11. Hailey
I’ve been to emergency therapy twice this week, talking through my sudden freak-out with Astor. Yes, I’m a psychologist, but a surgeon doesn’t operate on themselves. The same rules apply.
She thinks it’s some kind of glorious breakthrough. That my emotions over losing Matt prove that I make connections regardless of whether I want to or not. Astoroid Belt, as I’ve taken to calling her this week, thinks if I open myself up, my connections will be deeper and more fulfilling.
To that, I say, more devastating when they’re gone.
Logically, I know she’s right, but I’m not about to high-wire over an active volcano. Or open anything. Not even a present.
On that note, I close my laptop from my and Astor’s video chat since Zhan canceled this week. She now has whatever sickness her girlfriend had last week. Yet another reason to fly solo.
I grab Mr. Judge’s tie from my drawer, where I’ve successfully ignored it most days, and make my way to the big leather chair. For this occasion, I wore my most professionally acceptable badass outfit. I need to feel like a badass today. The black thigh-high boots are hidden under a floor-length semi-sheer black skirt, that only shows off my black leggings underneath. My tight-fit black turtleneck is paired with a cropped leather jacket that says, ‘Try me, fucker. I dare you.’
My hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail. My makeup is fresh. My nerves are settled after a week of upheaval.
Lifting the tie to my face, I knot it in place and wait. I wait for the rush of excitement to wash over me, for the inappropriate tingles to start, for the need to ambush me.
Nothing but irritation comes.
It’s more shocking than using my safe word.
Before I hear the door open, I’m contemplating ripping the damn thing off my face. I’m tired of it, and I’ve never been anything but grateful for a blindfold.
What the fuck?
I press my clammy hands into my lap and hold very still, leaning into training to get me through this odd development. I listen to him enter and close the door behind him. I’m struck once more at the bare whisper of his footsteps. After he sits, he’s quiet for a minute. So am I.
“Good evening, Hailey. It’s nice to see you.”
It would be nice to see you too.
“How did your homework go?”
“You’re straight to the point.” There’s a quip to his voice and concern too. It chafes even more than the blindfold.
“Would you rather I waste your time and money?” I’m snapping, and I don’t know If I can stop.
“I’d rather know what’s gotten into you.”
“You’re here for therapy, not me.” I should recommend him to another therapist. “So answer my question.” I tack on a “please” because I’m being a bitch, and he doesn’t deserve it.
“It was…hard.” He’s not the type to make lewd comments. So I don’t have to worry about him going into detail about his cock. My next question is safe.
“How so?”
“Now that I’ve fantasized about her touching me, I want it more than ever.”
“I’d call that major progress.”
The usual joy of a patient’s progress is strangely absent. It stokes my already roaring irritation. I don’t know why I thought I was ready for this. Mostly, because I’ve never had such a reaction to a patient. Hell, to anyone.
“What if she wants nothing to do with me?”
He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who fishes for compliments. So I won’t give them. After all, I haven’t even seen him face-to-face. I can, however, point out the obvious.
“How many people eye-fuck you daily?”
“Um?” He stalls.
“Don’t be shy. You know what I’m talking about. The woman standing in line near you at the coffee shop. The woman who always ends up riding the elevator at the same time you do? The guy at the gym.”
“A few.” He finally concedes.
“People don’t eye-fuck those who are unattractive to them. It’s safe to deduce that you’re not an ogre. Though, even ogres appeal to some.” I adjust the blindfold, hating it more by the second. “Have you even asked this woman out on a date?”
“No.”
“She doesn’t know you’re interested. You’ve spoken, so she knows you exist. She probably knows you’re not into physical contact. People who aren’t into physical contact exude an aura that tells everyone else to piss off. If she’s any good at reading people, she’s probably picked up on those cues, even if you don’t outright give them to her.” I draw a deep breath. “I’m about to make you uncomfortable.”
“And you haven’t been doing that all along?” He gives a dry laugh.
“No. I’ve been pretty mild with you.”
He gives me that heavy long exhale I’ve missed. It’s quite endearing. “Okay.”
“I want you to ask a woman to coffee this week. It doesn’t have to be the woman, but it can be. This exercise is about putting yourself out there.”
“I’ve asked women to coffee before.”
“Women who you wanted to touch?” He doesn’t respond. “Work outings and friend group events don’t count.”
“Fine,” he groans.
“And I?—”
“And?” Disbelief coats his chirp. It borders on indignation.
“And I want you to touch her.” I hold up my hand before he speaks. “It doesn’t have to be a big touch, but it has to be a touch. Whether a guiding hand on the small of the back, a graze of the fingers, or a kindly touch of the arm.”
“It doesn’t have to be skin on skin?”
“No. Unless you ask a stripper to coffee. Even still, she’ll be appropriately dressed for the weather. The strippers I know wear more clothes than the nuns I know.”
“You know strippers and nuns?”
“You don’t?” I counter.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Live a little, Mr. Judge. You don’t know what you’re missing. They’re some of the best people I know.” I adjust the blindfold, then tap my lips for a second, thinking. “A no-touch lap dance might be great for your next homework assignment.”
“Next?” He chokes.
I shrug. “Depends on how well you do with this one. If you go all in, I’ll push the lap dance out?—”
“How long?”
“Depends.” I fight my grin.
He’s quiet. At least his mouth is. His fingers are going a mile a minute on the arm of the chair. I wonder if he realizes he’s doing it. I wonder if he does it in important meetings.
“Have coffee with me.” His voice is firm and determined, even in its thin texture.
It takes me more than a moment to compute the words. It takes more than a few more to collect my suddenly scattered thoughts and settle my bucking pulse.
“I’m thrilled you feel comfortable enough to ask me, but you're my patient. Besides, I can’t exactly walk in public in my blindfold.”
“Take it off.” Again, he’s direct.
Everything stills. I swear my heart stops completely. This is a huge step for him. A leap, really, and I didn’t have to apply much pressure for him to rise to the challenge.
I can’t go with him.
My job is to keep him progressing and keep things professional. I already haven’t done a great job of that with him. Going for coffee would send the wrong message. This isn’t a friendship. Yes, I have a friendship with Astor, but that developed over more than a decade, and I’m no longer paying her as my therapist.
If it was any other client, I wouldn’t go. But I’m afraid he’ll backslide if I don’t. And I want out of this fucking blindfold.
A first.
I want more than I’m willing to admit to even myself. Nothing much, really. Just…the sight of him. Not him exactly. I want a good look at his demons. Demons that rival mine.
Nothing bad will happen. Nothing can happen. It’s just coffee.
Astor’s voice rings in my head, telling me to go on a date. She certainly didn’t mean with a client. And this is not a date.
“Please?” he adds.
The silk is soft against my fingers. I take my time unfitting the knot, letting him adjust to the impending vulnerability. Maybe I’m giving myself time too. Then it’s off.
I blink several times, adjusting to the light.
“Hello, Mr. Judge.”
He gives a slight bow of his head.
Whatever breath I’d managed to gather between the shock of him demanding I accompany him to coffee and demanding I remove the blindfold evaporates once more. My brain goes a little fuzzy. The universe skitters. It’s like I’m drunk. Intoxicated by the mere sight of him. No, not just the sight of him, but the presence he emanates. It has nothing to do with his bespoke suit, the sleek timepiece peeking out from beneath his cuffs, nor his fancy shoes—approximately size fourteen.
The pictures I saw of him were great. They do nothing to pay respect to the nuance of the man in front of me.
His dark eyes are as haunting as they are haunted. They look like two dark pools beckoning their prey to slip beneath the surface…never to be seen again. His skin is smooth and white with no hint of a tan. Yet not as ghostly pale as mine. Its unblemished surface lends severity to the width and cut of his jaw. His hair is slicked in a gentleman's cut, though a little long. Its slight waves hint at an unruly nature, and the color is hard to discern, much like the man. It appears dark offhand, but there are glimpses of honey-brown and the barest flecks of auburn.
“Shall we?” He stands, and I’m struck by his sheer size. His shoulders and long legs fit so neatly into his suit, it almost camouflages his potential for being the apex predator among apex predators.
I cross my arms over my chest, sit back in my seat, and look directly into his entrancing eyes. “Ask me properly.”
“Come with me for coffee.”
My head shakes. “A demand, not a request.”
His chest fills with air and he releases it through his wide mouth. I’m tickled to finally see the dragon breathe. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “It would be my honor to take you for coffee.”
“Once again, not a request.” I tilt my head. “If you want me to go, ask me. If you don’t, don’t.”
His jaw tilts toward the sky, but his eyes remain focused on me. “Will you please join me for a cup of coffee?”
“Yes.” I hop from my chair, grab my phone from my desk drawer, and walk toward him. To his credit, he doesn’t retreat. He watches me with a slightly raised brow, while I toss my phone onto his now empty seat and peel my leather jacket off. I try my best not to look at him. Instead, I hitch my jaw toward the rack by the exit door. “Grab my coat, please?”
When he moves away, I’m allowed to study his frame without his eyes on me. I don’t take it. Nope, I drape my leather across the back of his seat, grab my phone, and head toward the door. The last thing I need is to indulge in the mysterious beauty of my patient.
I expect him to try to hand the hefty camel trench coat over. Per usual, he’s several chess moves ahead of me. He turns and holds it open as though he’d known it was a test.
“Thank you.” I slip my arm inside, stuff my phone into a pocket, and then?—
His breath catches.
I still.
“On a scale from one to ten, how’s your anxiety?” I breathe the question without moving.
“Zero,” he practically growls.
“Then what?—”
“Crows.” His interruption is baffling.
For a moment, I wonder if he has a fear of crows or if they’re threatening to break into my office via the windows and I’ve been so focused on him that I haven’t heard the pecking. A la Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds .
“You have tattoos on your back.” His statement is an accusation.
“I have them all over. Do you have something against tattoos?” I don’t often display them. They’re for me. Not the world. But I’ve met people who hate them on principle. Desecrating God’s creation and all that. I understand the sentiment, even if I don’t agree with it.
“No,” he snaps. “I just didn’t think you had any.”
“I don’t often display them.” There’s something here. Whether it’s my tattoos, women having tattoos, or tattoos in general. I tuck it away for later and grab my ponytail and slide my other arm into my coat. “I don’t know how you could even see them.”
“Your shirt is sheer.” Mr. Judge pulls up the collar and presses it close to my neck.
My turtleneck is slightly translucent in the back. That’s why I wore a black bra underneath and my leather crop jacket on top. Still, I don’t think it’s risqué. Not sheer enough to make out the details of my black crow and his skeletal partner. “I apologize. I didn’t realize it was quite so inappropriate.”
“It’s not. There’s no need to apologize.” His words are right by my ear. They vibrate against my nape and remind me of Crave.
Dammit.
Without thinking, I shoot forward and leave Mr. Judge to follow in my wake. We make our way through the maze of hallways to the elevator, and I stab the call button with more force than necessary.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he says after several beats. It’s not an apology. Simply an observation.
“Turnabout is only fair, I suppose.” One at a time, I button my coat. “Do you have any…tattoos?”
“No.”
The single word is too short and clipped to make heads or tails of it. Luckily, the elevator arrives, and we get on in silence. When the doors close, it’s hard to say which of us is more on edge. There’s no outright fidgeting. There’s no glancing at the numbers. We just ride in a wicked stalemate that I don’t understand at all.
When the doors open, I lead him out onto the street, across it—at a crosswalk because I’m not a monster—and to the coffee cart slightly diagonal to my office building. We order two black coffees. He pays.
From there, I take three steps, and he follows. We enter Central Park. It’s bustling but not nearly as busy as it will be tomorrow. Weekends in the park are insane, especially during the turning of the leaves. The trees still create a canopy over the walkway, though it won’t be long until they go bare.
We approach a T in the path, and I continue straight, walking toward the thigh-high fence. Beyond it is still green grass and a little farther is a small lake. The path to the left will lead to it. Yet I walk straight. I’m less than a foot from it when his hand hooks around my waist, and he redirects me to the right.
“Were you just going to walk into the partition?” His hand drops away, but his forgotten voice sure picks up the slack.
“If you’d let me.” I lift the coffee to my lips and take a generous sip. It’s hot. Nearly scalding. My tolerance is high.
He hisses, and I don’t know if it’s from touching me, my response, or my gulp of coffee. He hasn’t touched his.
“It seems like a gimme.” I shrug and keep pace with his long, steady strides.
“How so?”
“Let’s see.” I focus on the path and the people passing us. “Between my undergarments, shirt, skirt, and coat, there were four layers between my skin and yours. It can barely be considered a touch.”
“Was my date to be naked for this coffee date? I’m pretty sure you said that even strippers would be clothed in this weather.”
“You’re right.” I blow on the steaming liquid before I sip this time. “Just know, you got off light this time.”
“Is that so?” He says it like he doesn’t believe it. “How’s this?” His big hand gestures toward a bench off to the side sans the telltale hints of bird droppings.
“Perfect.” I hide my smile, knowing he’s picked it, especially for this reason. I sit near the arm, giving him the option of sitting as close or as far away as he’d like. Once more, I’m shocked at how close he sits. There’s room between us, but only a few inches, not the gaping feet I’d expected. “Have you ever had a pet?”
He looks at me. On instinct, I meet his gaze. His lips are quirked in such a way that his chiseled jaw is accentuated even more. Thick brows hood his already shadowy eyes. “Here you go with the unexpected questions again.”
His expression is cute, and a bit of melancholy tugs at my chest because I’ve missed it every other time he’s given it in my presence. “Here you go with the evasion again.”
“I’m not evading. I’m just…” He presses his full lips into a line, draws a breath, and then releases both. “My mom had a dog.”
“What was its name?”
“Pepper. She was a black Pomeranian.” He blows on his steaming coffee.
I make myself look away from his mouth. “Did you pet her?”
“Yes, the damn thing demanded attention at all times. I can remember her messing up a poster I was working on for science class. She jumped onto the dining chair and then onto my back. The T in atom ended up being four times as big as the other letters in the word.” His head shakes in a slow back and forth.
“What did you do to Pepper for messing up your project?”
“Pfft. I scolded her, then scooped her up and buried my face in her fluffy neck.” He drags a hand over his face. “I loved that dog.”
I want to know what happened to Pepper after his parents died, but he changes the subject. Or, more accurately, deflects it.
“Do you have any pets?”
To say I’m grateful for the subject change is an understatement because I would’ve asked my question, and I’m afraid of the answer. I smile. “Believe it or not, I have a cat.”
“I don’t know if I do,” he agrees.
“Most days I don’t believe it, then I come home to maniacal meowing until I feed him, and then he’s done with me until the next morning.”
“And how do you feel about…”
“Plinko,” I supply. “I suppose I feel about him, how he feels about me. Indifferent most days, like I could leave my door open others, and then there are the few when I don’t know how I lived without him.”
He sips his coffee, and I sip mine.
“What made you get a cat if all the mixed feelings?”
“My therapist thought it would be a good exercise in bond forming.” I shrug one shoulder. “And she’s big into animal rescue, so…” I offer an upturned hand.
“Fucking therapists.” He chuckles.
“Right.” My mouth stretches into a smile, and I’m laughing before I can stop it. It feels good on my insides, like it’s loosening something that was pinching before.
“So my therapist has a therapist,” he muses.
“Don’t trust a therapist who doesn’t have one of their own. We deal with a lot of people’s stuff on top of our own.”
A large group walks by. The kids outnumber the adults ten to one, and I guess it’s a field trip to the zoo, which is a few hundred yards farther down the path. They’re loud and touchy, and I’m suddenly grateful on Mr. Judge’s account that he wasn’t touch-averse during his younger years. Then I realize I don’t know that for a fact. My lips are forming the words when he speaks.
“Please tell me he was already named when you got him.”
“Nope.” I giggle. “Plinko is a Doc Fitz original.”
He turns to me, almost grazing my knee with his. “Why Plinko?”
I lift my gaze to him. My giggle dies, but my smile stays. He’s so interesting to look at. Sure, he’s beautiful, but he’s even more compelling. “My babysitter was an old lady who lived down the street. She always watched The Price is Right .”
“Plinko is a game on there,” he recalls.
“Yes. A game of chance. Kinda’ like life. There’s only so much we can control, and the rest is up to physics.”
We finish our coffees in silence, people watching, and getting lost in our thoughts, but still sharing space like I’m not accustomed to, and I’m fairly certain he isn’t either.
He stands without a word and offers his hand. I stare at the veins, muscles, and bones carving his skin with my lips parted in complete shock. Slowly, my gaze makes its way up to his. He gives a curt nod.
With measured movement, I gently lift my hand and place it in his.