Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Red
Friday at four used to mean crisis evaluations, not the return of a woman who has occupied too much of my headspace for six straight days.
LinkedIn still sits open in the background on my monitor, the faint blue notification dot a quiet accusation. I shouldn't have clicked when I saw her name. If I had ignored the message, I wouldn't have seen the photo that followed.
Yet I didn't.
I drag the cursor to minimize the browser.
Her image vanishes from the screen, but not from my mind.
The photo of Brax and Valentina outside the yoga studio replays with too much clarity.
His hand is on his wife's back, clearly demonstrating his protectiveness and love.
Under it is a message Blue sent yesterday as a follow-up when I never responded.
Blue: Seeing them together reminds me of what wanting someone does to a person. I don't want that pain again, Dr. Mercer. Not with you.
My jaw tightens. That line has lived rent-free in my skull since last night.
The intercom on my desk crackles. Shirley's voice, perennially gentle, filters through. "Dr. Mercer? Your four o'clock is here."
My stomach knots. "Thank you. Give me two minutes."
"Of course, dear. And don't forget I'm leaving early," she replies, then the speaker clicks off.
I refrain from reminding her again that this spot is for emergencies only. Not Blue's games.
Earlier today, Shirley had come in with remorse in her eyes and a hand over her chest. "She showed me her arm. She cried and said you wanted to see her sooner. I'm sorry. I should have double-checked."
She was right. I do want to see her sooner. I just wish the reason had nothing to do with the way my body reacts whenever Blue enters my thoughts.
I save the note, close the chart, and pull up Blue's file.
Her legal name fills the screen along with the diagnostic impressions I typed after our first session: obsessional focus on Brax O'Malley, possible attachment trauma, questionable reliability of reported events.
Under risk assessment, I added a line I rarely write: Intentional provocation of clinician likely. Monitor boundaries closely.
The irony would be amusing if my pulse weren't climbing.
I stand, smooth my tie, and cross the office. Soft light strips through the half-tilted blinds. I open them so more light pours in.
I take a deep breath and open the door, and my head jerks backward.
Blue's halfway out of her chair in the waiting room, one hand on the strap of her purse, the other smoothing the skirt she undoubtedly chose just for this. My brain catalogs details in a single sweep, the way years of training wired it to do.
Her blue hair now has red highlights weaving through the brilliant color.
It's vibrant against her skin, and falls in controlled waves around her shoulders.
Her skirt flashes the inner column of her leg when she shifts.
The seams along the edges are as sharp as her highlights, making my eyes wander exactly where they shouldn't go.
Red heels shine, dangerously high, matching the scarlet on her mouth.
The air shifts around us, her faintly sweet perfume with something new in it. It's warm and expensive, with floral notes and amber underneath.
My throat tightens. "Ms. Ivanov. Good to see you."
Her mouth curves, slow and knowing. "You can call me Blue. You did last time."
I knew she would push for familiarity, and I shouldn't have tried to control it. I step aside, holding the door. "Come in."
She glances at Shirley and offers a grateful smile that looks soft enough to disarm a priest. "Thank you again."
Shirley beams. "You take care now."
Blue walks past me into the office, the skirt swaying with every step, slit opening and closing in a calculated rhythm.
Focus.
She takes the chair facing mine, angles it slightly, and sits. She crosses one leg over the other, the black fabric sliding up to reveal the smooth curve of her thigh. The red seams fall like a work of art.
I fight my impulses and drag my gaze higher toward her face. Anything else would be malpractice.
She chirps, "Thank you for seeing me sooner. I know you keep this time for emergencies."
"I do," I confirm, sinking into my chair. "Shirley told me you spoke with her. You showed her your arm."
Her expression flickers, a flash of confusion, then understanding. She lifts one shoulder. "I wanted to be honest about my history. She seemed like the kind of woman who needs to see proof instead of just words."
"That was manipulative," I reply, evenly.
Her eyes brighten in a way that should concern me more than it does. She teases, "You start our second session by calling me manipulative, Dr. Mercer? Aren't you bold?"
I lean back, keeping my posture relaxed, my tone grounded. "I start our second session by naming what you did. You bypassed my schedule by displaying scars to my receptionist, knowing she would worry. That may not be your definition of manipulation, but clinically, it qualifies."
She uncrosses her legs slowly, a subtle shift that sends the hem of the skirt higher before she recrosses the other way. The slit gapes open for a heartbeat, a much deeper flash of inner thigh than any therapist should see.
My lungs misfire. I drag my gaze back to her face.
She smirks, then draws out the word, "Clinically. Is that your favorite adverb in this office?"
I answer. "Probably. It reminds both of us why you're here."
Her hair brushes her cheek as she tilts her head. "Both."
I stare at her.
"As in you need to be reminded that I'm here as your patient?"
Fuck.
"It's not appropriate to send me communication via LinkedIn," I reprimand.
She tilts her head. "So you saw the photo and got my message?"
"We're not doing this, Blue," I state.
She whines, "Am I not here so you can help me stop obsessing over Brax?"
Good. A clear opening.
"Why did you stalk them again?" I ask.
She murmurs, "You're very disciplined, Dr. Mercer. Most men would have responded immediately."
Most men are not psychiatrists with licenses they value more than the taste of whatever game you want to play.
Aloud, I say, "We're not corresponding socially. That space is not for therapy. Or for images of people who never consented to be part of your life."
Her gaze sharpens at the word never. "You mean Brax and Valentina."
I rest my hands on the arms of the chair, allowing no movement that could be mistaken for fidgeting. I need to get control of this conversation and fast. I order, "Tell me what motivated you to take that photo and send it."
She exhales, a sound threaded with practiced distress. "I saw them together outside Valentina's yoga studio."
"You mean you went there to spy on her? My assumption is that you knew Brax would go there to pick his wife up?" I question.
Her face darkens. She hisses, "She shouldn't be his wife."
"That isn't your call."
She uncrosses her legs, then slowly recrosses them. Her hem hikes farther up, and she doesn't bother to pull it down. She leans forward, asking, "What did you think about him?"
"Meaning?"
"Did you compare what he looks like to what you look like?" she asks.
A muscle jumps in my jaw. "Why would I do that?" I ask before I realize I'm falling into her trap.
She slides her hand up her calf, then lets it dangle over her knee. She twirls a lock of her hair in her other hand. "Do you like my new color?"
"Don't change the subject," I warn.
"Mmm. I kind of like it when you're bossy," she breathes.
"This isn't appropriate," I scold, but my dick commits treason, pressing against my zipper. "Tell me why you stalked Valentina right after our session."
She looks away, taking a deep breath, while staring at my bookcase.
"Ms. Ivanov—"
"Call me Blue. I don't like being called Ms. Ivanov," she declares.
"Why?"
"My name is Blue. If you want to be called Dr. Mercer, I'll call you that instead of Red. But you'll call me Blue."
I stare at her for a moment. "Very well. Now answer my question."
She nibbles on her lip, then she swallows hard. She twirls more of her locks around a finger, then tugs until there's no more tension, stating, "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
She collects her thoughts, then claims, "You don't know what it's like."
I stay silent.
She reveals, "Something happens to a woman when she finds the one. And there's nothing that can stop it."
"You mean your obsession?"
She shakes her head. "No. I mean the reality that she would let her man burn her life down as long as he keeps touching her while it happens."
Heat coils in the center of my chest. I keep my voice steady. "Is that what you want from Brax? For him to burn your life down?"
Her lashes sweep low, then lift slowly. Her gaze meets mine. "I want to be touched until I burn, Dr. Mercer. Do you know how to do that?"
My pulse crashes between my ears. "But Brax hasn't touched you."
"Not sexually. But we've touched before," she claims.
"It's not the same. You're assuming he can do things to you that he probably can't. You're giving him way too much power," I tell her.
She scoffs. "You saw his photo."
A thin, heated strand winds through my gut before I can shut it down. It's jealousy slipping under my ribs with the precision of a blade. It settles in the hollow beneath my sternum, intrusive and unwelcome, proof she's breached territory I never meant to give her.
She drags her hand over her knee and brushes her inner thigh. In a lower voice, she adds, "You shouldn't worry. You're a different kind of sexy."
My heart races faster.
Jesus Christ.
"That's not appropriate," I scold her again.
Her mouth curves again, not quite a smile. "I thought you wanted my truth?"
The word lands between us like a match. Silence stretches. My pulse hits my ears harder.
This is where training matters. Every supervisor's warning about erotic transference and countertransference screams at me. But it isn't louder than the instinct humming through my nerves.