Look, Don’t Touch (Pieces of Us #1)

1. Hailey

“I’ll tell her that my clitoris is not my heart, and if she can’t take care of them both, she won’t get the fun button.” Zhan slaps her palms onto the thighs of her bright pink slacks and lifts her sharp chin high. Her long onyx locks slip behind her shoulder like a curtain of seductive blades.

Pride blooms in my chest like the cherry blossoms in spring at Yuyuantan Park in Beijing. A year ago I attended the Olympics for a patient with performance anxiety, not from getting slammed into the plexiglass while playing one of the most brutal sports imaginable but in the bedroom. It affected his marriage and, in turn, his performance in the rink. It turns out the pressure of earning a degree while training for the Olympics and nurturing a young marriage would manifest somewhere.

I’d met the meek and mild Zhan at Capital Indoor Stadium when I’d shown up at the wrong facility.

How was I to know they’d have a different rink for damn near every ice sport? I know enough to be dangerous when it comes to ice hockey but far less about ice-skating.

At that time, the premier figure-skating manager wouldn’t have whispered the word clitoris, much less made interesting synonyms for it. However, Zhan had known her ice-skating protégé was destined to win the gold. What confidence she’d lacked in her relationship, she more than made up for in her work.

I can’t hide my grin. I don’t want to. After my morning, it feels amazing on my cheeks and lips. It soaks into my limbs, and I snatch it greedily into my heart. “Fun button?”

“It’s accurate, is it not?” Zhan’s thin brows furrow.

“Deadly so.” I close my digital notebook and set it on the obscene hunk of marble that operates as a coffee table and sometimes as an assassin in my office. I’ve ruined one pair of Manolos and one pinky toe on the damn thing. “You realize Cara could tell you she’s not capable of anything more than clits and tits?”

Zhan’s svelte shoulders pull back in her matching blazer. “I know. After far too long, I’m prepared for either outcome. Thanks to you, I’ve realized that I deserve someone who is all in with me. Heart, mind, and body.”

“You’ve done the work, Zhan. Not me. You. This is your triumph.” My hand presses to my heart, and it flutters against my palm. “I’m happy to stand as a witness.” I push from my chair, wait for Zhan to rise, then escort her to the exit door. “Call me if you need to. Otherwise, I’ll see you on our virtual visit next week. You’ll be in Calgary, right?”

“Yes, scouting,” she beams.

“Isn’t that called poaching?”

“She’s American. Only training in Canada for the winter.”

“Then isn’t that called cheating?”

She points her clutch at me. “Stick to therapy, and I’ll stick to skating.”

“That’s a promise.” I open the door to the exit suite, a small room apart from the reception area. It’s warm with ambient lighting, a trickling waterfall wall, and soothing music. It has meditative guides, tissues, and orange and mint-infused water. “Take your time. The chime will remind you when you need to leave.”

“Thank you, Doc Fitz.” She offers a bow in exchange for my smile.

I close and lock the door, then sag against it for just a moment. On any other day, I’d be finished by now, ready to head to the gym or throw myself into bed with a myriad of sex toys until I pass out from bliss or exhaustion, depending on what the day brings. Today warrants a Big Boy Bonanza, but not just yet.

After spending my morning in the psych ward, namely suicide watch, I’d had to cancel two afternoon appointments and push back Zhan and my newest case.

Mr. Arlo Judge.

A zing of excitement crackles up my spine, straightening me from the door. After so long in the game of human behaviors, many utterly complex things have become prosaic. Mr. Arlo Judge is the opposite of mundane. The man is thirty-two, with the looks of a European model, the bank account of a Rockefeller, and the respect of a Nobel Laureate. Most interesting of all, the man reviles personal touch. For him, both giving and receiving are akin to fire branding.

I can’t wait to dig into him.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

My intercom beeps, and my assistant’s chipper voice fills the line. “Hay Bale, Mr. Judge has arrived.”

No matter how many times I’ve asked her not to, the woman is determined to squeeze my childhood nickname into the day at least once. Giving it attention only exacerbates the issue.

“Thank you, Nettie Lou.” I smirk at the speaker on my desk. Natalia Louise Wright despises her nickname, but turnabout is fair play. “Please, tell me you remembered my express instructions about greeting Mr. Judge?”

“Well, of course.”

“Great.” Nat is a fifty-one-year-old smart-ass, but she is spectacular with my patients when she shows up. “Give me sixty seconds, and send him in. Don’t walk?—”

“I know, Hay Bale. I’ll let him in and see you tomorrow. I’m off to book club.”

“Goodbye.” I singsong, knowing she hasn't read the book of the month. She didn’t bother buying it. The woman goes for the booze and the broads. I can’t blame her one bit. She has a different event for every night of the week and several on the weekends. I don’t have the social stamina for half her schedule.

Then again, we all have our vices.

I hurry to my chair, gently tossing the digital notebook onto my desk several feet away, and then heave the thick leather monster off the floor, ensuring good form. The last thing I need is to pull a muscle and have this man find me writhing on the floor. He’d never come back. That he is here, seeking help, makes me want to jump up and down, throw my hands in the air, and cheer.

For many people, admitting they need assistance is the hardest part of therapy. The first few sessions are the most important by far.

Using a shuffle maneuver, I turn the chair one-hundred-eighty degrees to face the wall of windows overlooking Central Park, on Fifth freaking Avenue, just a few blocks from The Plaza. It is a dream come true. One I don’t take much time to appreciate. I’m too busy with all the work it takes to maintain the dream. Not a monetary necessity. A mental one.

I set the chair down, sit, draw a cleansing breath, and wait for the sound of the door. A few moments pass in silence, save for my thundering heart. I haven’t been this excited for a client in a long time. I catch myself fiddling with my skirt and blouse, then primping my hair and stop my hands immediately. My shoulders straighten, and I lift my chin.

The gentlest click and shift of air are the only hints that Mr. Judge is in the room. He remains quiet and stays by the door.

“Traditionally, I would greet a client at the door, usher them into my space, and offer them a seat before taking mine. It is a ritual that begins the trust-building process. Had I done the same for you, it would’ve put the start of our trust-building marathon in a quarry. Rocky footing and steep sides.” I motion to the chair that’s a coffee table and a few more feet behind me. “Feel free to take a seat whenever you’re ready.”

“Unique…approach.”

Unique voice.

The tone is gravelly and quiet. As though it’s not often used or perhaps has suffered a physical trauma. It reminds me of a ghost, wisping about an abandoned house that hasn’t been a home in far too long. A hint of an accent is camouflaged beneath dusty drapes.

“You’ve been to other therapists,” I surmise.

“Of my own free will, no.”

I hide my cringe, mostly because I’m facing the window, and I manage to keep it on my face and out of my shoulders. Parents often have the best of intentions, sending their kids to therapy. Sometimes, if not handled properly, it only exacerbates the issues. Especially when it’s against their will.

“Since you are a grown man who’s managed to stay out of prison and psychiatric facilities, I assume you’re here of your own free will.”

“I managed.” The bite in his voice wasn’t there a moment ago. “Yes.”

“Wonderful. Those who seek therapy to appease others waste their money and my time.” I clear my throat. “How many were you forced to endure?”

“Two therapists. Two sessions each.” He hasn’t moved into the room any farther. The need to challenge him takes hold.

“Then our first goal is to get through three sessions.” I don’t give him a chance to accept or deny the goal. Just leave it in the ether. “My assistant informed me that you have an aversion to physical touch. Both giving and receiving, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“An aversion to physical touch is usually not based on the action of feeling another’s skin or hair or vice versa. It’s based on a lack of trust. Therefore, I will try my best to build trust in you and, in turn, allow you to build trust in me. As a safety precaution, I run background checks on all my clients before scheduling our first meeting. As a demonstration of the trust I’m placing in you, I will face the window as long as it takes for you to place a bit of trust in me. If, at any point, you would like me to turn around, let me know.”

“Understood.” His word came from closer in the room than the last, though I hadn’t heard him move.

A thrill unspools, falling like a curled ribbon and bouncing in my belly. I tamp it down. This isn’t the time, and it most certainly is not the place.

“Due to unforeseen events, I was not able to review the intake form you submitted.”

“I turned it in three weeks ago.” There’s a hint of power behind his thin voice. No nonsense. That, I can appreciate.

“Had I read it weeks ago, I’d have forgotten it by now. I blocked off the first part of my morning to read through it. Like I said earlier?—”

“Unforeseen events.” He completes for me. As though I’m incompetent to do so on my own. “We can reschedule.”

“Unnecessary.” I use the term for his behavior as well as his comment. “In fact, it will work better this way. A baby step before we really dig in. As it were, I remember the intake questions quite well.”

“But you can’t remember the answers.”

He’s a man used to controlling those around him in every setting. Control limits his vulnerability.

“I have over three hundred clients at various stages of their journey. While I’m a quick study, I’m not a search engine. I have expertise in a specific subject matter. It is a narrow window in the endless expanse of the universe in which we live. You can either respect that or leave now.”

I fold my hands in my lap and give him a minute to decide. It’s a quiet time in the cocoon of my office as the city bustles below.

“Since I didn’t hear the door, I suppose you’re still here.”

“Against my better judgment.”

My smile is big and out of place. Luckily, he can’t see it. “If we all utilized our better judgment?—”

“You’d be out of a job?”

“Hardly. My job is not based on a person’s inability to judge right and wrong or even adhere to the former. I have a job because the human condition is complex and resilient. I have a job despite people’s most dire situations. Because even in the darkest, coldest, quietest corners of our minds, we have hope.”

“Tragic, isn’t it?”

I should say no .

I should say It’s uplifting and why I do what I do .

“Not always, but sometimes,” I agree. “Enough about me and my job. Tell me your name.”

“You already know my name.”

“Indeed. I also know you’re here, and you’re pissed about it.” I know he has a wall around him that’s a mile high, and it’ll take a long-ass time to chisel the tiniest divot. If those divots are precisely placed, the wall will crumble, no matter how tall.

No matter how shy or closed off a client is in the real world, the promise of privacy and confidentiality and the potential to help unlock the worries and the words that have been held prisoner for years, maybe decades. Often, it only takes a question or two, and my clients spew their problems like a busted water main.

Mr. Judge isn’t one of those.

“What good will telling you my name, which you already know, do?”

I seriously consider charging him double. He’ll be that much work or more.

“Humor me.”

Not even a whisper.

“Hello, my name is Hailey Fitzpatrick. You may call me Dr. Fitzpatrick or Doc Fitz if you like.”

“But not Hay Bale?”

My chuckle catches me off guard. His comment is out of left field. I suspect he heard my assistant on the intercom. My reception area isn’t large by any means, but I’m surprised he’d mention it. Then again, if he’s trying to throw me off and get the upper hand, it’s a job well done.

I press my grin into a line. “Certainly not.”

“But your assistant can?”

“I’d fire her if I could.”

“But…good help is hard to find?”

“But…she’s my aunt.”

“Ah, Nettie Lou and Hay Bale. Did you grow up on a farm?”

“I’ll tell you what, you answer the remainder of my questions without cutting me off, and without subterfuge, and I’ll tell you where I grew up.”

“Fine.”

“Fabulous. Start with your name.”

“Arlo Judge.”

“Middle name.” I press to get under his skin and force him to open up.

“Becker,” he spits.

My grin pulls to one side. It’s a win but not a big one and does not warrant such a snappy response. I file it away for later and press on. “Thirty-two, sole owner of The Judge Conglomerate, clean bill of health at your yearly physicals. That has to be a blast for you.”

“Unpleasant. If you look like you’ll rip their head off if they touch you more than necessary, it’s no more than a gloved hand for the blood draw and the cold edge of the stethoscope.”

“How do you manage the proximity?”

His audible exhale is like that of a fire-breathing dragon.

It sends a shiver down my spine to a very inappropriate location. I cross my legs and straighten my shoulders, determined to ignore the pulses.

“I close my eyes and count.”

“It’s not a bad technique. Next time you’re in a situation like that, I want you to try to keep your eyes open. Instead of counting, I want you to say, ‘Your presence has no power over me.’”

“That might be more awkward than my counting.”

My mouth hangs open for a second before I can collect myself. “You count aloud?”

“Yes. I’ve found it makes people uncomfortable and quicker to remove themselves from my space.”

“I’ll bet. It’s quite genius.” I nod. “But you’re here to learn techniques to improve your aversion, not avoid it. So say it quietly to yourself, now.” I give him a minute to say it quietly to himself or, more likely, stare uselessly at the back of my head. “Now, aloud.”

There isn’t a peep from his side of the room.

I clear my throat. “Mr. Judge, I can’t help you if you don’t want me to.”

“I figured showing is better than telling.”

I have no power over him.

That’s settled. I’m charging him triple.

“You’re not dumb. I’ll give you that.” I uncross my legs at the ankle and hoist one thigh over the other. To hell with ladylike. This man is treading on my nerves. At least I’m facing away from him, and I have on my trusty stockings. The opaque material hugs my legs and is clipped securely into my garter belt. “How do you identify?”

“Cisgender man, he/him/his pronouns.”

Even in a city as diverse as New York, sad to say, I’m impressed by the bare minimum from this rich white man.

“What type of people, if any, do you find attractive?”

“I find many people attractive but am not attracted to many.”

Interesting answer. “Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Serious relationship? We’ll start with romantic.”

“No.”

“Friends?”

Again with the fire breathing. Impressively, I maintain my composure.

“Believe it or not, yes.”

“Why wouldn’t I believe it?”

“Because I’m…different.” There’s a weight in his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago.

“The notion of normal and sameness are bullshit.”

“Is that a clinical term?”

“Absolutely. We all have our hang-ups, glitches, tics. The biggest problem is that we think we’re alone or unique because of them. When, in fact, it’s what knits us together. Tell me about your friends.”

He clears his throat.

“Karris is the head of tech for Judge. We met freshman year at Harvard and were roommates until grad school. Celeste is the head of real estate for Judge. We met in grad school. Dobson is the head of media for Judge. We met when he was bartending the first Judge Conglomerate holiday dinner.”

“He makes the meanest vodka martini?”

There’s the barest hint of a laugh. It’s decadent. “No. Actually, his drinks were shit. He managed to put my head of media in a headlock and the spotlight for selling company secrets.”

“You repaid him with the position?”

“He earned it.”

“Fair enough.”

“Then there’s Hotaru.” Mr. Judge pauses for a moment. “He’s my guy.”

I perk. “Your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Your…”

“My best friend. I met Hota at boarding school, and we just got each other.”

I catch myself sliding my hand down my skirt over my thigh a little too intensely for company and fold my hands in my lap once more. I decide I’m not getting any more out of him, so I move on. “Do any of these people have the privilege of touching you or earning your touch?”

“No. They touch me less than a stranger would attempt.”

“Because they know you.”

“Yes.”

“And they’ve never pushed you?”

“Once upon a time, Celeste fancied herself in love with me.”

“How hard did she push you?”

“One hug, one failed hand hold, two failed kiss attempts, and her last-ditch effort.”

“Which was?”

“Naked ambush.”

Not much reading the room going on for Celeste. In her defense, it isn’t often a naked woman goes unappreciated. But if someone doesn’t want to hold your hand, they’re probably not going to want to touch your pussy either.

“How did those experiences make you feel?”

Several beats of silence stretch into several more. “Angry,” he finally admits.

“Why?”

His fingers thrum an irritated beat on the chair. It’s a familiar sound, though his staccato is more forceful than I’m accustomed to.

“Celeste is a gorgeous woman. She’s intelligent and kind and funny. She sees the best in people. She’s driven. She’s everything I should want. Everything I wanted to want, but the thought of allowing her to touch me made my fucking skin crawl.”

My heart squeezes as if my ribs have collapsed, pinning it in place. I understand the yearning, the disgust, and the heartbreak.

“We all have a desire, innate and engraved in our DNA, to seek connection, contact, care. From inside the womb, those bonds are begun, and somewhere along the way, for any multitude of reasons, they can be stunted or severed entirely.” My eyes settle on a crow soaring above the park, not far from my window. I draw a deep breath. “They can also be repaired. There will be scars and damage. If we put in the work, those scars will show our strength and resilience. Is Celeste the reason you’re here?”

“The way you ask questions. It’s unusual.”

“If I ask them differently, will you answer them?”

“It was a lifetime ago. Celeste is happily married with a kid and another on the way.”

“Yet she can still be your reason.”

“She’s not.”

The sky paints us a breathtaking view as pinks, oranges, blues, and purples saturate the chunky clouds. Our time is winding down. There are still a million questions I want to ask. I settle on one and not the one he expects.

“Do you remember a time when you received or gave touch that soothed something inside you?”

My office is silent. The stillness is unnatural with the hustle and bustle of the city outside and the two people occupying space inside. It’s also a respite, a break from all the noise in our world. It’s why the room is soundproofed, along with the exit room. People can be whatever they need to be in this space.

Loud. Angry. Sad. Quiet.

I stay completely still, waiting for him to make his move.

The clouds shift past the window. Slowly, the colors drain toward the west.

“Yes.”

Hope warms my chest. At some stage in his life, touch had done what it was meant to do for him.

Before I can ask another question, the rustle of his suit fills the office. “Our time is up.”

“That’s my line.” I look at my watch to find I should have said it five minutes ago.

He retreats. The door handle is bombastic in the quiet. I need something from him before he goes.

“Mr. Judge?” It takes so much restraint not to turn toward him and see if he’s still inside my office. “Are you forgetting something?”

His cleansing breath is the only thing that tells me he’s here.

“I grew up on a farm.”

“That’s cheating,” he protests. I used that same line just an hour ago.

“It is, but you’re paying for my therapeutic prowess, not my backstory.”

“You’re getting mine.”

“Trying to. Little by little. And you’re paying me for it.” I smirk and wish he could see my expression. “Good evening, Mr. Judge. I’ll see you next week?”

“No, you won’t, but I’ll see you. Goodbye, Hailey.” The door closes quietly while my mouth hangs open.