Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Ashleigh
Three Days Later
A n odd warmth thrums through my body as I go up the steps to Doctor Andrew’s office. Somehow, in my idiotic brain, I thought the pain and discomfort from the caning would be gone soon after I saw Dean Anderson.
Shows what I know. Here it is, three days later, and the bruises are still visible when I look at myself in the mirror. Nothing I do makes them go away. If I’m honest with myself, I don’t really want them to.
Each stroke is like a brand on me, tying me ever closer to this mysterious dean, who seems to hold my thoughts captive. It’s a mental illness, I’m sure. With each step closer to the psychiatrist’s door, my thoughts are more consumed with how I can get back to Dean Anderson’s office for another visit and not on the shrink session about to happen.
Is this something he can help me with? Or will knowing my depraved thoughts get me expelled even faster? I guess those are the important questions.
This has to stop. Even if I am the one choosing to be less antagonistic so he won’t have to discipline me. The shiver of need sliding down my spine tells me I’ll never be good again.
He’s like my drug, but one far more lethal than the fentanyl that killed Chase. Addicts can make the choice to stay away if it comes down to it. It might take help and intervention, but they can stay away from places that sell it.
How the hell am I supposed to avoid Dean Anderson when it seems like every little space of breath I have to myself ends up with us together again? It doesn’t matter if I choose to be good. He’ll still be on campus somewhere.
There are no warning signs, no back-lit alleys I can avoid. Hell, even class won’t be safe if he decides to just pop in. Throw in the fact that as the sole editor on the Loftry Lantern, I will always end up answering to him, even if the article isn’t something I consider inflammatory.
The only way to truly be rid of him and these feelings is if I transfer schools. But to do that would be to let my father win. Not to mention, I’d be destroying the burgeoning paper I’m building from the ground up.
What other top-notch college would let me do what I’m creating at Loftry? For that matter, what other schools have such a high rate of successful placement? None. It’s why I applied in the first place. It’s why I’m going to stick it out and just contend myself with a vibrator or my hand when things get too tough.
Besides, it’s not as if I have the same effect on him that he does me. No doubt he sees me as an annoyance, an errant brat in need of a firm hand. Ugh. If only that firm hand was attached to someone less magnetic and devastatingly handsome.
As I reach the door to the psychiatrist’s office, I hazard a glance at my reflection in the shiny copper panels. It’s so out of place compared to the other buildings, but I guess it’s for the best. Pretty sure no one wants to accidentally end up in a shrink’s chair.
Exhaustion lines my features, even though I’ve had at least eight hours of sleep. Unfortunately, most of those hours were spent trying to get comfortable. Last night was the first night since he caned me that I’ve been able to fully sleep on my back.
Even though the discomfort has lessened quite a bit, the snug designer jeans I’m wearing feel like sandpaper across my tender cheeks. Why did I think it was a good idea to wear a thong? Probably because I was hoping to run into Dean Anderson again and get into trouble for something.
God, I’m hopeless.
My clit throbs as I rub my thighs together, flooding the small scrap of fabric with my arousal. No. I can’t be like this. I won’t be like this. Hell, if I have to embarrass myself in front of this shrink to get some answers, so be it.
As long as he doesn’t tell the dean, I’m okay.
The door chimes as I open it, shattering through my thoughts until I finally sober. Bedlam is where I’m headed if I can’t get this under control. It would be different if I were his peer. Something, anything other than a student at his university.
But I’m not. Nothing I do will change that until I graduate.
“Hi! You must be our three o’clock?”
I glance over at the cheery redhead sitting behind the glass. The girl looks no older than I am. “Student hire?”
“One and the same. Girl’s gotta get cash somehow. The tuition is killer.”
“Don’t I know it?” I mumble, taking the clipboard from her.
Fortunately, I don’t actually have to work anywhere. My parents have all that covered. Part of me does feel bad for some of the other students, but not everyone can be this fortunate.
“Doctor Andrew is still out, but will be back in time for your session. Why don’t you wait in his office while you fill out the paperwork?”
“Sounds great.”
I follow her through an oddly ornate door and into the world’s weirdest freak show of an office I’ve ever seen. Forget doing a teacher spotlight in the Lantern. I need the world to see this.
Setting the clipboard down onto a plush couch, I take in all the scientific wonders behind glass or sitting in specimen jars. It’s as if I’ve taken a step back into a more medieval setting, where such oddities could easily be on display.
Skulls of all types litter the long display case cavities, their empty eye sockets staring straight into my soul until I pull away. Unfortunately, that doesn’t really help.
There, on a higher shelf, sits what looks like an exploded skull. It’s a Beauchene if I remember correctly. Father had one of those until Mom forced him to get rid of it.
As a child, it always made me feel rather uneasy. As an adult, it’s not much better. The only difference is, as an adult, I can ostensibly walk away and never see it again after this mandatory meeting.
Turning to the side, I study a rich tapestry instead. The deep colors and intricate brocade are certainly far more pleasant to look at than a skull. It feels like heaven under my fingertips, inviting almost, as if it wants to be touched.
The only issue is that it doesn’t look like it really belongs in this office. Everything else is so cold, so clinical. This magnificent piece just doesn’t belong.
As I follow it over, I finger the seam where it seems to end and then pick up again. Odd. When I slide my finger through, it meets no resistance. No wall, no plaster, no concrete. Nothing.
Just like everything else in this office, it makes no sense. Peeking over my shoulder, I make sure I’m still alone as I peel it back, revealing a massive cage built into the wall. The reason my finger didn’t hit anything is because I slipped between the thick metal bars.
Dumbstruck, I pull the curtain even further so light can come in to show me what I’m looking at. If it’s for an animal of some sort, it would be a very spoiled pet indeed. Piles of pillows rest at one end while blankets lie neatly folded in the other.
In the space between, there’s a tablet of some sort, some cups, and what looks like a bell. What in the actual hell? Could he be keeping someone in here? As Alice said while traipsing around Wonderland, ‘curiouser and curiouser.’
“I see you like to touch things that aren’t yours,” a deep, even-keel voice murmurs from somewhere behind me.
A gasp lodges in my throat as I whirl around and drop the thick curtain. “I’m sorry. I-”
“And I see you have trouble prioritizing things and getting tasks accomplished.”
He ignores me while picking up my clipboard. The one I didn’t touch. The one I was supposed to fill out while waiting for him. Fuck.
“Look. I know I was supposed to-”
“Sit.”
There’s something in his tone, some unnamable, ice-cold threat that slithers out as he says that one word. For a moment, every inch of my skin crawls as I rush over to the comfortable loveseat and sit down.
“What?” I tease in a pathetic attempt to dispel the gathering tension. “No chaise for me to lie down on?”
“Would you rather be lying down than sitting up while we talk?”
“Well no, but I-”
“Then why bring it up?”
“It was funny?” Helpless, I lift my shoulders as my hands flop to the side.
“I see.”
Turning, he rummages around his desk for a moment and pulls out a small notebook. Without even paying a bit of attention to me, he flips past several pages, all of which seem filled with notes.
Once he gets to a blank page, he scribbles something down before looking back up at me. “You were saying?”
“I- I’m sorry. But did you just write something down about me?”
“How else do you suggest I keep a record of things I find worth noting? I’m a man of many talents, but an eidetic memory is not one of them. One of only a few failings.”
“So modest. Is lack of humility one of your other weaknesses?”
He crosses his leg over his knee and leans forward as his gaze tries to bare my soul. “Interesting. You find humility a strength? Most seem to find it a liability. Where do you lie on the humility spectrum?”
“I… Well. I don’t know. I’ve never really given it much thought.”
“Ahh. Then I misunderstood. You spoke with such authority, I assumed you to be an expert in this field.”
For a moment, I merely stare at him, doing my best to figure out what game he’s playing. This has to be a joke. Surely Loftry wouldn’t employ someone so brash to be the in-house therapist.
“You’re really not a nice man, are you?”
“I am a man, yes. Nice depends on who I’m with. Right now, I am your therapist and not your friend. If you would like a friend, I’m sure you can find some obliging bum on the street. With enough money, I’m sure he’ll listen to whatever you say, hang on your every word, and give you the answer you long to hear instead of the one you need.”
My mouth drops open as his words ring through my ears. “You can’t be serious.”
“Does the truth offend you?”
“Well, yes,” I sputter. “Your version of the truth would offend everyone.”
“I see. And why is that? What have I said that’s so incredibly wrong or inaccurate? Would someone in desperate need of money not do whatever it is you wanted, within reason, to get it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of people.”
“I must be mistaken again, because from where I’m sitting...” He leans back and grabs a copy of the Loftry Lantern. That stupid paper I made a stupid decision with. “You have no trouble exploiting the grief of your fellow students to publish a paper. Care to talk about that?”
“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Then what would you rather discuss? You are here for the hour. I suggest we make some use out of it.”
“Why do you keep a cage in your office?” As the words fly out, I watch his face, looking for any twitch, any sign that I’ve made him uncomfortable.
He sits there, as stone cold as ever. His stupid expression never changes as he watches me. It’s as if he can sift through my thoughts, including ones I’m not even currently thinking.
Eventually, he goes back to his notebook and writes stuff down. “I see you’re apt at deflecting. I’m assuming, of course, that this is all based on your relationship with your father?”
“What the hell! You know nothing about me or my father. Relationship or otherwise.”
My outburst snaps through the air like a bolt of lightning, thundering in the silence of the room. Ever so slightly, his lips turn down into a slight frown. For once, his face makes some expression other than mimicking a blank wall.
“Was that not him I saw talking to you during the benefit dinner? I have to say, he doesn’t seem all that fond of you or your choice to rebuff the plans he and your mother so painstakingly made for your future. I would watch out for that Caldwell fellow, though. They might not care who you marry as long as he’s the right pedigree, but there’s something off about him. Take care if you’re ever alone in his presence.”
My blood runs cold as I look about the room, searching for a hidden camera or something. “This is a joke. It has to be.”
“What do you find so humorous about this? I, for one, find nothing funny right now.”
“You know nothing about me, about Caldwell, or my family. I’m only here because Dean Anderson made the appointment.”
“Yes, but you chose to keep it. Why?”
“Why?” I sputter. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t aware that I did. Thus why I’m here.”
“And do you enjoy obeying Dean Anderson? I mean, you must derive some pleasure from it, seeing as you seemingly followed his orders without so much as fighting back or clarifying if it’s an actual order or a request. At least, that’s how it was conveyed to me.”