Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The library's community room is packed for the annual book sale. The air is thick with the smell of old paper and coffee. Laura moves through the crowd, smiling, making small talk, while her mind replays the exam room on a loop.
She can't stop thinking about it. The locked door.
The vibrating wand. The way his voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket while his fingers did things no doctor should do.
She sees his face everywhere. In the kindly grandfather browsing the mystery section.
In the young father reading to his toddler.
In every man who smiles at her, she sees him.
"Laura? Laura!"
She blinks. Carol, her boss, is standing in front of her, holding a clipboard and looking annoyed.
"I asked you three times. Where are the extra price stickers?"
"I'm sorry." Laura shakes her head, trying to focus. "They're in the supply closet. I'll get them."
She hurries away, her face burning. She's been making mistakes all week. Misfiled books. Missed deadlines. Yesterday she snapped at a patron who asked a simple question about the Dewey decimal system. Carol has noticed. Everyone has noticed.
She finds the stickers and brings them back. Carol takes them without a word, her lips pressed into a thin line.
The book sale runs until six. Laura works the cash register, scanning barcodes and making change, her hands moving on autopilot. Her mind is elsewhere. It's always elsewhere now.
Friday. Her next appointment is Friday. She tells herself she's going to cancel. She tells herself she's going to walk in and confront him. She tells herself a lot of things.
The sale winds down. Laura helps clean up, folding tables and stacking leftover books. Helen appears at her elbow, holding two cups of coffee.
"You look like you need this," Helen says.
Laura takes the cup. "Thanks."
They sit in the break room, the only sound the hum of the vending machine. Helen watches Laura over the rim of her cup, her eyes sharp with concern.
"What's going on with you?" Helen asks. "You've been weird for weeks."
Laura almost tells her. Almost. The words are right there, pressing against her teeth. He touches me. He makes me come. He says it's therapy but it's not. It's not.
But how would she explain? How would she describe what happens in that room? The cold metal, the warm hands, the shame and pleasure tangled together until she can't tell them apart?
"Did anything about Doctor Anderson ever seem off to you?" Laura asks instead.
Helen frowns. "Off how?"
"I don't know. Just... off."
"He was lovely." Helen's voice is firm, defensive. "He remembered my name, asked about my kids. He's the best doctor I've ever had."
Laura's stomach sinks. Helen sees the kind doctor, the gentle healer. She doesn't see the locked door, the vibrating wand, the way he says "good girl" when Laura comes.
"Right," Laura says. "He's wonderful."
Helen reaches across the table and takes Laura's hand. "You're just stressed. Maybe you should take some time off. Or better yet, go see Doctor Anderson. I bet he could help you relax."
Laura laughs. A sharp, bitter sound that makes Helen's eyes widen.
"What?" Helen asks.
"Nothing." Laura pulls her hand away. "I have to finish cleaning up."
She stands and walks out of the break room, leaving Helen staring after her.
Friday comes faster than Laura expects. She stands in front of the clinic, her heart pounding, her palms sweating. She tells herself she's going to turn around. She tells herself she's going to walk away.
She walks inside.
The waiting room is the same as always. Soft sage walls. Warm lamplight. The fountain bubbling in the corner. Carol the receptionist smiles at her from behind the desk.
"Laura! Doctor Anderson is ready for you. Go on back."
Laura's legs carry her down the hallway. Her hand pushes open the door to the exam room. Her body knows the routine now. Undress. Fold her clothes neatly on the chair. Pull on the paper gown. Sit on the edge of the table and wait.
Doctor Anderson enters a few minutes later. He closes the door behind him. The lock clicks.
"Laura," he says, and his voice is warm, welcoming. "I've been thinking about you."
The words send a shiver down her spine. She doesn't know if it's fear or something else.
"I've been thinking about your progress," he continues. "About how far you've come. I think we're ready to try something different today."
He pulls on a pair of gloves. Then he pauses, looking at his hands. He pulls them off again.
"No gloves today," he says. "I need to feel the muscle tension directly. It's important for this stage of treatment."
Laura's stomach clenches. Bare hands. His skin on her skin. The thought makes her dizzy.
"Lie back," he says. "Feet in the stirrups."
She lies back. She swings her legs up. The stirrups are cold against her heels. She stares at the ceiling and counts the tiles.
Fourteen. Still fourteen.
His fingers touch her inner thigh, warm and bare. She gasps at the contact. His skin is soft, warm, nothing like the cold latex she's grown used to.
"Just relax," he murmurs. "I'm going to assess your muscle tension."
His fingers part her folds, gentle but insistent. Then they slide inside her, slow and deliberate. Laura's breath catches. She can feel every ridge of his fingerprints, every movement of his knuckles.
"You're still so tight," he says. "But you're improving. I can feel the difference."
He curls his fingers, pressing against something inside her that makes her gasp. A jolt of sensation shoots through her, sharp and electric.
"There," he says. "That's the trigger point. That's where you hold all your fear."
He works the spot relentlessly, his fingers moving in slow circles. His thumb finds her clitoris, pressing down with just the right amount of pressure. Laura's hips buck involuntarily.
"Let it go," he says. "Let me help you. Stop fighting."
His voice is a constant stream of reassurance, washing over her, drowning out the voice in her head that screams this is wrong. His fingers move faster, deeper, hitting that spot again and again.
Laura comes with a sob, her whole body convulsing. The orgasm is violent, devastating, ripping through her like a storm. She hears herself crying, feels tears on her cheeks, but she doesn't know if she's crying from pleasure or despair.
Doctor Anderson withdraws his fingers slowly. He helps her sit up, his hands gentle on her shoulders. He reaches for her blouse, hanging on the chair, and helps her put it on. His fingers work the buttons one by one, slow and careful.
"You're making incredible progress, Laura," he says. "I'm so proud of you."
Laura stares at him, searching his face for some sign of the monster she knows is there. She sees only kindness. Only warmth. Only the gentle, fatherly smile of a man who has dedicated his life to helping women like her.
"I looked you up," she blurts. "I read all your reviews. You're very well-respected."
He smiles. "I take my work seriously. My patients mean everything to me."
"Do you do this with all your patients?"
The question hangs in the air between them. Laura holds her breath, waiting for his answer.
His smile doesn't waver. "Every patient is different, Laura. Every treatment is unique. You're special. I hope you know that."
Laura's throat tightens. Special. He thinks she's special. The word should fill her with warmth. Instead, it fills her with dread.
"I don't feel special," she whispers. "I feel broken."
Doctor Anderson takes her hand and squeezes it. His grip is warm, firm, reassuring.
"That's why you need me," he says. "And I'm not going anywhere."