2. Hailey
“Hay Bale?” My aunt’s soft and soothing voice runs contrary to her usual bold and brashness. The sentiment tries to burrow into my chest. It scrapes at old scars and new bruises, trying to find purchase. I can’t allow it in. Not right now. “Hailey Bailey, look at me.”
Reluctantly, my eyes leave the untouched sushi on my desk and lift to Nat’s. Her face has graced the covers of every fashion magazine over the decades and just as many gossip rags. Just last year, Vogue did a piece on her for landing Louvet Mortourque’s latest campaign and walking the runway in Paris Fashion Week for the designer.
My aunt is stunning, even with the grim set of her natural brow. “Cancel your afternoon, go home, turn off your phone, and crawl under the covers.”
“If you want to leave early, just say so,” I deflect.
She smooths her hands down her ribs, emphasizing the contour of her blouse and corset combo. Her fingers interlock. An array of stunning gold and jewels adorn each digit as she sets her chin upon them and rests her elbows on my desk.
“I know. I know.” I shove the container away and collapse into my chair. “I look like shit.”
“Hailey, you look gorgeous…even with bloodshot eyes, dark circles under them, and more wrinkles in your clothes than my bedsheets after a visit from Laurent.”
“Nat, gag.” My dry—and apparently bloodshot—eyes roll.
“What? Are you twelve and not a sex and relationship doctor?” She straightens and brushes her long silver and blond plait over her shoulder. “I haven’t heard any of your meetings, but I have reviewed your intake forms. My gymnastics in the sack with a beautiful male model is tame compared to what I’ve read, which I will never speak.”
“Tame? He’s younger than me.”
Her grin expands to take up the entire width of her face. “Stamina for days.”
“I’m sure.” I pluck a piece of fallen rice from my more than bedsheet wrinkled silk blouse and flick it into the garbage can by my feet.
“You’ve run yourself ragged over the past week. You were in the ward all night, Hailey, and I don’t think it was the first time in the past few days.”
The first time I’d forgotten my overnight bag at home, though.
“If you’d shown up in yesterday’s clothes for a good reason, I might have let it slide.” She flourishes her hand with such elegance that she makes a living art installation.
“And what exactly is a good reason in your book?” I grab the wooden edge of my desk, needing an anchor for what I know is bound to come out of her mouth.
“Meeting friends out. Closing down a bar. Wrinkling some bedsheets of your own. Falling in love. Making me a pseudo grandchild. Getting arrested. Having an orgy. Take your pick. Or all of the above.”
I inhale for a five count and let it out for ten. The heavy breath reminds me of my client this evening and the only reason I’m not taking Nat’s suggestion and closing shop early. If I don’t look like shit, I sure feel like it.
“Saving a life isn’t a good reason?” Somehow, I manage to say the words without a wobble in my voice.
Nat opens her hand and places it on the center of my desk. I sit forward and take the comfort she offers. “Love of my life, it is not yours to save.” Her warm fingers curl around mine, holding me still for the truth. “That’s the hardest lesson to learn. You can guide. You can help. You can be there. You can hope. You cannot force someone to live when they long for death. It’s not right.”
My computer chimes with a five-minute alert.
We both jump as though we’d been conspiring to sell crack to children.
“Fuck.” I gripe.
Nat settles on a string of French expletives. She stands and straightens her olive leather pants. “I’ll get back to my station and my own business. So long as you know that you are not responsible for the actions of others. You are only responsible for how you react to them.”
I smile. “Maybe you should sit here, and I should go out there.”
“Nah.” Her long, slim frame saunters to the entrance. “Too many notes to take in here. I’m terrible at typing.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Any time, my love.” She winks and slips out of my office.
I dump the sushi in the bin, hating to waste it but hating the possibility of food poisoning more. I’d stared at it for an hour and a half before Nat joined me. My notes she hates so much hadn’t written themselves in that time, and the shuffle of my schedule hadn’t sorted itself out either.
Determination, sludgy black coffee, and the thought of my last client today got me through the afternoon.
When I close out Zhan's video call, a zing that ingesting jet fuel can’t produce runs through me. It has nothing to do with the ultimatum she gave her girlfriend ending with an invite to move in together. It really should. What a step for the two, who’d been in a playful holding pattern for more than two years, acting more like a het couple than some het couples I’ve counseled.
I close my laptop, hurry to the hulking chair, and shuffle with it discordantly until it’s facing the windows once more. Instead of taking the few minutes to dictate notes, I grab my phone, turn on the best riff from Trey Azagthoth, and let the vicious chords take me away.
Death metal isn’t my everyday music, not anymore. But it’s my go-to when I need a quick release. It blanks the slate like no other. It had been the only thing that worked for me for a while. It’s better than drugs. Unless you ask an evangelical Christian. They’d probably rather you shoot up while praising God than like songs named “Incipit Satan” or “Let the Horror and Chaos Come.” And let’s face it, those are the mild titles.
My anxiety melts through my limbs and soaks into the floor. I manage to keep from moshing because my fiery red hair already looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical outlet or, more accurately, slept intermittently crisscross apple sauce while leaning against a hospital wall.
It’s boisterous. It’s deviant. It’s transcendent.
The intercom beeps, stunning me still because, of course, I moshed. To hell with my hair.
“Hailey?” My aunt’s concerned voice filters in among the crushing of priests and the feeble church. Metaphorically speaking.
“Yep?” I scramble to the chair where I’d thrown my phone in a fit of flailing arms and bouncing. The stupid screen refuses to produce the quick pause button. I’m forced to show it my face before I can stop the respectably loud screams. “Sorry about that.”
“Mr. Judge has arrived.”
“Right. Sixty seconds and send him in.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she whispers.
“Yes,” I grumble and run to my private bathroom just to the right of the exit from my office. “Sweet mercy.” My usually milky-white skin is blotchy, and my cheeks are so red, I look like I’ve sustained a slap to the face, turned, and offered the other cheek. Luckily, he won’t see that. But my hair. “Ugh!” The gently heated curls I’d put in my tit-length locks yesterday have been overtaken by the beast, as I call it. Some clumps are corkscrewed in tight curls, others are frizzed out and fighting for freedom, while others are still stick straight.
I swipe at the drooping mascara under my eyes, grab a banana clip from the cabinet, and do my best to twist a presentable hairstyle. It looks like the last Christmas tree left on the lot is sprouting out of my head. I fold it down, clip it in as well, and bolt for my chair. Not five seconds later, the door opens quietly and closes even more so.
“Mr. Judge?” It’s then I notice that I’m sitting on my phone. As demurely as I can, I fish it out from under my ass, hoping beyond hope that he’s watching where he’s walking or getting situated in his seat. I leave it next to my thigh because I can’t put it in my desk drawer, where I usually keep it during sessions.
“Hailey,” he rasps from his seat.
I’m so relieved that he might not have seen me sticking my hand under my butt that it takes more than a second to register what he called me. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.
“‘Chapel of Ghouls.’ I would have never pegged you as a Morbid Angel fan.”
My jaw detaches from my body and lands on my lap. Most people don’t know death metal. Even those who think they do are under the impression that Pantera and Iron Maiden are among them. This man picked out a rather obscure track from the late eighties after only hearing a few seconds of the song.
“I’m equal parts embarrassed that you heard it, intrigued that you recognized it, shocked that you knew it was death metal, and relieved that you know I wasn’t in here performing ritual sacrifice.”
“I’m not fully convinced that you weren’t performing a ritual sacrifice. You’re breathing heavily and your nape is damp, which makes your red hair look a bit like blood. Let me see your hands.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” So I lift my hands on either side of my head and show him the backs and my palms.
“Me neither. But you’re all clear.”
I drop my hands onto my thighs. “You know metal?”
“For a while, a long time ago, death metal was my lifeline. My therapy before I could afford therapy or cared to explore it.”
I nod in understanding.
“Do we need to cancel so you can continue your session?” His husky voice is so different from others I’ve heard, and I’ve heard a lot.
“You wish.” I chuckle. “Serotonin balances the mood and promotes sleep, digestion, wound healing, nausea, blood clotting, bone health, and sexual desire. Dopamine is part of the brain’s reward system. It makes us feel good but is also involved in learning, mood, heart rate, kidney and blood vessel function, sleep once more, and pain processing. Oxytocin reduces stress, fear, and inflammation, increases trust, and promotes social bonds. Endorphins are natural pain relievers and mood boosters.”
“Is the science lesson extra?”
“Last session, I decided to charge you triple. So I’ll throw the science lesson in for free.”
His laughter is so warm. It toasts my insides and stretches a grin over my lips.
“Oh, and I’m charging you a five-hundred-dollar fee every time you use my first name, Mr. Judge. I told you how you may address me, and my first name was not among the options.”
“I’m a very rich man, Hailey.”
That toast turns to flambé, and I can’t exactly tell if it’s from anger or arousal. That’s not true. I know exactly what it’s from, but also, I know it’s way out of bounds. Ignoring it is the only avenue.
“Your riches just bought me a new pair of shoes. I don’t need any more shoes. I’m running out of closet space. Keep your money, Mr. Judge, and call me Dr. Fitzpatrick.” I pull my shoulders back and continue. “All of those hormones our body makes naturally. They’re brought about by many different things. Listening to your favorite music. Exercise. Sunshine. Dancing. Laughter. A healthy diet. Sleep. Socializing with those close to us. Gratitude. And the ultimate, physical touch.”
“All but one can’t be that bad. It’s a ninety on a test. Way above passing,” he insists.
“You dance?” I can’t stop the rude question from popping out of my mouth or the disbelief used to express it. First, I shouldn’t assume things about clients. I should gather facts and the things they tell me to make informed deductions. Second, I shouldn’t voice my surprise when they open up.
“Fast songs, not slow, and only when I absolutely have to,” he explains.
“Half credit.”
“Still an eighty-five. Still passing.”
“You don’t strike me as a man willing to settle for eighty-five percent.” My phone vibrates against my leg. I don’t look. I’m too busy waiting for a crafty retort. When it doesn’t come, I move on. “Your ultimate goal is not physical touch specifically. It’s learning to develop trust in yourself and others that will allow you to express your affection by giving and receiving physical touch and investing in your relationships.”
He gifts me with a heavy breath.
The dragon.
“Often, the issue isn’t the actual problem. It’s only a symptom. We’ll follow the issues to their roots and pick them apart. Discomfort is to be expected. Nothing worth having ever comes easily. As we work, that discomfort should become farther and farther apart and the severity less and less. I need you to communicate your thoughts and feelings to work through things. Know that whatever you tell me in this room won’t leave it unless my or your physical health is at stake. Where’d you grow up, Mr. Judge?”
“Didn’t the background check tell you?”
There’s the bite I remember. It took a little longer to show itself today. That’s something.
“The background checks I run are for my safety. They only ensure that you are who you say you are, and who you are isn’t a convicted rapist or murderer. Though, it’s not foolproof. Plenty of people guilty of a crime have never been convicted. However, I don’t dig into my clients’ pasts. I require that they fill in the blanks for me.”