells incredible. I am so sick in the head I can’t even focus on the reason I came into this office anymore.
I’m here because of the gambling situation.
Not sex. Not thinking about my therapist’s ass or tits.
I can’t stop gambling and I almost lost every penny that I absolutely needed to pay for my mother’s cancer treatment. I finally hit rock bottom enough to admit that I have a problem. I’m worse than Wyatt – worse than all the family that came after me. I’m getting older, and the older I get, the harder my mistakes hit. I have to look in the mirror and see my beard getting grey, knowing perfectly well that I’m going to be an old man with nothing to show for it.
No woman. No family.
And what if I lose mom too after screwing up like this?
They should serve liquor here.
Dr. Yancey opens her office door. Her scent is everywhere in that room. How the hell will I be able to focus on sports betting or whatever with that dick-hardening perfume?
There are two comfortable velvet blue couches, warm lighting, and a shelf with all types of large, intimidating books. I fight the urge to hit my vape in here or worse, pull out a cigarette. I sit down on the biggest couch and stick my head in my hands.
They didn’t warn me that the therapist would be hot.
“So, how are you doing today, Ethan?” Dr. Yancey asks.
I look her dead in the eye, struggling to hide my immediate arousal and attraction to my therapist’s sweet tits and ass. I want to tell her everything, which scares me. Openness rarely pays off for men. I scowl and sit back.
“My family thinks I have a problem with gambling.”
My words don’t appear to rattle or move her to react. Strange.
“I see,” she says. What the fuck does she see? Her hand wanders over to her clipboard and scribbles something on it. I pretend not to notice her doing that, but I’m burning with curiosity over what she wrote down.
“Do you have a problem?” she asks.
“No.”
“But you came here anyway, because you care about your family.”
“Yes.”
She stays quiet. So painfully quiet that I have to fill the silence.
“I almost lost… a large sum of money playing poker and I just… folks look at it differently when you win.”
I can hear myself trying to justify my behavior. A smart woman like this who did all of that education to become a doctor, and has all those letters after her name, she must think I’m an idiot. I fall silent again and lean back. She keeps staring at me, waiting for me to fill the silence.
“It’s not that I have a serious problem.”
“But you’re in a therapist’s office for your gambling addiction according to your intake form.”
“The addiction that they say I have.”
Her eyes meet mine again. Fuck. Is your therapist supposed to eye fuck you like that? I’ve always had this sick attachment to women in positions of authority over me. Teachers. Librarians. Hot therapists with glasses. There is something so fucking hot about taking a woman in total control over her life and unraveling that tightly wound bun pinned to the back of her head and stripping all that power away from her.
I have always loved making a powerful woman cum all over my cock.
“Ethan?”
Fuck.
“Hm?”
“I asked you how it feels when you gamble.”
I lock eyes with her. This is why people hate therapists. She stares right back at me, fierce and unmovable. There is no fucking way in hell that I’m going to be discussing my feelings right now. I need to
“Look. We don’t need to discuss my feelings. I need tactical information on how to stop gambling.”
“Tactical information?”
“Yes. Strategies. Tips. Tricks.”
“I think it’s interesting that you avoided the topic of feelings.”
This woman doesn’t want to know what I’m feeling right now. Desperate to get the scores for the Red Sox game. Cooking up a parlay involving Bills quarterback Josh Allen. Tense. There are footsteps in the hallway. Getting closer. I saw her turn on some noise machine, so I know this conversation is private but…
How many people need to be in a therapist’s office at once?
“Ethan?”
It’s hard to lose the alertness I’ve built up over my life. I can’t stop thinking about the footsteps and the hushed voices outside. We should be alone here. I watched this place for a few weeks before coming in, and she rarely takes afternoon appointments. I don’t want to be seen. I just know that I need this.
“Do you have other appointments after this?” I ask her.
Amanda shifts in her chair. Her thighs look delicious. I want to unglue them and slide my…
“That’s confidential,” she says, covering her thighs with her clipboard. “Can we get back to your feelings?”
Three knocks pound against her door. She gives me a sympathetic look.
“Forgive me Ethan,” she says. And to the door. “I have an appointment! Please wait in the lobby, I’ll be with you when I’m done.”
A heavy Boston accent on the other side.
“Open the door, bitch.”
I’m guessing this isn’t a client.
Amanda freezes. She looks scared out of her mind. She’s not expecting this.
“Who’s at the door?” I ask her in a hushed tone.
But I’m never relaxed enough to be unprepared for a moment like this. I pull my pistol out of my jacket and she freaks the fuck out, even if it’s the smallest one I have.
“YOU HAVE A GUN!” She screeches.
Liberals…
She yelps even louder, like all of Cambridge didn’t hear her the first time, “YOU HAVE A GUN!”
Her screeching really isn’t helping the situation.
The bastard on the other side of the door kicks the door in. I slide my body in front of Dr. Yancey’s and shoot twice. She screams her fucking head off but her instincts are good, because she covers her ears. I don’t have the luxury of protecting my hearing.
“WE NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.”
I glance down at the man I shot. Instinct. I did it on instinct, but I was very much right to do this. I recognize the tattoos all over his face. You have to be a real crazy motherfucker to run around with Neo-Nazi tattoos on your face in Massachusetts.
“WHAT IS GOING ON!” She shrieks. “I’m calling the police!”
I grab her arm. She looks scared. But it doesn’t matter. We need to get the fuck out of here.
“You aren’t calling the police. You’re coming with me.”
“HELP! HELP!”
I cover her mouth with one hand and throw her body against mine, silencing my therapist as she struggles against my body, fighting for her life. I’m fucked out of my mind. Once I drag her down the hallway, I hear more motorcycle engines outside. I would never be so stupid as to park the truck too close to the office. My heart races. If I go out the front, I’ll have to face whoever the fuck is out there — and most likely after me — but if I go out the back… I’ll have to drag this woman fighting for her life down a fire escape.
Or I could leave her to get shot in the goddamn head.
Not a chance.
I might be a piece of shit, but I’m no Ruger Blackwood.
Blood and sweat mix together when my feet finally touch the ground outside the therapist’s office. I have to run… I race into traffic, throwing the backdoor open to the Volvo XC60 sitting at the red light. I take my pistol out of my jacket and press it against the driver’s torso.
“DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE!”
Fuck. The dude is Chinese or something, maybe forty, maybe seventy. Not a college kid though. And he definitely understands what the fuck is going on right now, but we’re in for a rough fucking ride. The light turns green. He shoots through, straight past a few Boston P.D. cars and down Allston Street. We need to get out of the city.
“You know how to get to 495?!” I yell at him, running through small shit hole towns in Massachusetts where nobody would expect to find me while I yell at this motherfucker.
“Please don’t kill me!”
Chinese with a Boston accent. Is that common?
“Answer the goddamn question!”
Dr. Yancey shrinks back into the seat. Silent except for a whimper when the Chinese guy takes a sharp right turn towards the on-ramp.
“Yes! Don’t shoot me, man!”
“I need you to take us up to Lawrence. I’ll pay for gas once you get there and give you an extra two-grand not to go to the cops. Does that sound like a deal?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Listen, I’m on the run from some dudes who would have killed me and turned that woman into minced meat. I know how it looks but… I’m not a bad dude.”
I toss a stack of bills onto the passenger seat. Dr. Yancey gasps.
Yeah. No need to put this guy in the ground. It’s a risk but… I’m really not a monster. I couldn’t even stand hunting when I was a kid — I never took to murder the way Wyatt or Owen did. I’m fucked up in entirely different ways.
“Okay dude. Two-grand, and a tank of gas, and I’ll shut my mouth. But if I find out you raped her or some shit, I’ll go to the cops.”
“He didn’t,” Dr. Yancey says. I glance back at her. Fuck, her voice is still so sexy, even if this conversation is completely screwed up. Once I calm the fuck down and get us out of here, I’ll have time to be gentle with her. For now, I just glare at her, hoping to put an end to her talking before she says anything that could screw shit up for either of us.
The dude plays NPR all the way up to Lawrence. He’s clearly anxious out of his mind, even if I took the gun off him. Dr. Yancey doesn’t look any better. Her terror seeps out of her. She could look on the bright side — she has greater insight into my life than she would have ever received with all those stupid discussions about feelings we had ahead of us.
I don’t have a fucking clue what we have ahead of us.
I pick the first motel I see on the highway exit signs for Lawrence and the Chinese dude — who is apparently from Korea, which is nothing like China — takes us to the motel parking lot. His name is Kevin. Doesn’t sound like a Chinese or Korean name to me. Whatever the fuck I say ends up getting Kevin and Dr. Yancey to both glare at me.
We have nothing but the clothes on our backs and the shit in my pockets. Enough to get us through the night. I have to call mom…
When I get us a room, her body language shifts.
Amanda. Sexy Amanda, the doctor. It’s hard to believe they let women that fine into medical school. Not sure why she’s looking at me like I’ve done anything other than save her life.
Our getaway cost me most of the cash on hand I carry around for emergencies… And who the fuck knows what I’ll have to pay for tomorrow. She keeps trying to make eye contact with the jackass behind the front desk, but most of Lawrence is Puerto Rican — a group of people you can trust to mind their damn business.
I hold her hand, mostly to make sure she doesn’t follow some crazy instinct and try to run. Her fingers dig into my palms, but I grip her tightly. No escape. We walk down the halls together to the staircase and then to our room on the third floor. Once I drag her into the room and shut the door behind us, she scurries to the other side of the room and holds her hands out.
“Ethan, you need to stop right now so we can have a discussion of boundaries moving forward and how we can contact the police.”
“Therapy’s over,” I growl at her. “I need to call my family and both of us need to lay low.”
She drops that professional ‘nice chick’ face and it takes everything in my power not to smile at the revelation that this therapist lady is a human being – and not just a robot designed to force your feelings out of you.
“I can always scream.”
“Scream all you want. I’ll stuff my dirty sock in your mouth and lock you in the closet.”
Okay, I was joking. Obviously. But she looks scared shitless.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says. “You don’t have to make bad choices.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Sometimes all it takes is one bad choice that snowballs out of control, and all the choices you have left are even more fucked up than the first thing you did wrong in the first place.”
She shakes her head.
“You’re wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m wrong. You’re here tonight and my responsibility. If you do exactly what I say, you won’t have anything to worry about.”
“Right,” she says. “If I listen to the bearded maniac client who kidnapped me, everything will be just fine…”
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