ONE NIGHT STAND (A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance) by Bella Grant (23)

Bill

I’d been sitting in this damn office for an hour. I thought therapists were supposed to be, you know, considerate of feelings and all that shit. Why had I been waiting so long, then, huh? I was so bored that I was reading a magazine article. Some dumb-fuck was talking about how his money got him everything he ever dreamed of, and Now you can, too! For just ninety-nine million dollars!

Saying you got everything you wanted in life was a load of shit. I would know, because I have money. Lots of it. I’ll let you in on a secret about wealth: when you have money, you’re gonna spend it just because you can. I’ve spent my fair share of days overseas, lounging in the nude with two hookers I had hired the night before. I’ve snorted cocaine off hookers, yes. I once traveled on a yacht, and I paid for it out-of-pocket just because I could. I’ve done so many things that are cliché, things normal people would only dream of, if they even knew those things existed. But. But. Let me tell you one thing I never got in life.

I’ve never had a woman who gave a shit about me. Not even my mother, though she was the one who finally convinced me to be here. Yeah, they like my money—and, hell, I’d even say that I’m easy on the eyes. I stand about five-foot-nine, not terribly short but certainly not tall. My hair is salt and pepper. My eyes, bright green, distract people from the gray in my hair. I like to think of myself as a ‘refined gentleman,’ which basically means I’m pretty old. Over forty-five.

That’s why you couldn’t stop him from grabbing you by the neck, I thought. Nonsense. He was a coward. Came at you from behind, Bill. What could you really do but give in? I thought to myself, accustomed to my crazy internal dialogue.

“Being robbed can impact ya more than ya think,” my mom had said. “I read it in this self-help book.” Her voice was rattling and weak. She was smoking too much again. “Ya gotta see someone, Billy,” she had urged.

I told myself that her begging voice had convinced me to seek help. But truly, I knew when to throw in the towel. During any business negotiations, the point at which I’d lost and they’d won was always clear to me. Sadly, as much as I fucking hated it, I had lost. That night had robbed me of more than just my money. It robbed me of a piece of my manhood that I couldn’t seem to grab back. Every damn business deal since then had been a crock of shit. I lost my cool because I lost my confidence.

And the nightmares. Those nightmares. I pictured it every night: walking back to my hotel from the financial district. I’d rented a room to get away from my fiancée—whom I was not cheating on, as much as she accused me of it. The mugger had grabbed me by the throat from behind. He was tall and bigger than me, and I am no shrimp. I’ve been muscular my entire life, but especially so since I’d been hitting the gym a lot recently. I wanted to avoid the weight gain that hits most people in their forties.

He had squeezed. “Here’s the deal. I have a gun, and you have a wallet. You go to the ATM, and the gun won’t go off. You fuck with me, and you’ll be poor and dead. Hear that, you son of a bitch?” he’d rasped into my ear.

Even through my fear, I had felt a spike of anger rush over me. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Didn’t he know ‘Billy the Billionaire,’ a self-made man from a lower-middle class family in Yonkers? Didn’t he know that I packed the punches in life, and people like him cleaned my damn shoes—for a very good price, of course, because I value labor. I respect hard work and the people who’ve earned their money. I had no respect for him, even in that moment.

But I had respect for my beating heart and my life. And, God, I admit it: I was scared shitless. I wanted to live. My life ran through my head, and all that jazz. The thought of not having it changed me in many ways. But this change was, by far, overshadowed by the knowledge that at any moment, another stranger could come out of the shadows and take it all away from me.

Back to the robbery, though. I’ve never seen so many people out on the street in my life. Yeah, it was nighttime, but it didn’t explain their sheer ignorance. None of them paid much attention to the situation. Some averted their eyes, and some stared. I had heard of the bystander effect in one of my undergraduate classes, but I never actually thought it existed. Unfortunately for me, I had to find out the hard way. It indeed existed, all the way to the ATM one block north.

He had put the gun to my head as I unloaded my money. When the machine wouldn’t dispense any more money—because there was no more—he was as confused as he was excited.

“That means you got more, don’t it?” he asked. I could tell from his voice that he must have been in his mid-twenties.

He lowered the gun as if in awe. I took this as my chance. As it turns out, the gun wasn’t loaded. It was all for show. Lucky for me, all he could do was use the gun to beat me over the head again and again. He turned me over, and by that point, I was nearly unconscious. He kept beating me until someone finally called the police.

In court, he told them that the rage and fury he had vented upon me was frustration—frustration from being homeless, from losing his job. I was the face of everything he had ever hated. I didn’t feel an ounce of pity for the man, and only regretted that they couldn’t put him away for longer. As his handcuffs shook, he looked at me, his eyes cold and empty. His was the face that could have been my demise. A face I haven’t been able to get out of my head since. Which is why I had finally made the appointment to see the therapist.

Well, that was the main reason. There were many, actually. I wasn’t entirely sure I would ever get over my ex-wife, Sophia, much to the chagrin of my fiancée, Fiona.

“You’re not over Sophia, are you?” Fiona had said to me on more than one occasion.

I’d spun around in my office chair. The day had gone by slowly, and I felt disconnected. “Huh?”

Fiona had found a large photo of Sophia under my bed wearing nothing but some very sexy lingerie. “You have to get rid of this right now!” Fiona cried.

I followed her to the kitchen. She handed me the picture and pointed to the garbage chute.

“Throw it away!” Fiona demanded. She watched as I reluctantly threw it in the trash.

I usually did as she asked; I think I care about her even though she’s a pain in my ass most of the time. She was the nosiest person I have ever known.

“And that kid of yours with his ‘collecting’ habit. I can’t do it anymore,” she’d wailed one night after discovering that Zach had started collecting skulls.

“Do you know that he calls me ‘Crow’?” Fiona asked, showing me an entry in his journal.

“You shouldn’t have been reading his journal,” I’d said dryly, returning to my morning paper.

“It’s not fair. He’s never going to like me! Ever. No matter what I do. I even tried making cookies,” Fiona replied, gesturing to the broken molten tragedies that she’d tried to bake. I nibbled on one, but I wasn’t able to make out what kind of a cookie it was supposed to be.

I cleared my throat and put my paper down, gazing knowingly at her. “I’ll take you shopping and make it all better.”

Her demeanor changed instantly. “You’re the best, baby! Can we go now? I’ll get my coat.”

Fiona had a shopping addiction. I, luckily, had the money to supply her habit, but I was quickly tiring of it.

Last time I checked, Sophia was dating some guy named Eric. Zach would say. “Eric took us out. It was nice of him.”

And I would answer: “He took you out and was nice to you? What a bastard.”

The first time Zach mentioned Sophia’s new boyfriend, I had choked. This was beginning to happen during my business meetings, too. Last meeting, I choked when someone challenged me. This weird feeling of dread came over me. The lights were distant, and I had a flashback. That feeling of powerlessness. A chokehold around my neck. Any tension morphed into that hold, and no action could stop the feeling.

I was snapped out of my reverie when someone walked into the office and looked around—a squirrely young guy. He slammed the door. I jumped.

“Is… is Katie Warren here?” he said to no one in particular.

I looked around the room, trying to figure out if he was talking to the receptionist or me. Her chair was empty. Go figure. I grunted and put the magazine up to my face, then even closer, trying to lose sight of him.

“I’m out of my medicine!” he cried loudly. Tears streamed down his face.

I grunted again, nearly licking the magazine now.

The receptionist scuttled over to the desk.

“Mr. William Carson?” she called out of the booth. I got up quickly, grateful to escape into the office. “You can go on in. First door on your left,” she said.

As I gripped my briefcase and opened the door, I heard the receptionist say, “The psychiatrist isn’t in, and Katie has a client. Can we help you?”

“Fuck,” the man shouted in response.

When I walked into the consulting room, a woman had her back turned to the door as she fumbled behind her desk.

“That guy out there. The crazy one. He one of your patients or something?” I mumbled. “He’s got a foul mouth, but at least he uses the right words.” I chuckled.

“I can’t share that kind of information with you, sir,” she said in a matter-of-fact kind of voice. She spun her chair around.

I’d always heard of people saying that ’their jaw dropped’ when they saw a person, but mine actually did. Sitting there—all five-foot-three-inches of her, or thereabouts—was a woman who was the spitting image of my Sophia. A young Sophia. The same sharp cheekbones. Full, soft lips. Big, brown, expressive eyes. The kind that saw through your shit. She had short hair, curly and thick. Though she hid most of her face with big black glasses, there was no mistaking that she was Sophia’s doppelganger.

I took a seat, trying to steady my legs.

“So you’re...” She paused, squinting at my name.

“William Carson.”

She left her desk and came to sit down across from me on one of her pleather chairs. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

I furrowed my eyebrows and said, “You mean to tell me you don’t know who I am?”

Her face must have been made of stone. She had absolutely no reaction, just a pleasant demeanor. It stunned me. I could usually see the darkest shades in the most classic of creatures.

“You know. Billy the Billionaire?” I said, my voice faltering in a way I did not approve of. Get yourself together, Billy. You gonna let this nobody tell you you’re not a somebody?

I stood and straightened. I towered over her, especially while she was sitting on her chair. “Why would I trust a shrink who can’t even use Google?”

“Please, Mr. Carson, sit down. I do not Google my clients before I meet them,” she explained calmly.

She certainly didn’t have Sophia’s personality. I raked my hands through my hair and took a seat.

“Why’s that? Don’t you wanna know about your competition?”

She tilted her head. “Competition?”

“Yeah. You’re in a business, right? I’m your client, but I might as well be the competition. If you can’t crack this egg, you’re not going to get paid,” I said slyly. I had regained my power.

“I’m in the business of helping. As such, there will be no egg cracking,” she replied with a warm, bright smile. Sophia’s smile. I tried not to melt. I was uncomfortable. I couldn’t meet her eyes. The lights were brighter now. I felt the familiar sensation of panic start to wash over me.

“Are you all right?” she asked in her soft voice.

Her voice brought me back down to earth. I shifted in my chair. “Yeah. I just need some water.”

She fetched me some water in a paper cup. As her hand brushed mine, electricity jolted through me. I glanced up at her. Our eyes met, and she quickly averted hers. She took her seat across from me, her voice far more professional than before.

“So, what brings you in today?” she asked, back to calm and collected.

“Well, first, let me give you some background, considering you haven’t Googled me.”

“All right.”

“I’m a self-made man. None of that grew-up-rich shit. I’m a business god, have four cars, each more expensive than the last, and I can do anything I want,” I said smugly. Yeah, I can do anything. Including you.

She either missed my point or ignored it and moved on.

“Any family? Significant others?”

“Yeah, uh… my son, Zach. My fiancée, Fiona.”

“So you’re divorced?”

My chest tightened. “Yes.”

“You wrote on your intake questionnaire that you recently experienced a robbery,” she said gently. Her face showed genuine concern—concern that disarmed me. She must be good at faking it, because no human could be that concerned this quickly. “I’m sure that was difficult for you.”

“Not really,” I lied. “I was able to recover most of my finances.”

“I didn’t mean financially difficult. I meant emotionally difficult,” she said. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. I took a long sip of my water. She moved on. “Does your son live at home?”

“Yes, half the week. The other half is with my ex-wife, Sophia.”

She crossed her legs in her chair. I took notice of them—thin yet shapely, clothed in black nylon. I wondered what they looked like bare. I looked her over intently. I’d paid for a hooker before, but I’d pay a lot of money for just a minute with her legs.

Her face was red with embarrassment. She’d noticed my staring. The familiar surge of power welled up in me, but it wasn’t the kind of power I wanted to feel around her.

“Do you have any existing health issues? You didn’t fill it out.”

“Besides having pain from being beaten over the head with a gun? No, not really. I’m as healthy as an ox,” I replied, smiling grimly.

“Okay.” She wrote this down. “How are you sleeping?”

“Like shit. But I can’t deny that my nights are action-packed. They could write screenplays based on my nightmares, I swear.”

“Are you currently taking any medication?” she asked.

Yes. Xanax for panic attacks. But I would never admit that to anyone. I had always put people down for taking meds, but I had turned to them when I couldn’t handle losing sleep anymore. I told myself it was just for now, but I wasn’t too sure.

“I hate how shrinks have a book. All of you have one,” I commented, noticing a shelf in the office.

“You’ve seen a shrink before?” she asked.

“Yeah. Once, with Sophia. We wanted it to help. It didn’t, obviously. But I hated every minute of it.”

“I wonder if you hated therapy or if you just couldn’t stand feeling vulnerable,” she said.

The button was pushed. “What the fuck would you know about being vulnerable? I mean, I know women need to carry pepper spray and all that, but you couldn’t possibly know what life is like. What are you, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-nine,” she corrected me.

“Exactly,” I scolded.

“Listen,” she replied softly. “I apologize. I’m not trying to push you, but I’d rather get down to it. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who needs the run-around.”

“All right,” I responded, feeling a tad bit better. “You’re a negotiator. I can do that.”

“Something terrible happened to you. I get that. If we’re going to proceed, you need to know that this place is safe. It’s okay here. You can be and feel safe here.”

I wondered if all shrinks were trained in the art of hypnosis. Her voice was sleep-inducing, calming. I pulled out a cigar, forgetting the office was nonsmoking. It provided an escape that I desperately wanted. My palms were beginning to sweat. I looked pale as hell, according to the mirror near the window.

“I need a smoke. Same time next week, Doc?” I muttered.

She stood up. “Yes.”

I followed her, extending my hand. “Billy the Billionaire. Pleased to meet you,” I said. I grasped her hand, feeling the jolt again.

She inhaled softly and quickly let go of my hand. She pointed to her badge. “Just to let you know, I don’t have my doctorate yet. I am a licensed professional counselor at the Master’s level.”

I shrugged. “All good with me, Doc.”

“You can call me Katie. Most people do,” she said warmly.

She showed me out. I couldn’t help but notice that she shut the door harder than I expected. She wasn’t just a negotiator, I could see. She was a fighter, too. I was definitely in for a run for my money, if that was even humanly possible.

The session, I reluctantly had to admit, had more of an impact than I anticipated. I knew nothing about therapy, but I knew you weren’t supposed to want to bone your therapist after the first session. Even so, as I waited for my driver to pick me up, a part of me wanted to go back to the office. Darkness was descending quickly, and I wanted to feel warm.

My home, no matter what I did, could never feel warm. It was big, cold, and immaculate. I liked it, in a sense, because it created a kind of distance between me and everyone around me. Each room was separate from the others because the rooms themselves were huge. If you were to stand in one corner of the room, you could safely do a whole gymnastics routine from one end to the other.

Fiona had our bedroom, but she also had her own ‘girl room,’ stuffed with clothes and shoes. Next was my son’s room. He’d had the same one since he was a kid, the smallest room in the house. Never once did he ask for a bigger one, even when I pressed about how a young, growing man needed a bachelor pad.

“He doesn’t want to leave the room because it reminds him of his old life with your ex,” Fiona said one day, seething.

I doubted that was true, but if it was, he did a good job of hiding it. Never once did he reminisce about our old life together. He was a practical kid. Definitely got that from me. He wouldn’t have seen the point in complaining.

“To the villa, Mr. Carson?” my driver, Gretta, asked.

“Promptly, dear cabby,” I said, joking around. I’d known Gretta for most of Zach’s life. She was burly and cheerful, and a more loyal driver could not be found. I originally met her on the way back from Brooklyn. At the time, she worked for a backyard, shady taxi business that wouldn’t give her benefits. I had to catch a train to New Jersey, and we’d hit traffic due to roadwork. She got out of the taxi and shuffled over to the road worker. Pointed to the car. Traffic moved as though she was a magician. I never knew what she said to him, but it sealed her fate with me. She would be my driver.

That summer of ’98, it had been raining. She’d dropped me off at a meeting.

“This, dear,” I said, handing her some papers, “is an employment contract. Full-time, one hundred thousand a year, benefits included.”

Her eyes had welled up. I hated when women cried. My weakness.

“Why?”

“Cause they don’t make them like you very often,” was my simple reply.

That night, she picked me up in her own car with a signed contract. We never looked back.

Her son, Gabriel, had been friends with Zach ever since. They lived not far away in an upper-crust neighborhood. Zach was probably there now, actually.

“I swear, that kid has a never-ending appetite,” Gretta teased. “I made pork chops and had to put in some pizza poppers. Don’t know where he puts the food. He takes after you.”

“I told him to be home for dinner. Fiona is going to flip,” I said, exasperated. “I swear, no matter how hard she tries...”

Gretta looked at me in the mirror and down sadly. I got the feeling, sometimes, that Zach confided in her more than me. She was a bit standoffish around Fiona—everyone was, though. I don’t know why.

Fiona is a good woman. Her heart is big, and she is genuinely grateful for everything I give her. I can’t deny, though, her desire for more and more. One month, a vacation to the coast would be okay, but the next month, she wanted Jamaica. But boy, oh boy, is she good in bed.

The house always looked great. She’d stock the fridge with my favorite food and booze. What I liked the most about her was that, like everyone else, she was in total awe of my wealth. That therapist, though... I tried not to let myself linger on her for too long.

My house was huge. On its own, it’s not what you’d imagine a billionaire owning. However, it was only one of six houses. I had two more in California and three scattered across the east coast. Each one was as big and extravagant as the next. This one had a lot of space. The walls were tall, and everything was ultra-modern and chrome, with a five-car garage for my toys and my own personal indoor pool and gym.

Gretta dropped me off in front. “Give Ariel my love.” Ariel was my live-in chef. She had her own room and a salary. She was attending university, so except for meal times, we didn’t see her much.

Fiona greeted me, redheaded and tanned, her big, brown eyes highlighted with purple liner. She looked great. She flashed me a white smile and wrapped her arms around me.

“Hi, baby.” She oozed perfume. “How’d your day go? Did you seal the Parker deal?”

I muttered gruffly and took a seat. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Fiona’s entire demeanor changed. “But I don’t understand! Didn’t you see the therapist?”

“Not until after work,” I informed her.

“She didn’t fix you yet?” Fiona moaned. “I thought they could do that in one session.”

“Nah. She just asked me a bunch of shit. What’s for dinner?”

“I’m having Ariel make Thai. Your favorite,” Fiona winked.

I sighed and took her into my arms. She once told me I had the nicest arms on a man she’d ever seen. “I know what I want for my first course,” I muttered into her neck.

“Mmm,” she cooed. “And what’s that?”

“A fine Irish and Italian meal,” I said, running my fingers gently over her crotch.

“Sounds great.” She gasped as I pressed on her clit.

I led her upstairs. I nodded to Ariel, who was going down to start dinner. Fiona giggled the whole way, rather obnoxiously, but there was nothing I loved more than giving a woman head. And, yeah, I was good at it. Fiona told me I was better than men half my age. She could barely sit still when I was at it.

I closed the door, locking it behind me. She backed onto the bed, knowingly spreading her long, tanned legs. I loosened my tie and pulled her panties to the side, gently kissing her taut thighs as she squirmed against me.

The smell of herbs began to fill the house, increasing my hunger. She was already moist and ready for my tongue. I glided the tip of it around her swollen labia, and she moaned in appreciation. I gently took the folds of her into my mouth, feeling them swell. My tongue finally met her engorged clit, and she sighed, her body arching into my mouth.

Something strange happened, though. As I glanced in the mirror, seeing my head moving gently between her legs, the therapist stared back at me. I shouted and fell backwards.

“What?” Fiona exclaimed, her face serious rather than aroused. “Oh, God. Did I not clean myself well enough today or something?”

“No… no, it’s not that,” I said. “I guess I’m just hungry for food. Let’s eat.”

“Okay,” she said, but I could tell she was angry. “I’ll join you after I finish myself off.”

I handed her a towel, which she threw at me in annoyance.

The night that followed absolutely sucked—one of the worst nights of my life, actually. I couldn’t get the therapist’s face out of my head as I poured the wine. It remained all through dinner. During the movie we chose to watch, amidst Fiona’s babbling, I imagined Katie Warren’s legs…her lips...

My mind was starting to drift off to a pleasant place—Katie’s office. I envisioned her talking, her smooth and concise voice filling my ears. My son’s arrival interrupted my thoughts. He was already well fed and sleepy.

“What’s up, kid?” I said. His eyes were red from playing too many damn video games. As unique as he was, he sometimes seemed like a completely normal kid.

“Hey, Dad. Fiona,” he said.

“One of your packages came today,” Fiona said.

His eyes lit up. “Yes! I was expecting it.”

“What on earth is it?” she asked.

“Trust me. You wouldn’t like it,” Zach replied.

“You coming to sit with us?” I asked.

“Nah. I gotta get to sleep. Going to the flea market tomorrow.” He walked away without saying goodnight.

That night in the shower, for the first time in a while, I almost cried. After, I met my own eyes in the mirror. “Get it together, you crazy fuck,” I said to myself. I raked a towel through my mid-length hair and took solace in the fact that I was still an attractive man. Knowing I still had it would always erase the feelings of disappointment. Tonight, though, I had uncovered a feeling of disappointment, something that cut into me.

I held Fiona as she slept, my eyes wide open. I fumbled near my dresser, took a pill, and tried closing my eyes. Nothing worked, and soon, dim morning light filled the room. At one point, I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming.

 

 

Katie

“Kathleen Warren, MA, LPC,” I said to my mom on the phone. I ran my hand over my Master’s degree, feeling proud of my accomplishments. I had made it as a mental health professional. Every day I went to work and enjoyed the experience so much that I nearly forgot my stupid loans.

“It’s a good thing you took some time off from school,” my mother said. “You needed to work rather than study.”

The original plan was to get my master’s degree, after which I would become a counselor. Then, I would immediately go for my doctoral degree. I was as surprised as anyone when I had decided to take two years off to work as a counselor before getting my doctoral degree and becoming a psychologist.

“How is school going now?” she asked.

“I’m in the project phase of my dissertation now, and it’s a pain in the ass,” I complained, my head hurting just thinking about the pile of notes at home.

“How exciting,” she said, always applauding me.

“How’s Amelia?” I asked.

“She’s good. Still stressed from work.”

“And Brandon?” I asked.

“He barely has time to see us lately. They have a lot of crime down in Philly.”

My older sister was a psychiatrist, my younger brother a police officer. I’d see them every other weekend at home in Pennsylvania. Though we were all adults, nothing much had changed. We were still the same dysfunctional, loving Italian family.

“And Dad?”

“Yesterday your father helped one of our friends with their plumbing. You know how he is. Always busy.”

I’d spoken to my father on the phone the night before. He was retired now, but still did some heating and cooling work on the side. He’d trade his HVAC services for a good Italian meal. My parents were uncommonly kind people, and I always tried to emulate their goodness.

As admirable as they were, they didn’t do a good job hiding the traumas of the family from me. I grew up to be a fixer, trying to make everything right. I’d learned to separate my desire to fix from my role as a counselor, but if I had to be honest, it was sometimes difficult.

“Do you have any sessions today?”

“No. Not today. I feel burned out.”

“You have to make sure to take care of your own needs, sweetie,” my mother warned.

“When you’re right, you’re right,” I said. “It’s even in the code of ethics.”

“When was the last time you took a day off?”

“Um…” I thought, trying to remember. “I can’t really say. Maybe a couple of months ago?”

“Well, I know you’re busy, but don’t be afraid to come home for some TLC.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Mom. I gotta go, though. Lots to do.”

We said our goodbyes, and I looked around my office, relieved to have some time to myself.

My burnout had never been as clear to me as it was yesterday. That session with Mr. Carson had disturbed me. I hadn’t been disturbed by the man, though; my quickened breath and feelings of arousal were my main concern. To feel these things for a client was downright wrong, never mind illegal.

The phone rang again. “Hey there,” Kent greeted.

“Kent, my fellow counselor. Are we still on for tonight?” I teased.

“Yes indeed. I’ll be at the spot in a couple of hours. Hope the train time doesn’t do you in,” he teased.

“I’m used to it. I can’t wait. I could use some self-care.”

“I’ll be pleased to help take care of you. See you then,” he said. He hung up, leaving me to my thoughts.

Kent went to an Ivy League school, but he was modest. His gentleness and modesty had drawn me to him. He had a quiet way of looking at things, an attribute I related to. We’d been friends since I started, but I’d be open to more if it was there.

I lived in a small blue Victorian house in Yonkers, where I planned to host my own sessions one day. I’d been renting it, but I hoped to own it eventually. I never saw myself buying a house—all throughout college and graduate school I had hopped from dorm rooms to couches, sometimes alternating between them and my car. I dreaded the idea of being settled, but it was such a feeling to savor now that I was an adult.

My favorite part of my house was my office, an old, rustic study where I took my doctorate classes online. Bookshelves as tall as the ceiling lined one wall, and I had filled them with old feminist books and politically incorrect books from the Victorian era. I wrote my assignments on a typewriter and scanned them into software that would feed it into a word processor. Though doing this made the process more complicated, it kept me focused. I also enjoyed the feel of writing on old typewriters, and it served as a motivator. I had a 3.9 GPA thus far, on top of a full-time job and various responsibilities, so I was doing something right.

Today, I was taking the train to Grand Central to meet Kent, who lived in a small apartment in the Upper East Side. He reminded me of myself when I first got my license—bright eyed and feverish for experience. A natural fixer. He’d learn soon enough.

The train wasn’t as crowded as it normally was during the week. The conductors looked wide awake, no matter what time of day it was. Truly, though, I’d always been a night owl. I got my best work done after eight. Sometimes I paid for it during the day—that could be why I needed all those cups of coffee.

The older man next to me noticed my red briefcase.

“Nice,” he said.

“Thanks. I’ve had it for years.”

“Reminds me of my daughter. She’s been gone for a while now. Moved to Europe,” he said sadly.

“Really?” I asked, genuinely concerned. “That must be hard.”

“It is,” he informed me, going off on a long tangent.

I was used to strangers coming to me from out of nowhere to talk about their problems. If it didn’t happen at least twice a day, I’d be surprised. When I was a teenager, I had a hard time dealing with it. I’d close myself up inside, trying to get some distance.

I rarely shared this with anyone, but I picked up on feelings from people. I wasn’t exactly sure what this ability was, if it was a kind of psychic thing, or some kind of a natural profiling ability. Whatever it was, it still sometimes overwhelmed me. That’s why, as much as I loved the city, I had settled in Yonkers, far away from the noise. I could identify with the suburbs more at the end of the day. At home, I’d draw the curtains as a shield between myself and the rest of the world. I would warm some tea after I’d wrapped myself in blankets.

My biggest challenge was not letting my intuition cloud my professional judgment. Though I was usually right, it would be wrong of me to come to conclusions founded entirely on my own feelings. Sometimes my abilities were hard for me to deny. This man… The second he sat next to me, he’d bombarded me with energy. Sad feelings. Misery. I felt his aching for his daughter. It was my understanding of this ache that made me want to help people. Often, their ache was literally my own.

Last night, Mr. Carson presented a similar ache, but his emotions were clouded by fear and disappointment. I didn’t tell him, but I knew exactly who he was. I had Googled him. I knew of his success, of his billions. I’d seen pictures of him when he was young, standing in front of a building he’d opened. He had a spark then. Now, he was ashamed. This was confirmed by the fact that he was almost childishly outraged when he thought I didn’t know who he was.

I was being honest in giving off the vibe that money didn’t impress me, though. In my profession, writing a paper or coming up with a new treatment method was something to brag about. We weren’t the type of people who valued money. Still, I was somewhat jealous of my sister, who made tons of money as a psychiatrist. I couldn’t deny the security that allowed her.

I knew the realistic constraints of not having a lot of money. I was able to put off the loans because I was in school, but I still had my rent, train fare and tuition to pay for every single month because I didn’t want more student debt. Each month, the money would come out of my checking account, just as my paycheck was going in. This was the only time I remotely thought of money or wished I had more of it.

The train arrived at the station. Grand Central never failed to delight me. Each time I stepped off the train, I was in an entirely different world. People hustled and bustled, purposeful and whole. I drew my black coat closer to myself and huddled past the crowd, gently bombarded with passing bodies like water lapping against a boat.

I took a seat at the coffee shop. It was my favorite place in the city and not the least bit extravagant, but the pastries were killer. The windows were tall and covered with fingerprints. Classical music hummed in the background. Around me were writers, tired graduate students, and disgruntled, impatient business people needing their fix. I took off my coat and placed it on a table to claim it, then walked up to the counter and ordered my usual: a large black iced coffee. I paid for my drink and sat, waiting for Kent to arrive.

A medium-built man with brown hair sat in front of me. “Hey,” he said.

I blinked. “Hello,” I replied pleasantly.

“You go to NYU?” he muttered.

Used to people thinking I was still in college, I shook my head politely. “No. I’m a counselor.”

“Does that mean you can figure me out?” he teased.

“I wouldn’t be so presumptuous,” I replied, my tone a bit colder now.

Kent arrived, late as usual. His tall and lithe frame was powdered with snow. He looked around the room, finally meeting my eyes. His face lit up in recognition. He saw the man there and immediately took a seat near me, kissing my forehead and asking about my new friend.

The man put his hands up and said, “My bad.” He walked away, leaving us together.

Kent grinned, chuckling at the man’s retreat. “I kinda expected that.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Every time I meet you somewhere, there’s some goon trying to make a move. Not that I could blame them. You’re a knockout.”

I blushed. “Well, you certainly knock me out, too,” I replied, not good at making puns.

He laughed in his gentle, kind voice. “I’m gonna get something to drink.”

“I didn’t know whether you wanted a hot or a cold drink, so I figured I’d wait to get food.”

“You should have waited so I could pay for your drink, too,” he said.

“That’s sweet of you, but you know how I am.”

“Yeah, you’re independent as hell. But I wanna treat you.”

“Okay.” I smiled. “I’d like a strawberry danish.”

“Oh, and I’m getting hot coffee. Only you get iced coffee in the winter.” His teasing made me smile. He rose and walked to the counter.

I looked around the shop. I was, indeed, the only person with iced coffee. Kent returned with a small tray filled with pastries. My strawberry danish sat daintily on a small white plate.

“I always wondered how they make stuff this so small,” I said dreamily.

“They must have a miniature factory with miniature people to make tiny things,” Kent said.

I laughed. “I never see this side of you at work.”

“How so?” he inquired curiously.

“You’re Mr. Clinical there. Do you even really need those glasses?”

“No.” He grinned. “They’re just for show.”

I smiled widely. “They make you feel important, huh?”

“They’re lucky. I wore them when I defended my Master’s thesis.”

“Oh?”

“To be honest, I had a scuff mark on one of the lenses, and no one told me until the end of the presentation. I think some of them were too distracted by how ridiculous it looked to be too picky about my thesis.”

“Funny story, but not likely. I’m sure it was great.”

“I can pull it up on my phone,” he said proudly.

In moments like these, I could tell that he was only twenty-five. He had a youthful excitement about everything, and I found it charming. We looked at his thesis while people came in and out of the shop. As soon as there was a lull, he looked around and lowered his voice.

“So, how did it go with Billy the Billionaire?”

I scoffed. “Ugh. You know I can’t tell you the details.”

“Come on, Katie. Everyone at the office is curious as fuck.”

I sighed. “All right, well . . . the only thing I’ll say is that he tried to overstep every boundary I set.”

“Not surprising. The dude is loaded,” Kent exclaimed.

“He seems like he has hope, though. He’s not impossible to talk to. Just defensive. But that’s all I can say, and you know very well why,” I scolded, teasing him.

“Confidentiality. I know, I know.” Kent relented and looked around, bored. His face lit up again. “I have a good idea.”

“Yeah? What?” I asked curiously.

“Let’s go to Times Square.”

“You’re such a tourist,” I said, grinning at him.

“It’s magical. Totally magical,” Kent said, getting up. “Let’s go.”

We teetered down the stairs and climbed on the subway. The cool air underground woke me up even more than the coffee had. I squeezed next to him in the seat, clinging to him for warmth. People came and went, moving about their everyday lives.

The snow had stopped by the time we got off, luckily. The familiar flashing lights and endless distractions of Times Square filled my vision. One billboard in particular caught my attention. Because it was him. Billy the Billionaire. Interview tonight, the sign read, flashing majestically.

I inhaled sharply, recognizing his face and those eyes. I wasn’t in Times Square anymore, or with Kent, who was babbling about the history of the place. I was in my office, uncomfortable, the blood rushing to my face as I turned around and saw him for the first time.

He wasn’t the tallest guy in the world, but he had the build to make up for it. His arms were especially sexy, taut and muscular. I could see the definition beneath his suit. His face barely had any wrinkles, and the few, small ones were charming and gave him a distinguished vibe. But his eyes—his eyes, piercing and green—were the most beautiful thing about him.

Now, they coated Times Square in a green glow. I was bewitched. I didn’t realize I’d stopped until Kent waved his hand in front of my face. He searched for what I was looking at and laughed. “What do you know? It’s one of your clients. I can’t believe he really thought that you didn’t know him,” he added. When I didn’t respond, he grabbed my hand and said, “Come on!”

My heart was hammering. I tried to avoid thinking about why. This wasn’t appropriate. A counselor was trained to be entirely aware of her thoughts, and mine were wicked. Harmful, even. I had a lot of thinking to do. It might be good to refer him to someone else—like Kent. Someone who wasn’t having sexual thoughts.

I mean, it was natural to find someone attractive. Counselors are people, after all. But to think about it to this extent—to wonder and be curious… Once you crossed that line in your mind, it could impact your therapy. I liked a challenge, though, and this was my biggest professional one yet.

“This is the perfect place for you. Maybe you can find something for your collection,” Kent said.

We were at a huge antique depot with tall, dusty ceilings and several rows of antiques, all from private dealers. He was right; I did love it. I was usually disappointed that none of the shops had many old books, but the second I walked in, I could see rows and rows of them. I feasted my eyes on one row and happily strolled over.

When I removed one of the books, I could see a pair of bright green eyes staring back at me. They looked familiar. The kid—he couldn’t be older than sixteen—grinned sheepishly and stepped out from behind the bookcase. He wore a black beanie and a red plaid shirt. His phone was going crazy, as was typical for most technology-obsessed teens.

“You see any skulls?” he asked. “They use them as book holders, sometimes.”

I shook my head, confused. Why did I seem to recognize this kid? I certainly didn’t hang out with anyone his age, that was for sure.

“Thanks!” He darted towards the register. “Do you guys sell any human skulls?” I heard him ask.

The shop owner’s voice faltered. “Uh, no. But we have some animal skulls. Occasionally we get a couple new ones in.”

“Sweet. Here’s my card,” he said. “Thanks.” He left the shop with a smile on his face.

“That’s Billy the Billionaire’s kid?” I heard the shop owner say aloud as he read the card.

“You’ll want to keep him as a client,” the girl at the register said.

I was shocked. What the hell? That was Billy’s kid? He had said he had one. But still…What were the odds? “Ugh,” I mumbled to myself. I was surrounded by reminders of this man.

“Let’s get out of here. I can’t find anything,” I said to Kent, who looked crestfallen. I think he was more excited about seeing my reaction than anything else.

Our date lulled pleasantly on. I tried to get everything out of my head, but it was hard. We went to eat at a burger joint, but I barely touched my food. I was almost disillusioned by the irony of the situation. This man was everywhere, yet nowhere near me. Was I hallucinating? Was it real? Kent, as perceptive as ever, questioned me.

“What’s going on in that head of yours? You’ve been spaced out all day,” he said.

“Did you see that kid in the shop? The one wearing the plaid shirt and the beanie?” I wanted to make sure.

“Which one?” He joked. I rolled my eyes. “Just kidding. Yeah. I saw him. Why?”

“Just wondering. I guess I’m just not feeling like myself. I think I want to call it a night.”

He looked disappointed but concerned. “All right. Let me take you to the train, at least.”

Night was settling in, and the night was when I came alive. As I walked down the steps to the subway, I could see Billy’s face on the billboard. I felt his eyes on my back as I gratefully descended into the subway. Kent tried to question me about what was wrong. It was hard to hide things from him, but this was none of his business. I could imagine the look of concern and disgust on his face if I told him.

“Text me when you get home, okay?” he said. He gave me a hug. I gave him a tight one back.

“I had a good time with you. Stay warm.” I smiled, and he released me.

He looked so young suddenly, with his hat in his hand. Young and hopeful. Refreshing. Oddly, something repulsed me about him though. Neediness. On one hand, it was natural for me to be needed, while on the other hand, it freaked me out in some deep way.

We went our separate ways. On the train home, I formulated a plan. Tonight, I would masturbate. I would allow myself to indulge in the fantasy. Then, I would put it away. I would lock the dildo in a box and burn it to show myself—my subconscious—that it was over. I would use it as a growing experience.

My house was dark, lit with fake Victorian candles in the window. I went upstairs to my bathroom and drew a bath in my big, old-fashioned tub. The whole bathroom was white, clean, and sparkling with Victorian fixtures. The stained glass windows cast a soft glow from the streetlamps outside. As the tub filled, I went downstairs and put on some water for tea. I didn’t bother going to my room to undress. I began to shuck my clothes, feeling the freedom of the cool air tickle my body.

I carried my tea upstairs and set it aside near the tub, sprinkling rose petals in the lightly steaming water. The bathroom was filled with soft steam teasing my skin. Like I was about to commit some kind of a crime, I guiltily looked into my ‘toy box’ for a dildo that I wouldn’t miss when it was over. I found a small, firm one that hit all the right spots.

I dipped my body in the bathtub, dildo in hand. The temperature of the metal toy was far cooler than the water, which felt tantalizing against my clitoris. I sighed as I spread my legs, letting my mind wander to Bill and the delicious, carnal urges he represented. My sins.

He’d looked at me like a hungry animal in the office. As I rubbed the toy up and down my clit, I imagined the feral look in his eyes, the look of a man who always got what he wanted. Those beautiful, green eyes that belonged to a gorgeous, older man. A man who was nearly old enough to be my dad, a man who was off-limits.

During the session, he’d lost his cool a couple of times. But he remained powerful. I saw him looking at my legs. I imagined him spreading them, touching them. I imagined bending over my desk while he pounded me from behind. Goosebumps ran up and down my skin. I nearly swallowed some water as I lost myself more and more in this fantasy.

“I know you’ve already figured it out,” I imagined him saying.

“How’s that?” answered Fantasy-Me.

“You know I want to take you. Right on your damn desk,” Fantasy-Bill answered.

“I do. Fuck, I do,” Fantasy-Me gasped.

I smiled, enjoying my coy dialogue. I was a master at making myself come. I put the toy inside myself and moaned, not caring who heard me, knowing very well the walls were thin. Right now was my time to be bad. Right now, I could be whomever I wanted. I could indulge myself in this fucked up fantasy, and it wouldn’t harm anyone. I was as ready to be rid of it as I wanted it to last, wanted to feel it in excruciating detail.

Every moment of touching myself in that tub filled me with both shame and fulfillment. I wondered what his cock looked like. I could tell, based on his demeanor, that it was a big fucking cock. He was ‘cocky’—pun intended. I had a talent for being able to tell how big someone’s dick was. All of my friends were awed by it. There was something about the way men held themselves that told me. His must be big. Not too big, but big enough that he had another significant reason to be confident on top of his success.

I moved the toy in and out, my free hand tightening on the edge of the tub. I imagined him with me right now, his rough lips all over my neck. I imagined his voice, hot and rough, tickling my ears as he fucked me. The familiar feeling of orgasm began to rush over me. I moved my head back and forth, closing my eyes. My mews of pleasure became louder and louder until I exploded, my body convulsing in the water, my mind never leaving the thought of his eyes.

After, I scrubbed my skin, feeling like I had committed some wrong. The relief that followed, however, left me in a kind of calm twilight I couldn’t deny. This toy—I couldn’t burn it, but I could throw it out. I entered the dark kitchen and threw it carelessly in the trash, noting how dumb it looked mixed in with vegetable peels and plastic wrapping.

Before I settled into bed, I turned on the TV to a main news station.

“No way…” I said to myself. “No way.”

It was him again. I might as well have been facing him in person. I pulled the covers up over my neck, wanting to hide from the humiliation of my fantasy. He was doing the interview. That’s right—the billboard had read that there would be an interview…

I had broken one of my rules, unable to pry my eyes off the television. A well-known news anchor shook his hand as they began.

“So what’s it like to be you?” he said.

“It’s a ride. A fun one. Sometimes bumpy, but fun.”

A woman sat near him, a redheaded woman who looked to be my age. My stomach churned with jealousy and curiosity. Who was she?

The anchor wondered, too. “And who do you have here tonight?”

“Fiona, my fiancée.”

“What the fuck am I thinking?” I asked myself out loud. It didn’t matter that he had a fiancée, because he was first and foremost my client.

“Millions of people want to know—what is the key to your success?” the anchor asked, moving on.

“The key is that there is no key. You just have to work hard. Actually… That’s a lie. I’ll be honest and say that the key is to know the right people. You have to work smart. I know a lot of guys who go in working hard and end up with nothing,” he explained.

“So working hard isn’t a good thing?” the anchor joked.

“It’s good for you, but don’t let anyone fool you into thinking that hard work alone means money. It doesn’t.”

“Wise words. Now, tell me more about this lovely woman you have here.”

This was too much for me. I shut off the TV, not understanding my anger. I’d just met him, he was my client, and I’d promised myself it was over. I wasn’t one to bask in my own torturous love psychosis, either. I was weary of it, love that most of us delude ourselves into when we meet someone exceptional who, despite our efforts, we have no real chance with.

Once someone became my client, I could never be anything but their counselor. This filled me with hope. I began to separate myself again. He was my client, so it didn’t matter who he was with. It didn’t matter at all…

Something came over me. I got up and fastened my robe. I went downstairs to the garbage and rummaged through it, thankful no one could see me. My hand grasped the dildo. I put it in the sink and washed it thoroughly.

No need to waste a good dildo, I thought. I felt powerful taking it back. If a girl didn’t have control over what sex toys she wanted to keep, then what did she really have any control over?

I took it upstairs and put it gently back into the toy box, which was filled with various toys, restraints, and condoms. I refused to have a boring sex life. As a teenager and younger adult, I had been promiscuous. I did things I shouldn’t have done, things that had come to hurt me.

High school had been hard for me. I lost my mind when I was nineteen and slept with every man I could find. No amount of sex could fill the hole, though. I managed to scoot through my psychology courses with just over a B. I shone in grad school, when some of my raunchy behaviors were left behind. Behaviors born of pain. I never wanted to return to that part of myself.

I got my tea from the bathroom and sipped it. It was cold but still tart and good. I walked into my office, and my shelves looked a tad barren. I regretted not getting a book at the shop, but it was good that I saved the money, at least. I powered on my laptop and sat at my oak desk, looking at the assignment due this week—the main structure of our doctoral thesis.

I had mine all mapped out. On a cork board above my desk was my thesis, plastered with papers and sticky notes.

The Boundary Point, it read at the very top.

“The importance of keeping ethical boundaries with clients.” I read out loud to myself, my own words sounding fake in my mouth.

I’d created the boundary point, the point of no return. Once a therapist crosses it, they’re done. My thesis intended to clearly map out the stages of the boundary point so that a counselor can avoid reaching it at all costs. Once a therapist crossed it, his or her license was at risk, as well personal dignity.

“Stage one of the boundary point begins with a formal process of self-reflection. A counselor’s self-awareness is paramount to his or her other qualities. Once this awareness is established, examined, and documented, it is imperative to continue to monitor one’s self-talk. Internal dialogue is often the first place where the boundary point is crossed, and therefore must never be disregarded.”

Looks like you already crossed stage one. Now stop, I commanded myself.

I felt more reassured after reading my notes. I could and would stop, especially since the fantasy was complete.

I pushed my chair in and turned out the light, ready to sleep this time. By the time I looked at my phone, it was eleven p.m. Kent had sent me two messages.

“Did you make it home safely?”

“Katie?”

 

 

Bill

Work had always been my safe space. I was the king at work. Even when I was stuttering and fucking up my most recent business deals, I found structure and order at the office—something I regretted needing, but knew that I did nonetheless.

This morning—about a week later—I’d taken a nice cool shower. I whistled to myself as Gretta picked Zach and me up. Fiona was already gone, shopping or something, as fucking usual. Gretta and I dropped Zach off at school. Also as per usual, he had barely looked up from his phone, even when I ruffled his hair and said goodbye.

“Kids these days,” I muttered dryly. Gretta giggled in response.

Gretta and I stopped at my favorite bagel place, where I got my usual, a plain bagel with cream cheese and freshly squeezed orange juice. I also got coffee—good, bland, black New York coffee. Nothing fancy. There was something so fucking amazing about simple things like that. Orange juice tasted amazing with a bagel and cream cheese, and washing it down with a hot cup of Joe… damn fine.

“Good Morning, Mr. Carson,” my secretary said, offering to take my coat.

I nodded politely as I handed it to her. “Today, let all my calls go to voicemail,” I told her. She nodded, though visibly confused.

I put my food on my desk and stretched, enjoying the amazing view of the city. The only person I planned to speak to throughout the day was Fiona. I had taken out a credit card in her name, and the nut wanted to increase the limit.

Women, I thought to myself, rolling my eyes. It’s never enough.

I enjoyed my bagel, alternating between bites and typing on my computer. I listened to all of my calls go to voicemail, knowing very well they could wait. In fact, if I wanted to, I could pay someone to do all of this shit while I ran the company from a distance. Might as well, right? Why did I even work, anyway? Besides the feeling of productivity and power, I had nothing to gain from it.

My day was going so well, in fact, that I nearly forgot about my Sophia-lookalike counselor. Chalk it all up to a bad dream, though I had a session with her again tonight.

I went to the bathroom at some point around noon. As I was taking a piss at the urinal, a guy walked in. I didn’t recognize him, which was odd, because I knew most of my employees. Or, I could recognize them when they passed by. I stood at the urinal, pissing, trying not to take my eyes off the wall in front of me. A familiar spike of anxiety shot down my spine, and my heart began to race. The man was quiet. He didn’t make any noise. People taking a dump sure as hell made noise, so why wasn’t he?

Beads of sweat shimmered on my forehead. I zipped my pants quietly and proceeded cautiously to the sink. I needed to get myself together. I bent over and splashed some cool water on my face. When I looked up, he was right behind me. I shouted and turned around to face him, my arms up in the air. He was visibly shocked.

“I’m sorry, sir. I was just letting you know there’s no more toilet paper in here,” he said, backing away a few steps.

I rarely felt embarrassed, but when I did, I expressed it as anger. “What the fuck do I look like? The janitor?” I roared. “Get the hell out of here!”

He left me alone in my silence. Water dripped off my face, mingling with the sweat. I hastily grabbed some paper towels out of the dispenser and dried my face. When I left the bathroom, the man was mumbling to some other workers. His face dropped when he saw me. He looked like he was about to cry. Only then did I realize he wasn’t too far from my son’s age—probably just started with the company.

I ignored my guilt. He shouldn’t have come up behind me like that. He was lucky I hadn’t punched his lights out.

“The bathroom needs toilet paper,” I mumbled to one of the secretaries and quickly exited the room.

I nearly barricaded myself in my office out of embarrassment and shame. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I needed counseling. I needed help. I was tired of living in fear and tired of being all jumpy.

I decided to leave work early. I didn’t want to be there anymore. The pressure that followed me around was hard to deal with right now. People looked up to me as a leader and would talk if their leader faltered. I was faltering. I had to admit it. I was forced to keep my door locked because whenever someone came in I would tense up—especially if it was someone I didn’t know. Sometimes, the noises outside would fill my ears and increase the anxiety, and I would have to shut the blinds, as if that could cancel out the noise.

I got a sandwich from the deli down the street. I didn’t need Gretta to drive me today. I could walk to the counselor’s office. By the time I got there, it would be time for the session anyway. I strolled briskly through the streets, munching on my sandwich. I hadn’t taken a walk in a while and enjoyed the day slowly fading into night—until I realized what night could bring. Nothing good. Nothing at all.

When I walked in, she was standing in the reception office. Her hair was down. My heart hammered. Fuck.

She turned around and saw me, and a shocked smile tilted her jaw. “You’re early,” she said. “Please, come in. Conveniently, the session before you has canceled.”

I nodded and walked in as though I were in a trance. Her office looked the same, but she looked great. It wasn’t my imagination: she was wearing a tighter business suit and a shorter skirt, showing off those legs. At least I could enjoy the view tonight, if nothing else, and some intelligent conversation. I didn’t really believe anyone could figure this out but me. I didn’t want or need anyone else.

She didn’t pull out her pad this time. I had full view of her lovely body, her long slender fingers around her cup as she sipped some tea. She began to put her hair up.

“No,” I said. “I like it.”

She put her hair up anyway, ignoring my request.

“How was your day? You seem rattled,” she asked.

“Besides freaking out on some guy in the bathroom and being unable to focus on anything but getting the hell out of there, my day was great,” I seethed.

“That bad, huh? Are your days always like this?”

“Lately.”

“Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” she replied with that same, beautiful smile that reminded me so much of Sophia.

“You know, when you smile like that, you remind me of someone.”

“It’s a type of transference,” she said.

“Oh. I thought it was just a coincidence.” I rolled my eyes.

“Not many people are familiar with therapy terms, so I thought I’d let you know,” she replied. “Who do I look like?”

“My ex-wife,” I said, my voice tightening as it always did when I mentioned her. “When she was younger. The two of you could be twins.”

She looked… excited by this? But then her professional demeanor returned. I could read people. That’s why I was a good businessman, and this woman was definitely trying to conceal her adoration of me. I wanted to push the limits.

“I like you in that outfit,” I said. “And the glasses are a nice touch.”

She straightened and cleared her throat in a business-like manner. I thought it was cute. “If we are going to work together, you’ll have to respect my boundaries. Though I am aware that you are attracted to me, I need you to know that it is nothing more than a type of transference, and you cannot express inappropriate things toward me,” she said like a little psychology robot.

“Okay, Doc. Deal.”

“Again, I am not a doctor. I am working on my doctorate, though,” she informed.

“Must get expensive. I could offer you a loan,” I hinted.

“So what happened today, in the bathroom?” She was good at ignoring my hints.

“Some new hire came in. I don’t even remember hiring him. Everything has been hazy for the longest time. He was in the bathroom with me. I was so jumpy, and when I saw him behind me in the mirror I nearly socked him in the face,” I informed her, unable to meet her eyes.

“No need to be embarrassed. People who experienced trauma often have flashbacks and do things like this. It’s nothing new.”

“I thought I had special trauma,” I mocked. “When are you going to fix me? I need to tell Fiona.”

She laughed, and I melted a little inside again. “Therapy doesn’t work like that, Mr. Carson.”

“For the right price, I’m sure it can.” I winked.

“No. Not for the right price. It’s an organic process, one that involves your brain. Unless you can magically wipe your brain, there will be no bullshit here,” she replied.

“Do you know anyone who can wipe my brain?” I asked. She looked at me, icy. I recoiled.

“Has it ever occurred to you that it’s okay to need help?”

“Help is for people who can’t help themselves, and I always can.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked.

“Because of Fiona. She’s driving me crazy,” I said, lying. I didn’t want her to know about my business blunders. It was too mortifying.

“Tell me more about that,” Katie said. She took a deep breath and looked around the room. Was she uncomfortable? Jealous?

“I haven’t been myself lately, apparently. I’m not the man she fell in love with,” I said, being honest this time.

“Go on,” Katie said, her voice a bit more strained now. She really was having a hard time with this.

I took a deep breath and continued. “She’s constantly on me about investing. She wants more and more and more.”

“Do you feel she isn’t grateful?”

“No, it’s not that... It’s just that she needs so much of me. And some part of me likes it. But sometimes, I just want to rent a room somewhere and leave. Like I did the night the attack happened.”

“Do you blame her?”

I paused, reflecting. “Maybe a little. I mean, if she hadn’t been ragging on me all night, I would have gone home.”

“What does she ‘rag on you’ about?”

“Money. And she accuses me of cheating. Mind you, I have a wild past, but when I’m with a woman, I am faithful. I don’t see the point in not being faithful. If I wanted multiple partners, I could find a partner who is okay with that. Truthfully, I’m not okay with that, either,” I said. Although her face didn’t change, I sensed a hint of surprise. “Does that surprise you? It does that to a lot of people.”

“No. As a counselor, you learn not to judge or follow preconceived notions.”

“Sounds like business,” I replied.

“I can see you’re avoiding this subject, and I respect that. But the first step to fixing a problem is to face it—to face that it was difficult, and that you went through a lot. It’s a process, but you first have to acknowledge it.”

“I mean… I can admit that I haven’t been the same since it happened. I know that.”

She smiled. “Good.” I slipped some of my Xanax out and began chewing it.

“You’re not supposed to chew those.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be the type of person who took medication either, but here I am,” I replied, the bitter taste of the pills on my tongue.

“You’re not driving, correct?”

“No. I’m being picked up, as usual,” I informed her.

“So, what is your issue with medication?” You said before that you weren’t on any, Katie asked.

“I didn’t want to admit it. And like I said before, I pride myself on being strong. I don’t like to use a crutch.”

She sighed. “Medication isn’t a crutch. Sometimes, it just saves you time until the therapy kicks in.”

“Well, before the attack, I’d have to be kicking and screaming before I’d let someone shove pills down my throat. Now, I have to use them just to get through the day,” I said honestly.

She had a pained expression on her face, and she reached for her notebook to scrawl something down.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied, her voice wavering. Was she about to cry?

“I didn’t mean to make you get your panties in a bunch, Doc,” I joked.

As soon as I said this, her face became cool and icy again.

“What you’re experiencing is normal, and there is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it takes strength to admit that you need help,” she said, her voice soft and filled with caring and tenderness.

“Do you say that to everyone on pills?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean it.”

“You think I’m strong?”

“Very,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. “But healing takes time. Speaking of time, our session is about up. We will carry on with this conversation next week.”

“Do you have any other sessions after this?” I asked.

“No. Why?”

“Well, I was wondering if maybe we could grab some dinner. I didn’t eat enough today, and I’m sure you could use the help with food since you won’t let me give you a loan for school,” I said.

“I could go and eat with you, but it would be platonic. And I would pay for my own food. If you can respect that, I can go,” she said, but I couldn’t help but notice her fooling around with her necklace and a blush come across her cheeks. She was so damn sexy.

“Whatever you say, Doc. I know just the place.” I had no intention of her paying for her own food, and every intention of wooing her. “The place is a bit out of the way, so I’ll call my driver.”

“No, really—you don’t have to do that.”

“I either ride with my driver—which is in a car I picked out and which lives up to my specifications—or I ride in style. It’s not about you, dear,” I said as sincerely as I could.

She nodded, looking quite youthful suddenly. In this light, she looked very young—not a day over twenty-one. I could see she was still not used to the city. It was in the way she walked and spoke. I could sense the same when people from far away came to the Big Apple to make a business deal. I know who belonged. She didn’t belong here yet, but I was certain, with maturity and fierceness, she would.

The limo arrived, and she sat a safe distance from me.

“Where to, Mr. Carson?” the driver asked.

“The Tempest Grille,” I said. “Pronto.”

“The seat is so warm,” she said.

“They’re called seat warmers,” I teased.

“I know that. Just not used to it.” She spoke coolly, folding her pretty hands in her lap like a perfect lady.

She kept her eyes focused straight ahead. Her hair had come a bit undone from the wind. Her elegant cheekbones looked gorgeous and sharp, and her long, pretty neck was intoxicating. I wanted to lean over and feast upon it, but she leaned the other way, almost a bit too much. Like she was too aware of me.

She looked at me. Our eyes met. I could tell, even in the dark, that she was beginning to lose her professional composure.

“What?” she snapped.

“Nothing,” I replied. I looked forward and smiled.

We got to the restaurant. As usual, there was a big line. I ignored it and walked to the front. People stood back, gaping at me. They all knew who I was.

“Aren’t we waiting?” she asked. That was cute. How considerate.

“I own this restaurant,” I said.

“Oh,” she muttered, a bit taken aback.

“Well, at least in the sense that I pay someone to control it for me, who then pays someone to manage it. But it’s essentially mine. If I wanted to close it down, all I would have to do is walk up to one of those motherfuckers and say it’s over.”

“Ah.” I could tell she didn’t have a clue what the fuck I was talking about, but it added more to her charm.

We sat in the best seat in the house overlooking the Empire State Building. The waitresses bustled over to me, handing us gold-plated menus. Katie looked around dreamily, looking so young again. She took her glasses off and wiped them on her napkin, almost as if to make sure this was really happening.

“When you get your doctorate, you’ll get used to going to places like this,” I said. “By the way, do you like red or white wine?”

“Red. Thank you.”

“So tell me more about your degree.” I sat closer to her than was normal. In this environment, I was the king again. She looked at me, and to my surprise, allowed my proximity.

“It’s a Psy.D. Kinda like an MD. I don’t want to do research. I want to distinguish myself as a counselor,” she said.

“You know, I always had respect for educated people. If I were smart enough, I would have gotten a doctorate. But I’m real—I’m smart enough to get what I need done, smart enough to know people—but I ain’t nothing special up here,” I said, pointing to my skull.

“You seem, at least, above average,” she said, grinning. “Have you ever had a formal IQ test done?”

“No. Can I?” I played along.

“Yes, I can test you,” she said, smiling.

Our dinner arrived. She had ordered a modest salad. I got two appetizers in response so she could share some. If there was anything I knew, it was how to charm a woman into enjoying herself.

“Sophia could read me pretty well, too,” I said.

“Really?” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. I noticed her glass was almost empty. I took it gently from her soft hand, letting mine linger on hers. Just the feeling of her skin made my groin swell. It was so soft.

I had her. I knew it. Her response was to recoil, to excuse herself to the bathroom. I waited for her, my eyes never leaving hers as she walked back, a new shade of pale lipstick applied. Yes, I definitely had her. But she was a fighter. Making her my conquest was not going to be easy. Not a sexual conquest, but an emotional one. I had no intent of cheating on Fiona, but I couldn’t deny the spell this woman had cast upon me.

“The food is great,” she complimented.

“Thanks. I had to sample all of it. It was a hell of a job.”

“You like to take care of people, don’t you? I can tell.”

“Yes.”

“But has it ever occurred to you that maybe you need to let someone take care of you for once?”

I took a huge swig of wine. “Why do you have to play these psychological games?” I grunted.

“I’m not. I’m just asking. I think it’s a part of your problem. Why?”

“Because it’s weakness. That’s why. Letting someone take care of you is weakness.”

“So I’m being weak right now?”

Fuck. She’s good at this. “No. That’s different,” I countered.

“Why?” she asked.

I didn’t have an answer. “It doesn’t have to make sense. I just feel so damn weird when people try to take care of me. I always did with Sophia.”

“Does Fiona do it, too?”

“No. That’s what I like about her. She wants me to take care of her, always,” I said.

“I’m sure that’s a lot of pressure. Perhaps we should have her in the next session.” Katie looked thoughtful.

“She’d be into that,” I said.

“Okay.” She toasted me. “Deal.”

“Under one condition,” I said, turning to her. We were close now, almost close enough to kiss. I lingered—and she stayed, eyes wide, staring at me with those gorgeous brown eyes. I felt I’d known them for a damn lifetime. I breathed deeply, almost losing myself in her scent—a natural, womanly scent. “You have to let me pay a little extra. To help with school.”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“Listen. It’s an investment for me. You’re a capable counselor, and we need more of those. You never know—I could refer some of my men to you. But they’d better behave themselves,” I warned, staring at her breasts. “Though I wouldn’t blame them if it was hard.”

The wine must have loosened her up a little, because she laughed. “Are your eyes their natural color?” Her voice was breathy, like she was horny. I could almost taste the moistness between her legs. I wanted her so fucking badly—the only thing I couldn’t have. Saying that people got everything in their life definitely was a load of shit.

“Yes. They are mine,” I said, lingering on the ‘mine’ at the end.

She moved away from me a bit, cutting furiously into her salad. She dropped her fork and looked up. “I don’t even like salad. I’m a carnivore,” she confessed.

“Well, I’m paying for this. Have some of my steak.” I put it on her plate. What a woman. My dream woman. Sophia was a carnivore, which must have been why she could gobble cock like a champ. I looked at Katie’s lips and imagined them wrapped around me, wondering if she could do it as well as Sophia. Doubtful, but I would take a gamble.

Her phone rang. She looked down. “This might be an emergency. I have to get it. Hello?”

I faintly heard a deep voice on the other end. I felt my stomach tie in knots, immediately on the defense. Who was calling her?

“Uh huh,” she said through chewing. “Yeah, I mean perhaps when I’m done here. I gotta go—I don’t want to be rude.” She murmured a few more things before hanging up.

“Who was that?” I asked casually.

“Not that you should be asking me that, but a fellow counselor.”

“Ah. What did he want?”

“He invited me to a movie tonight.”

I nearly dropped my fork. “So he likes you?”

“That’s definitely none of your business, Mr. Carson,” she replied firmly.

The wine was hitting me now. I pulled back a bit, realizing I’d stepped over the line. A line I didn’t want to cross, because looking crazy never got you anywhere with a woman. And I wasn’t even sure what the hell I was doing with her while my fiancée was at home. It was ridiculous of me to feel this way.

“You should go with him tonight. I’ll pay for a cab to get you there safely. Oh, and some extra fare to get home when you’re done,” I offered. I wanted her to be home after she was done. Not with another man.

“You’ve already done so much. I couldn’t accept that.”

“Nonsense. We’ll finish up, and I’ll have them pick you up. Then you can be off on your date,” I said, trying not to notice the ugly taste the word ‘date’ left in my mouth.

I felt good giving her orders. Maybe I didn’t need counseling. Maybe I could get my life under control and forget about her, and she could go bone whichever loser had called her. I looked outside. Snow was falling gently. I knew how cold it would be to walk to the train. I could see her bones urging her to accept my offer, even though she clearly wasn’t used to anything like this. Even the strongest person could break in the face of wealth. I was impressed that she’d restrained herself this long.

“Okay,” she said finally. “If I’m going to help you, I probably shouldn’t freeze to death in the meantime, and a night out is always fun.”

I’m sure. I wanted to say it out loud but I refrained, keeping my composure. Knowing that I shouldn’t care, feeling like I was taking advantage of her.

We walked to the door together, and I hadn’t felt this satisfied after a meal since Sophia left. She put her elegant red coat on, looking like a million bucks. I wanted to take her home and drape her in expensive clothes to match her natural-born beauty. I felt an ache that went beyond things sexual and extended into my heart.

The taxi picked her up again. I stood over her, casting a shadow across her gorgeous face.

“See you next week, Doc. I’ll bring Fiona,” I said. I took her hand gently in mine and shook it, letting the touch linger again.

“See you then, Mr. Carson,” she replied, her voice faltering. I wondered if she wanted what I did—to open the door, close the latch, and fuck while we drove all over town.

She ensured I wouldn’t get my answer. She disappeared into the night, off to see some other guy. I wanted to punch something. I didn’t have time to fume, though, because Gretta pulled up. I could fume to her if I wanted to.

“What’s troubling you, Billy?” she asked in a motherly way. I mean, she could have been my mother, age-wise, but I felt on even turf with her. She had the hard face of life and the wrinkles to show that she’d taken a few hits. She wouldn’t judge me, though I would never let her in past a certain point. Not like Fiona… or Katie.

“Just need to get home. It’s late. I’m surprised Fiona hasn’t called a thousand times already,” I said.

Gretta drove to the house, and I hoped Zach was home. The entire ride, I fumed. Every sign we passed with a happy couple reminded me of Katie, who might be going at it with some other guy. I had no rational reason to despise him. But I hated him the like I hated Sophia’s new boyfriend, Eric. I hated them both.

I let my mind drift to Katie, to her gorgeous lips. Her hair. I wanted to caress her, to slam her down and eat her pussy until she came all over my mouth. I wanted to drink her juices.

I imagined her being moist and ready to fuck, only in another dude’s lap. I could picture his face. He’d sounded young on the phone. Who was he? Was he buff? Was he blonde, young? She had said he was a counselor. A work partner, which made sense…because it would make them close. Too close for my liking.

“Is Zach home?” I asked Gretta, trying to distract myself. My mind could go to some fucked up places when I let it.

“Yes. Well, last time I checked,” she said.

When I stepped through the door, our chef had made food. Some of it had been left out on the stove. I think it was chicken.

“Zach?” I called, enjoying the warm and safe light of the house.

He came down the stairs. He looked miserable. I went immediately into dad-mode, no longer thinking about anything but Zach and the solemn look on his face. I hadn’t seen him so fucked up since his mom left.

“What’s up?”

“She just doesn’t get it,” Zach said angrily, raking his hands through his long dark hair.

“Get what?” I asked, bewildered.

“My collection. She flipped the fuck out today because I had a skull delivered. And the only reason she knew it was there was because she went snooping in my fucking room. A room that was mine long before she got here,” he ranted.

He swung round and began walking upstairs. I followed him, curious what had made him so upset. Truthfully, I hadn’t been in Zach’s room in a long time. Partly because it was too painful to remember when he was born and Sophia was around and partly because he had some really weird, outlandish shit. Shit that was even hard for me to cope with.

I entered his room. It was dark and smelled like dust and incense. My mouth dropped because he had bookshelves and display cases filled with what looked like eyeballs, guts, and old photographs of twisted things, like dead people. In the center of his room, the light shining down on it proudly, was a skull.

“Is this even legal?” I asked.

“Yeah, it is. Just an exact replica. So I don’t get why she won’t just leave me alone,” he wailed, his voice cracking.

“I’ll have a talk with her about it,” I assured him. “I promise.”

He scoffed. “Like that’s going to work. The woman is a nightmare. To be honest, I’m glad she’s mad. In fact, I got it maybe to piss her off. And I’m glad it did.”

He took after me. I loved pissing people off if I hated them enough. It wasn’t something I was proud of. “I’ll talk to her,” I said again. I tried to dodge the knives of teen angst.

“Whatever,” he said in his teen slang, but he was still angry. “I want to be alone. What’s the point, anyway? It’s not like she’s going to do anything but ask you for more money. Isn’t that all she ever does?”

My heart welled up with anger. “Stop, all right? I’ll talk to her about the collection.”

“Gotcha. Okay,” he said, annoyed.

I closed the door behind me.

Fiona stood in the hallway, tears in her eyes. “He hates me,” she screamed. She covered her eyes and stormed into our bedroom. I followed and closed the door behind us. I studied her, loving the way her hair flowed over her back. She looked young now, too. I felt a pang in my heart for her—and another of guilt and of shame.

“He doesn’t hate you. He’s a unique kid, though. What can I say?” I said gently.

“You’re delusional. He fucking hates me,” she said, her mascara running down her cheeks.

“No, no.” I took her in my arms. I sat on the bed with her and pressed her against me. Her warm, fragile body molded into mine, and she sobbed gently into my shoulder. I looked at my face in the mirror, feeling my jealousy over Katie dissipate. No matter what anyone said about Fi, I truly loved her.

“My session went great,” I said, my voice pinching with guilt.

She looked up at me with eyes framed with false eyelashes but still pretty, nonetheless. “Really?”

“Yes,” I soothed. “You should come with me next time.”

“Okay… that sounds good.”

There was silence. Suddenly, all of my sexual frustration from the last four hours spilled over.

“How was your—” she began. But before she could finish the words, I pinned her down on the bed. My mouth was on hers, and she moaned, accepting my lips greedily. I parted hers and jammed my tongue in, massaging it with mine.

She raked her hands through my hair as I unbuttoned my pants. I pulled her slip up. She wore a red lacy panty set. “Good girl,” I murmured against her neck.

I spread her beautiful body on the bed, her tan skin looking great against the black satin sheets. I ripped her panties off, exposing her waxed pussy. “Smells delicious,” I said, licking my lips. “I could always go for a second course meal.” She had goose bumps. She loved it when I made her come.

I buried my mouth in her wet lips, running my tongue up and down her clit. She gasped and arched her belly. I pushed her down, making her take the pleasure.

She looked so good, even with mascara smeared down her face. She tried so hard to look perfect, but I liked her raw. Her whimpering was delightful, too. I held her hips down as she shook with an orgasm, the moans coming out in unique little hiccups. Greedy, I lapped up her juice.

“Know what I could use now?” I asked.

“W…what?” she asked, her eyes half-closed.

“Some of that tight little cunt,” I rasped.

I didn’t even get out of my pants before I plowed into her tight, warm hole. She cried out in excitement, begging me for more. I pumped my hips, feeling my cock swell against her. The more I swelled, the tighter she clasped herself around me. She clawed her long red nails down my back, which I loved. My sweat dripped onto her, and she lapped it up like a slut.

“Mmm. Baby, that feels so good,” I said, my voice barely a husky whisper.

“I want you to come,” she whimpered, pulling my hips closer to her.

She had an IUD, which I had paid for. I didn’t want any more children, but I wanted the pleasure of the process. I tried to keep myself on the edge for as long as I could. My cock was getting harder and harder.

“Do you want it, baby?” I asked, my voice weak, almost begging.

“Yes. Yes, give it to me, Daddy,” she said through breathy moans.

“Here it comes.”

I closed my eyes, hearing my own erratic, gruff moans. My cock pumped hot cream into her cute little pussy. She mewed in appreciation, tightening herself around me, the walls of her cunt begging for my seed.

I collapsed next to her, holding her in my arms. I watched as the little that was left of the day faded.

“Second course meal, you said. Did you already eat?” she asked, drifting off.

“Yes, I had dinner and conducted some important personal business,” I said, kissing her neck.

We curled up together in bed. I smoothed my hand across her hair. We drifted into a comfortable sleep until my nightmares overtook me again.

My dream began in a different bedroom, when Sophia was throwing her clothes into a bag. Even in her mess, with no makeup, she had looked perfect. I stood by the bed, silent, every part of my body wishing she wouldn’t go, though I was too proud to ask her to stay.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t play happy fucking family,” Sophia had told me, her voice cracking with anguish.

“We are happy. We aren’t playing. Let me take care of you,” I begged, starting to lose my cool.

“Since we lost that damn baby, I’ve been trying to reach out to you. And it used to work. You used to take off the damn mask. This isn’t a business deal, Bill.”

“I know,” I stuttered. “Please. Let’s just talk about this.”

She laughed spitefully. “So you can sit there and pretend it’s okay? I am done pretending. I’m done ever pretending I can ever reach you again.”

I watched her car drive down the road, oddly disconnected. It reminded me of being a boy, watching my father leave. He’d come back home, yeah, but he was never the same. He was always distant after that. It was clear he gave up because he felt he’d run out of time. I’d supposed we had too, Sophia and me.

When I turned around, I was in the street again, the street where I was robbed. I felt the robber come up behind me. This time, he immediately began beating my head over and over with his gun. I tasted blood. It was only a dream, but I could taste it. I looked down in horror, feeling as though I was outside of my body, seeing the red run in pools to the floor. My blood.

I cried out, not realizing that I had screamed in Fiona’s ear. She jumped, her eye mask falling off her eyes.

“Jesus, Billy, not again,” she wailed.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, truly meaning it. “I had a nightmare.”

“I can’t wait to go to therapy so I don’t have to deal with this shit anymore. I wish she’d just fix you already.”

“You act as if I’m broken.”

Her eyes were cool, mean even. “Trust me, if there’s anything I’ve known in my life, it’s that you’re fucking broken.”

“That’s a damn lie.” I gritted my teeth and turned away from her.

“Yeah? Prove it. Make some money. Not much has been coming in lately.”

I remembered what Zach said. I hoped this was one of the few occasions he didn’t take after me, because I was seldom wrong.

 

 

Katie

Kent had this kind of innocence about him, almost like a noble knight. He wanted to do good, no matter what. When it came to me, he was even more childlike and awe-struck. I knew it was corny to say that, but it was true. His innocence was such a contrast for Mr. Carson’s feral behavior that I felt comforted, calmed by the thought of Kent. I craved a normal, familiar place. I wanted to eat popcorn in front of him, knowing I wouldn’t be self-conscious of the cheap, all-American cuisine. Deep down, I knew that as much as I was intrigued by and lusted for Mr. Carson, he intimidated me. Why then, had he made me so wet tonight?
This is wrong, Katie. Just remember, you had a polite dinner, nothing more.

I felt the money in my pocket and questioned myself. Accepting a business endeavor was fine, but was that all I had accepted when I grasped that money? And the touching—I looked forward to it so much, pined for it. I was hungry for a chance to feel his rough skin against mine. I was embarrassed because I hadn’t put lotion on my hands today, and it was winter. I hoped he didn’t notice it.
“Snap out of it,” I scolded myself quietly. The driver looked up.

“What was that, miss?”

“Nothing,” I said. “We should almost be at the movies theaters.”

I saw Kent. He had a warm hat on, and his hands were in his pockets. He wore jeans and looked so familiar, so cozy. I thanked the driver as I got out of the car and waved at Kent. His face lit up like it always did when he saw me.

“Hey there! You look great,” he said. “I feel like I should have worn a suit.”

“No,” I said, hugging him tightly. “No, you look great.”

He pulled me away from him and looked into my eyes with that searching gaze I sometimes resented him for, the kind of gaze that was likely karma from all the times I saw through people.

“You okay? You look shaken up.”

“Yes. I’m well. I just went to dinner with Mr. Carson,” I said casually, trying so hard to keep an even tone.

“Your client?” he asked, a bit shocked.

“Yes, it was a nice gesture. And it served its purpose,” I informed him, walking towards the ticket booth.

“I already bought our tickets. I remember you wanted to see The Scene.” He looked thoughtful. “But what was the purpose? You know you have to be careful not to cross boundaries—and did you inform him of the risks of the outing?” he asked, going into counselor mode.

“Thanks for the ticket... and, yes. In so many words. It was fine,” I assured him.

He’d always trusted my professional judgment before. He seemed to now as well, nodding his head. He trusted me way more than I trusted myself.

Second stage of crossing the boundary point: At this stage, the counselor has briefly crossed the line, but has stepped back into propriety, examining the transgression and working to overcome it. However, once the initial line has been breached, the counselor leaves footprints and some actions may not be undone or overcome. This is why taking immediate defensive action is crucial, before the situation worsens. I recalled, citing my own thesis.

I’d made it to point two and nearly crossed it with one foot. But I hadn’t yet, which was all that mattered. Next week, when his fiancée came to the session, everything would be set straight. Our roles would be solidified. All would be well. But the idea of his fiancée being there made my heart sink just a little.

“Let’s just go inside. We’re late,” I said. The warmth of the theater bathed me gently. The lights were dim, and I relaxed.

Kent took my hand gingerly. “Want to get popcorn?”

“Sure. I’ll go in and get us a seat. The back is usually clear this time of night. Meet me there.” I winked.

He smiled brightly and nodded. “Any soda pop?”

“Diet,” I said. I had never liked the sugar mixed with the tartness of a refreshing drink. “Oh... and fizzy rocks,” I added wickedly though he didn’t get the joke.

“Gotcha.” He stood in line like such a gentleman. I didn’t take my eyes off him until I entered the dark theater. True to my expectations, there weren’t many people in the theater; it was almost ten p.m. The back was totally clear, though it was hard to see. The low light of the projection screen above helped a little. The theater chairs were a bit more luxurious, though they looked flimsy in comparison to the restaurant Mr. Carson had taken me to. I felt guilty thinking this, so I settled down, feeling childishly excited about the popcorn and movie.

The previews began, and they were dull as hell. I was relieved when I saw Kent with one big bucket of popcorn and a soda to share.
“Aw, you got diet for me. Sacrifice.”
“Anything for the best colleague ever,” he teased.

He sat next to me and took his coat off. His body was slender and tall. I liked his height, and there was something sexy about his slim physique. Most of all, though, he was familiar. Guys my age were not as foreign or dangerous. Guys Billy’s age? They’d eat me for breakfast. My mouth suddenly felt dry. I took a sip of the soda, noting how fountain soda always tasted better than the kind in the bottle.

He placed the popcorn between us and handed me the fizzy rocks. They were just as I remembered from my childhood. They coated my tongue, popping and bristling. I enjoyed the sensation.

There was another sensation I enjoyed, too. Kent wasn’t expecting what I was about to give him. The movie would not be the best part of his night. The wild side in me was waking up. Mr. Carson had awoken it. I was filled with lust, filled with desire. I wanted to make Kent squirt everywhere. I wanted him in my mouth.

The movie began. We enjoyed our popcorn, sharing mutual laughter at the antics of the characters in the film. I gently moved my hand over to feel his crotch. His eyes widened, and he looked around. I did too, just to make sure no one could see us. Only two people were in the theater, and they were fixated on the screen. I put my hand over my lips and slid gently to my knees in front of him, trying not to make any noise or giggle. He looked straight ahead, only stealing a few quick glances. His hand played with my hair, slowly and gently. He knew what I was going to do. Although he was a person who played by the rules, I’d raved to him flirtatiously before about how good I was at giving head, and he was wickedly curious.

I got out the fizzy rocks and sprinkled them gently on my tongue. They foamed pleasantly. I wondered if they really sounded as loud as they did in my head. He looked down and let out a soft breath, squirming in his seat. I undid his belt gently, trying to forget about Mr. Carson. I would lose myself in pleasing Kent. I wanted to.

His cock was a bit stiff; he wasn’t so innocent after all. I looked at him as I took him into my mouth, swirling fizzing rocks around his head, a sensation that must have been unique. He let out a low, quiet moan, covering his mouth and chuckling into his hand. I continued as his cock swelled in my mouth. The combination of my warm tongue and the fizzing made him grow quickly, so much so that he barely fit in my tiny mouth.

I released his cock, watching it flop up and down. The candy coated it, fizzing. I lapped it up gently, enjoying his reaction. He shifted in his seat, grabbing onto his chair for support. He tried taking a sip of his soda but could barely swallow it as I took him into my throat, my tongue flicking over his balls. He sputtered. Some of the soda landed on his cock. I released him from my throat and gently lapped it up.

No one in the theater was any the wiser. It was so dark, increasing each sensation. The movie blared on loudly in the background, but it couldn’t steal the show from me. I moved my head up and down steadily, the rocks aiding me as they tickled him and fizzed. He leaned over, gripping the seat in front of him for support. His head moved. He was starting to lose his composure. He gripped my shoulder as if to let me know he was about to explode. I moaned quietly, though I didn’t care anymore if anyone could hear me. My pussy was wet with arousal, my juices dripping down my legs. I wanted his cum so bad.

He grunted in pleasure, releasing his hot load into my mouth, angling himself deeper into me. I swallowed the first thing all night I really had wanted. I didn’t question my judgment. I just wanted it. His body quivered as he moved to sit in his chair again. I cleaned off the cum and candy and zipped him up. I climbed quietly back into my seat.
“God...” he said gently, squeezing my hand. “Wow.”

I licked my lips. I had teased him so long that the movie was nearly over. We cuddled in the chair. I drank an extra-long swig of soda. I was thirsty after that neck workout.

Kent and I stood outside the theater after the movie ended. I dreaded the time alone to think about the day.

“Come back to my place with me,” he begged. “I want to hold you tonight.”

It sounded so tempting, but so did my bed. There had been too much emotional bombardment today. Though it would be scary to be alone with my guilt, I craved my own bed, my own world away from the city.

“I’m taking a cab,” I said.

“Okay.” He looked down. “I know you need your alone time.”

I nodded and used my phone to call a cab. It arrived quickly. I was perceptive enough to know he thought that ordering a cab was strange, when I’d usually take the train. But he wouldn’t ask any questions that I couldn’t begin to answer tonight, though. We hugged our goodbyes, and he walked away into the distance. I felt his warmth move away, and I was back in the foreign world I didn’t know.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Yonkers, please,” I said. I showed him the money.

“This is a prepaid ride,” he said.

Oh no, I thought, that sly bastard. This is money he is giving me, not to use for a cab.

The human part of me took over during that car ride, the part of me that reluctantly cherished the luxury of a long cab ride. I enjoyed not having to walk to the train after a long day, with the ever-present chance that strangers would talk to me. It felt so fucking selfishly great, it really did.

That morning, I’d had a bill, a huge tuition bill with some new charge they’d tacked on this year. I was selfishly relieved that the burden was gone, that it could be handled by the money in my pocket.

When I finally got home to my dark house, I collapsed into bed. I clasped my eyes shut and cried. I’d crossed the line, and I couldn’t handle what that meant. Next session would make it right. I would just have to wait until then. And tomorrow, the sun would come up, and it would be a new day. It would all be okay.

 

 

 

Katie

I was nervous about meeting Fiona. Part of me was guilty, and part of me was nervous that I wouldn’t be able to maintain my professional demeanor. I had meditated before getting ready and leaving the house. This time, I would make everything right. I would set great boundaries and follow them. The nightmare of last week, and the lines I’d crossed, would fade away.

I needed the money for school, after all. I could accept generosity, because I needed it and would return it. I chose my clothes more carefully than usual, taking note of the red outfit I had picked—the pitfalls of being so self-aware, the burdens of my training.

I paid no mind to my own childishness and went to work. I waited for what seemed like forever in my office, unable to focus on anything. Finally, a knock sounded at the door.

Billy walked in, arm-in-arm with the woman I recognized as his fiancée. To my immediate delight, she was not as extravagant as she looked on the news. She looked me over, a fake smile plastered on her face. Beneath that smile, though, I could see tiredness. I felt suddenly bad; the counselor part of me checked in; I could genuinely see her angst. This had affected their relationship, and I would put my feelings aside to help. It was my job, my duty.

This mantra faltered a bit in my head when I looked at Billy. His eyes were amazing, as usual. He was sharply dressed in a black suit. He and his fiancée were wearing the same color, which was a clear statement to me. I was crestfallen, a little, but also relieved that I felt this pain. This pain would drive me away from him.

“Hello, Fiona,” I said warmly. “Nice to meet you.” I took her hand gently, carefully, noting her fine manicure. She looked distastefully at my hand—my nails were bland and neat, but that was it.

“Yes. A pleasure,” she answered in an airy voice. She sat down next to Billy, closer than a couple usually would sit at a session.

Certainly she’s not intimidated by me, I thought. Someone as rich as her? Nah.

But it was clear. She was visibly shaken by me. This could happen, sometimes, with male-to-female therapy sessions, but I knew that wasn’t why. She had an instinct, and she was right, unfortunately.

“Mr. Carson has told me all about you,” I said pleasantly, trying to put her at ease and establish boundaries. It worked. She sat up a bit straighter and finally made eye contact. I didn’t see hate in her eyes, just confusion.

“Has he told you I’m a saint for putting up with him?” she joked.

“Something like that,” I responded, trying to build a therapeutic alliance with her. “But he’s also told me that some of his panic attacks are impacting the relationship,” I said, my voice more businesslike. “I’m here to help.”

“Thank God for that,” she said eagerly.

Billy looked put off. He sighed. “You can at least give me credit for trying?”

“I do. I do!” Fiona said, patting his hand.

I could honestly see how he might have an issue with her. There was something plastic about her, and I realized this made her unattractive. On her own, she had great natural beauty. But she tried too hard. She was trying too hard now… trying too hard to look normal. It was obvious that I would have a hard time trusting her as well.

I took a breath and closed my eyes, separating my wants from my gut feeling. My gut was telling me, but I would have to prove it, that she was trying too hard to be with him. She was trying to run away from something with all her clothes and expensive things. Running away from some kind of truth.

I opened my eyes and said, “So. How long have these issues been occurring?”

“Well. We were never perfect before the attack, don’t get me wrong, but after what happened to me—the first few months were unbearable.”

I was surprised he admitted this to me. I met his eyes, and he looked down for several seconds before looking up, unable to disguise his hunger for me. Seeing him want me like that made me wet. I didn’t let him linger on me for too long for fear Fiona would detect the uncomfortable silence.

“What kinds of things happen?” I asked.

“We argue a lot. Partly because I’m so tired. I can’t sleep, ever. He keeps me up,” she whined, not sounding like a grown-ass woman at all. She sounded like a spoiled child who always got her way.

“I honestly feel terribly about it,” he said.

“Have you been taking your medication?” I asked.

“Yes. But it doesn’t help.”

“I’ll refer you to the psychiatrist after the session. He can look over your meds.”

“You mean you can’t?” Fiona asked indignantly.

“No. I am a counselor. Only psychiatrists can prescribe medicine.”

“Oh.” She sounded smug. She’d found her edge. “I thought you were more important than that.”

Billy grumbled and rested his head in his hand. I cleared my throat and rose before asking them a few more generic questions. I was nervous about pushing Billy too hard, and still felt I needed to get to know them more before getting to the harder stuff.

“Okay. Let’s take a short break. You guys are doing great. Meet back here in ten minutes.”

When Fiona turned on her phone, it began buzzing like crazy. Billy didn’t seem to notice. He fished for a cigar and said, “I’m gonna have one of these outside.”

Fiona smiled at Bill—a bit too widely. “It’s cold. I gotta return this phone call anyway.”

They shared a peck. I looked down and tried not to drown in my coffee cup. “I’ll be here when you guys get back.”

Billy gave me one look—was it apologetic? Then he left.

The only thing that made me envy Fiona was how blissfully unaware she was of everything. I could tell she’d grown up rich and would marry into wealth. Nothing was ever enough. But her ignorance was an advantage because I could hear her clearly on the phone in the waiting room. She was so blissfully self-indulgent, she didn’t think about how thin the walls were in this old, distinguished building.

Her voice was flirty. “Hey, babe,” she said, her voice dropping, though I could still hear her.

What did Billy want that he couldn’t tell her in the office? But I realized quickly Billy wasn’t on the other end of that phone call.

“I’m at the shrink. Can you believe it? A shrink. I couldn’t sleep last night again.” She paused and giggled. “Yeah, I wish I could have been there, too. But do you know what else I wish? I wish I had married him before all this started. That way I could get a divorce. I have a chance now, though, to get some of the money when I finally do.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She’d just admitted that she was using him for money, that this was all pretense. Coming here to therapy was an act so she could look understanding and get more money. She didn’t give a damn about him.

The rest of the session was hard for me to sit through because I had the strongest urge to protect Billy and to tell him what I had heard. It was the hardest day of my professional career, sitting in that office with them, watching her pretend that she was faithful to him. As strong as he was, he bought into it. He bought into it because he was weak in love, like most of us were. He cared for her—he cared a lot. I could see that, and I felt terrible for him.

“I don’t think this is going anywhere,” Fiona complained. “With all due respect, Ms…”

“Warren,” I supplied.

“With all due respect, Ms. Warren, we would like to see a more qualified professional together.” I was stone faced, my reaction nil. She was taken aback. “R—right, Billy?”

“We can see a psychiatrist together, but I am happy with my therapy.”

She crossed her arms and pouted.

“It would be unethical for me to remove Mr. Carson from our sessions without his approval, but I do hope to see you again,” I lied.

To make it worse for Billy, for the entire session, I remained cool and professional. Clearly he needed warmth, and I was refusing to provide him solace.

“I’ll see you next week, Doc?” he said playfully when it ended.

“Yes. And please, I am not a doctor. I am a counselor. Your counselor. And we will have our formal session next week.” My tone was icy. My heart broke to treat him so meanly, but I was trying to protect him from the harm that could come from a counselor crossing the line. I didn’t want to cross the line any more than I already had.

Fiona nearly slammed the door in Billy’s face. He looked sadly back at me as he walked out the door. No wonder he was scared of being vulnerable. The moment he allowed himself to be, someone literally slammed the door on him.

So many thoughts and feelings ran through me. I hadn’t felt myself wanting to run this much since I was a teen, a time I should have forgotten, if not for the wild urges it brought out in me sometimes.

After they left, I dialed Kent, who answered promptly, as always. “Hey. What’s up?” He greeted me warmly.

“I want to see you.”

“Okay. Rephrase that. What’s wrong?”

“Meet me at the coffee shop near the office.”

“All right. I’ll be there in a half hour.”

I was glad to leave the office behind. I went inside the shop, not ordering until he arrived. He arrived quicker than I thought. As I made my way down the stairs to greet him, I saw a limo go by. His limo. His face, looking crestfallen, passed by. I snapped my head away from his and guided Kent inside.

“I had a really emotional session,” I said.

“Okay, what happened?” He was so concerned. There was something so sane about our interaction, the kind of sanity I found comfort in. When I lost my mind, I found his sanity and logic to be so comforting. I needed him, Kent, right now. I needed to be reminded of who I really was beneath my immoral feelings, beneath my lust.

“I heard Mr. Carson’s fiancée on the phone. She’s cheating on him. I don’t know what to do,” I informed him.

“Whoa. All right. Major dilemma. First, I’m gonna get coffee, and then we can talk once we have some caffeine in us.”

Just as I was beginning to feel safe, Billy walked in. He looked furious. I gulped, wanting to hide behind the napkin holder.

He greeted me, forcing a smile. “Fancy seeing you here,” he said, not sounding the least bit surprised.

“Hello again,” I greeted him in my professional voice. “We’re going to a Broadway play. Wanted to stop in and get some coffee.” Billy was lying. I could see right through it. His face was tight. His bright green eyes pierced through me like a laser. He was seething with jealousy after seeing me with Kent just now. Fiona trailed behind him, clearly in a jealous fit as well.

“I hope the coffee here is good. Doesn’t seem like a high-class place,” she spat.

“It’s great,” I said, trying to cut the tension. “Very good coffee, Mr. Carson.” I attempted to make my aloofness clear to him.

Kent returned, looking as bright-eyed and happy as usual. He put our coffee down and stopped when he saw Billy. “Mr. Carson! Hello,” he said warmly. He reached out his hand. Billy took it, almost squeezing it off. Kent removed his hand but remained standing. They looked into each other’s eyes, scoping each other out—all for a silent but subconsciously obvious reason.

“I’ve seen you in the office, haven’t I?” Billy asked Kent.

“Yes! I’m a counselor there,” Kent replied. I could hear the pride in his voice.

“We’d better get coffee and get going. The play starts in a half hour,” Fiona whined again, still sounding childish.

“See you next week, Doc,” Billy said to me, his eyes looking seductively into mine.

Kent and I sat in an uncomfortable silence after they walked to the counter to order. I sipped my coffee, willing it to burn my mouth so I would have a reason to run to the bathroom. I was begging the cosmos for Kent obliviousness to what was happening. Luckily, he didn’t say anything until they left.