15. Hailey
“You’re not one to be on your phone so much,” Nat says, pointing at the offending tech clutched in my hand as though it’s the fountain of youth.
I’ve never been one to embarrass myself intentionally. Not many people will. Yet night after night, morning after morning, evening after evening, I log onto Crave and flash my soul green. I stare at his black dot for hours upon hours. I dismiss approvals from all my available options, except the one I want.
This is the woman I’ve become.
“I’ve never known you to hang around past five o’clock before.” I grin.
To Astor, I admitted to casually checking the app to see if he was available a couple of times. Of course, I minimized my new obsession. Rejection is no fun and certainly not worth toasting.
I’m beginning to think next time won’t come. I wonder if he left that message to let me down easily because my request scared the piss out of him.
“Honestly, I usually wouldn’t, but your last appointment pushed back.” She shrugs innocently, and I pin her with a look.
“And?”
“And he’s a downright treat for the eyes.” She braces both hands on my desk and leans over, which pulps her pretty breasts until they practically spill out of her deep V-cut blouse. “In case you haven’t noticed.”
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I put my phone face down on my desk, then turn away from her and her stunning body. The ugly feelings return, only this time for another man. Sticky jealousy. Heavy rage. It’s my aunt, for heaven’s sake. And, more importantly, he’s my patient. After a few deep breaths, they recede enough that I continue working on patient notes.
“You know who he is, right?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. ’Cause if she did, she’d be waiting a long time. “He’s the son of the former director of the Guggenheim and the former CEO of World Bank. His poor family?—”
“I know.” I cut her off, not wanting to hear the horror story again.
“Well, did you know that despite that generational wealth, he’s a self-made man?”
I relent and look at her.
Her famous mouth parts in a triumphant grin. “Yes, ma’am.” A hint of her twang comes out with that. “His grubby uncle found a loophole and stole his inheritance out from under him. Then the bastard lost it all in shitty investments.”
I hadn’t known that.
Now I’m irritated with myself for letting her go on about him. These are things I shouldn’t know. Things that he should talk about in his own time, whenever that may be.
She opens her mouth to say more, but I stop her with a shake of my head. “Please, go. Just leave the door to my office open. He can see himself in.”
I want her gone to get my head in order. Now that Friday has rolled around, I have this impending feeling of doom. Like this is my last chance to see option one and I have an uneasy feeling it won’t happen. Like Mr. Judge pushing our meeting back an hour is a sign that I won’t be able to make amends for crossing the line with him.
I’m frantic and trying my best to hide it.
“Fine.” She straightens. “My gardening club is meeting at seven thirty anyway. If I leave now, I’ll have time for a blowout.”
“Tell Raphael hello for me.”
Her arms cross over her chest. “It wouldn’t kill you, you know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“To notice how gorgeous Arlo Judge is.”
Oh, I’ve noticed. And it’s definitely to my detriment.
“Bye, Nat.” I face my computer and listen to her retreat.
“You know I love you and only want what’s best for you, right?” When I finally turn back, Nat is holding the doorframe. Her sweet smile tightens my chest.
“I know.” I offer her as much of a grin as I can muster. “I’m pretty sure losing my license to practice isn’t it, though.”
“You could stop seeing him as a patient.”
“He needs help, Natalia.”
“Don’t we all.” She unclasps and re-clasps one of her thick gold bracelets several times. “You know you’re not the only therapist in the city, right? He could find another.”
“He’s not interested in me. Not like that.”
She releases the doorframe and straightens her shoulders. Her head shakes. “Hay Bale, if you’ve seen the way that man looks at you and have come to that conclusion, you might need to let your license go.”
How he looks at me?
In truth, I’ve only seen him look at me once, and that didn’t go so well.
“When have you ever seen him look at me?” That’s not the response I’d planned, yet it flows from my lips.
“Every time he opens this door.” She gestures to the threshold she stands inside. “He opens it, looks at you as though you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. He takes the deepest breath, lets it out slowly, and then stalks forward like you’re dinner and he’s starved.”
I wave her off. “He’s entering therapy to talk about some heavy shit, Nat. He’s bracing himself.” I shoo her. “Go to Paris and get laid, would you? I can’t deal with you like this.”
“Don’t call the cops if I’m not in tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I remind her.
She grins. “In that case, fuck gardening club and a blowout. Hello Paris and blow jobs.”
“Bye, slut.” I wave.
“Au revoir.” She blows me a kiss and skitters toward the main entrance, grabbing her purse as she goes.
As soon as she leaves, the world around me goes quiet, but my head is wild with thoughts. Like a jungle at night, things yip and chirp and hiss and roar for my attention. I have thirty minutes until he arrives. So I take a page out of my therapy playbook. I cram my head into bulky noise-canceling headphones, set a timer for twenty minutes, and start a guided meditation.
It’s nearly impossible to concentrate. I miss the first several prompts for the noise in my skull. I place my right hand over my belly and my left hand over my heart and breathe slowly, deeply. I blank my mind of everything, even the prompts for several rounds of breathing.
Finally, I’m grounded. I’m centered. I’m quiet.
Gently, I let the first prompts in. I acknowledge the weight of my arms as I slip them palm up onto my thighs. I focus on openness to my body, to the emotions I’ve pent-up inside it. One by one I acknowledge them and release them. Anger. Anxiety. Confusion. I relax my neck, bringing my chin forward. I roll it side to side for a minute or more each way. My shoulders settle.
Out of nowhere, tears rise to my eyes, threatening to spill over.
That’s when I realize the affliction tickling my chest. Fear. It’s been here all along, hidden away in the darkest recesses of my brain. It’s informed all the decisions I’ve made in life. Yet, I’ve never truly acknowledged it.
I’ve worked hard to maneuver around it. I’ve worked harder to pretend it doesn’t exist. But here it is pressing in on me like a tidal wave.
I rip the headphones from my head and jump to my feet. My chest heaves.
Arlo Judge stands propped against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze zeroed in on me.
“You’re early,” I blurt to try to cover my discomfort.
“That’s not Morbid Angel.” His dark eyes slide to the headphone still pumping the sounds of rushing waves into my office.
“No.” I hurry to my computer and close the program. We’re plunged into silence. “That would be much more soothing than this guided meditation and my thoughts.”
“And you want me to learn how to meditate?”
“It’s not always bad.” I smooth my trousers, adjust the tuck of my silk top into them, and center my belt. “Please, come in.” I gesture to his usual chair. “Have a seat, if you’d like.” He doesn’t move from his propped position. I offer him a smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d show after I made quite the fool of myself last time.”
“You didn’t.”
“Your quick retreat says otherwise.” My hands clasp in front of me to keep me centered.
“It wasn’t you. It was me.”
“Woof!” I give him the biggest eye roll of my life.
He makes a face, acknowledging the clichéd atrocity of his line, and then moves into the room. His gaze never leaves me and it’s a new sensation. Awareness prickles all over my body as though his gaze is a touch. He unbuttons his navy suit jacket and sits, smoothing a hand over his striped navy tie and light blue shirt. The man barely fits in the chair and I’m only now noticing.
I swallow and glance away. Too soon, my eyes are back on the enigma. He’s looking up at me from where he sits, yet he emanates power. For a brief second, I wonder if he’d be dominant in the bedroom, if he could ever get to that step.
My knuckles go instantly white.
Because the possibility captivates me.
“Please, sit.” He flourishes a big hand toward my chair as though this is his office.
Obediently, I sit. “Tell me about your first kiss.”
His inscrutable eyes sweep from the tips of my boot-hidden toes to the crown of my head in a thorough perusal. Then his gaze levels on me. “I will.”
“Great,” I chirp. “When?”
The corners of his mouth tip up. “After it happens.”
I nod and try my damnedest to keep my lips together and my jaw from hitting the floor. No touching. No kissing. No-go on the naked friend who hoped to be a lover.
Oh my God. He’s a virgin.
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
Therapist of the year.
He holds up a finger and then rests it with the rest of his on the arm of the chair. “I’m pretty sure you’re under the assumption that I’ve never had sex.”
“It’s not my job to assume,” I remind myself.
“Can you train away human nature?”
I shrug.
“I’ve had sex, Hailey. Under very specific parameters.”
Suddenly, I’m roasting in my slacks and high-neck blouse. Someone open a window. I need to toss myself out of it immediately.
“Parameters, not a very sexy word.” I clear my throat. “What are they?”
“All my consensual experiences happen in a sex club, where the participant has been vetted, is bent over and tied to a bench. Typically, I go in, do my thing, and then leave.”
Okay, I’m sure I have sweat stains on my underarms now. My palms are slick. I rub them on my clothed thighs.
What are the chances that his kink is the yen to my yang?
I mean, in Manhattan alone, there are over a dozen public kink clubs. Not to mention all the private groups and rich people parties held across the city every week. Eight and a half million people live in New York City. Not to mention the surrounding areas, plus tourists.
In my club alone, if I weren’t so damn picky, I could have a list of two-hundred guys willing to do what I wanted and half as many women.
“Kink is a perfectly acceptable way to share sexual experiences. For many, it’s safer than the usual methods of hooking up. For those with specific needs to feel comfortable, it’s an amazing outlet.”
There’s something in his eyes and the set of his jaw, but I can’t decipher it. He gives no words to help clue me into his thoughts.
“Have you ever touched the other participant beyond the essential?”
“No.” He props his ankle onto his knee and straightens his pant leg. “Not until very recently.”
“That’s progress. Amazing progress.”
“And the second time you’ve said amazing in the last twenty seconds.”
I grimace. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
“Fair enough.” He barely bobs one of his big shoulders.
Then something strikes me like lightning. I’d be surprised if smoke isn’t billowing out of my ears. “You said all of your consensual encounters have been in a club. Tell me about your non-consensual experiences.”
“No.” Blunt. Wide. Brick wall.
The hairs on my arms stick up. It’s not a danger signal. It’s an “oh please, no” signal.
“Were you the aggressor?”My voice is just above a whisper.
His fingers play the fiddle on the arm of the chair while his gaze narrows on me. “What do you think?”
Not a chance it was him.
“It’s not my job to speculate.”
His shoe hits the carpet, and he straightens. “In that particular situation, I would never be the aggressor.”
My heart beats as though it’s trying to escape. “I know that, and I’m sorry.”
He looks away for a while, and I let him. I don’t push him to expound on his experience. But I know it’s the root of all his issues with touch. How could it not be? When someone crosses your boundaries, and you have no recourse, it strips the foundation from deep inside you.
“I have to tell you something,” he says but doesn’t look at me. His gaze is caught on the darkening sky outside.
“Anything.” And I mean it. I want him to unload his burdens. Setting it down is a scary process. It’s painful, yet the relief when it’s over is unbelievable. I’ve seen years slide off people’s faces before my very eyes. I’ve seen the brightness return to their faces.
“I can’t see you anymore.”
My jaw unhinges. There’s no stopping it. Here I am, expecting a breakthrough. But no. It’s a breakup. It’s a slap in the face.
“If it’s because of what I said last time, I’m sorry.” I scoot forward to the edge of my seat. My hands are flailing. “I shouldn’t have said that. If I made you uncomfortable, I?—”
“Did you mean it?” His eyes narrow on me. Somehow, they’re more open than I’ve ever seen them. Not that I’ve seen them all that much.
I contemplate lying, but I can’t. “Yes.”
“Then I’m glad you said it.” He gives me a smile that isn’t a smile at all. It’s sad and sweet.
“Then why are you stopping therapy?” My pitch is high and a little desperate, if I’m honest.
He sits ramrod straight in the chair. His feet are on the ground, and his gaze is locked on me.
“Just a few minutes ago, you were trying to rationalize how many sex clubs there are in the city, how many millions of people are in this city, and of them, how many are into kink.”
I blink, not understanding where this is going. Not understanding how he knew that. Then again, he’s a shrewd businessman. He’s good at reading people.
“I’ve paid a hefty sum to my club of choice for three years now. Usually, I would go once a month to take the edge off. In the beginning, it was a quick in and out. Eventually, I learned to use implements to ensure my partner got at least one orgasm before I took mine.”
I nod, encouraging him to continue.
“About a year and a half ago, I tried a new partner. Suddenly, everything was easier, smoother, more enjoyable. Then slowly, I became addicted to her orgasms. One wasn’t enough. Two. Three. Six. There were never enough because each one took me further away from that bad place. The horrific memories. Each beautiful release renewed my hope that one day, the good would overshadow the bad.”
“Positive association.”
“Yes.” He drags a hand down his face and huffs out one of his dragon breaths. It’s amazing to see how wide his chest goes when he inhales.
“I still don’t understand what that has to do with continuing therapy.”
“Very soon, she became my favorite partner. My only partner.”
I find myself leaning forward, damn near about to fall out of my seat.
“She is a stunning woman, whose identity was a mystery to me until last Friday. Up until then, I called her my siren.”
My gaze narrows.
Is she trying to make him quit therapy?
What a bitch.
“You see, last Friday, the only thing you and my siren had in common was red hair.” My heart trips. "Then I helped you with your coat, and I noticed you also have the same, highly unique?—”
“Crows,” I interrupt him as he interrupted me last Friday when he saw my tattoos. My hand slaps over my mouth.
Still, it takes my muddled brain too long to connect all the dots. To realize that my option one is my Mr. Judge is my million-dollar donor.
He is the source of all my upheaval.
He is the wrecking ball.
My house of cards collapses completely.
“No.” Tears fill my eyes. “I’ve never…not with a client.” But how can I know that’s true. I fuck with anonymity. It could be anyone ramming their cock into me. And for the past year and a half, it’s been my new client. “My license.”
My livelihood.
My sanity.
My carefully constructed life.
I see the pieces slipping through my fingers.
I see the blood pooling on the floor. I see the blood splattered across the walls. I see the blood staining my pants. I see death and destruction.
Then the bulldozer comes to collect my broken bits.
Air rushes in and out of my lungs too fast, but I can’t grab enough oxygen. My chest feels tight, and the fear I’ve just acknowledged presses in close.
“Put your head between your legs.”
“Fuck you,” I snarl, but it comes out as a wheeze. This man has taken my neatly formed life and shaken the foundation.
Suddenly, I’m back in my parents’ house. I’m drenched in blood and overrun by fear. And the room goes dark around the edges.
A hand clamps the back of my neck and hauls my head down between my legs.
“Breathe,” Arlo demands.
I try to obey, but the air won’t come.
His knees hit the floor in front of me. His lips graze the shell of my ear. “In. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Out. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” He repeats the cadence until my body responds, sucking in air like it doesn’t know how without his help.
That scares me more than anything else. Not losing my career. Not losing my home. But losing myself to him, to needing him.
“That’s it, Siren,” he rasps. The sound is melodious and all I want to hear.
Oh God!
Tears pool and fall like a leaky spigot onto his pants. A sob rips from my chest. I jerk from his hold and launch to my feet, shoving the heavy chair back. I prepare to shove him away too.
“Last Friday, you knew.” My words are accusing, and I don’t care. They’re true.
“I knew.” He nods, still on his knees in front of me. “But you didn’t.”
“And that makes it better for me?”
“You can’t be held accountable for what you didn’t know.”
“Can’t I?” I shriek. It feels like flames shoot out of my eyes. But no, they are fucking useless tears. “Leave.”
Arlo Judge, my option one, my mystery donor stands. For once, he follows my orders without a word instead of me following his. He stands and leaves without a, “Goodbye, Hailey.”
There’s a fresh hollowness in my chest.
I haven’t experienced the empty feeling in years.
When the door closes behind him, I fall to my knees and sob.