Today

The g-force slamming me violently into my seat gives me complete control. It’s exactly what I need, and the power I crave. I knew this car, the BMW X6 G-power Typhoon S, was mine the instant I saw it. I’m not seeking approval from anyone, and I never will. The flashy red gloss gets unwanted attention, sure, but then again, I can control that, too.

The car’s screen suddenly lights up. “Dr. Grant.”

My voice activates it and I answer. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I had an urgent call of a personal nature.”

I immediately feel my body tense. It could be anything, I reassure myself, but a million different scenarios race through my mind.

“I’ll be in the office in ten,” I say, ending the call.

Miss Knight understands my need for solitude, yet her words stay with me as I pull into my private space. I button my jacket and straighten my tie out of habit. The elevator takes me to the top floor. When I step into the room I see Miss Knight waiting. The pain in her features, her nervous fidgeting out of character. Uncomfortable with her unusual summons, I notice her eyes won’t meet mine.

What the hell?

“Shall we?” I ask, extending my arm toward my office, assuming privacy is necessary. “Have a seat.” I sit behind my desk, and lean back, waiting. Her silence, triggering every cell in my body.

 

“Doctor,” she begins nervously, obviously navigating her words very carefully.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, sir.”

We stare at each other for a long moment. I’m growing impatient by the second, trying desperately to conceal my emotions.

“Go on, Kimberly.” Purposely using her first name to try and calm her worried look.

“Your friend, Dr. Barnett, and his wife, they were in a horrific plane crash, sir.” Her brows knit in a frown, and her eyes are filled with a sorrow I can no longer meet with mine.

“No one survived.” Her eyes swim with tears as I take in her words. I try to push the feelings away. Cold thoughts rush in, as if a storm is abruptly hovering over me. I watch her scrutinize my reaction, or lack thereof.

“What happened?” I battle my way back to the moment.

“I don’t have all the details yet. I only received the message because we share the same private airline representative. She called with the news this morning. I’m deeply sorry, sir. I know you were close.”

Yes, we were close.

I pause to process. “I just saw him last week.” My frown deepens with the memory of our last day together on the tennis court. He kicked my ass. Then preceded to give me a hard time about it.

“Didn’t they have a daughter?” It occurs to me out of the blue. I have never met her, and she was always off to school somewhere.

“She wasn’t with them.”

I nod in understanding.

“There will be a service today, sir, one of many.” She starts to leave and turns. “Will you be alright?”

Of course not. It brings back way too many memories.

“I’ll be fine,” I reassure her, but the pain ripped through my skull and now I find myself feeling very alone by the sudden loss. Friends have not been bountiful in my life. I’ll miss our monthly tennis games, the testosterone flowing freely through our veins, the high-octane competition in fierce abundance. I craved it.

Flashes of Stanford and the trouble we often barely escaped come to mind. It usually revolved around girls, and a lot of liquor. He had taken me under his wing. Although older, I was suddenly a part of the pack, and he was the leader. He was a God, and I was honored to be allowed in his inner circle, part of his rat pack.

He rebelled against his father, who tried desperately to tame him while planning his entire life. There would be marriage, children, and stature. His father was chief of staff at Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, Stanford, and had high expectations for his son. It had all fallen into place when he met Amanda. He’d married her and juggled school, family and his need to be more. Everything shifted when he fell in love, and finally grew up.

Dr. Mathew Bennett, MD, always relentlessly teased me that he was the real doctor. Psychiatry was just a cushy job, according to him, certainly not like being a proper M.D. I smile at the thought now. Our virile banter was always a consummate challenge in our relationship.

He had been an unsung hero, someone who never wanted recognition, but it would all come out now, God, he would hate that. He’d always jumped at any opportunity to help, no matter how treacherous the situation. He lived his life courageously, without question. He often traveled to faraway, dangerous places, like Syria, Honduras, and Somalia. He was medicine’s go-to guy, and he thought he could save the world. The special thing about him was that he actually made you believe he could.

I find myself alone in my thoughts. The office is rarely empty, the chair is always occupied, and it’s odd I have this rare moment to evaluate my feelings. I need to orchestrate a plan to process this loss step by step. I have to compartmentalize each feeling until I’m ready to face it. That’s what I tell my patients to do. I must live by that code, too, mustn’t I?

Olivia. I should cancel our date; she’ll be disappointed, but I need to be there. I want to be there. It’s a necessary part of the process, a process I know all too well.

“Theo, I understand, and my parents will understand. I’ll meet them and explain. Please don’t give it another thought,” she says. She can be gracious, at times.

“Did you ever meet him?” I purposely construct the question to avoid an actual invitation.

“No, I never had the pleasure. This feels like a very personal affair.”

Translation: no I don’t want to go.

Perfect, I don’t want her to go, either.

“Send my condolences,” she says.

“Of course, Olivia.” Hanging up, I realize that this conversation went exactly as planned.

The wind is blowing every which way, and the clouds are viciously churning, bringing the storm in faster than they predicted. The lightning tears through the sky, followed by the rumble of thunder. I feel the first few drops hit as I walk past several parking lots filled with cars.

I anticipated the enormous outpouring of condolences today. After all, Matt and Amanda were well known in the elite community of philanthropists, humanitarians, and the upper crust community who gave as much as they received.

I straighten my tie, opening the heavy door as a burst of chaos attacks my senses. I shrug it off and manage to weave though the hundreds of people.

“Closed caskets,” I say to no one. Of course, they would be closed. They’ve been cruelly taken in the prime of their lives, robbed by a circumstance beyond anyone’s control.

I see two beautiful white caskets with white roses draped over them. I notice there’s a black scroll drawn on the top and sides. Is it art? A final message?  I can evaluate once I’m closer. Finally, I approach the end of the line, thankful it’s not snaked around several rooms. I watch as a man stands close to the caskets, greeting everyone and shaking their hands one by one. I search my memory for answers but come up blank.

“I’m Dr. Theodore Grant.” Offering my hand, the man takes it in his. We share a strong grip.

“Vincent Barnet, Mathew’s brother.” His smile is genuine, attempting to mask his pain. The same pain I’m inflicted with.

“My deepest condolences,” I offer. “We went to Stanford together, and have stayed in touch ever since.”

I find it odd that Mathew never mentioned a brother. Very odd, indeed.

“Thank you. I’m so glad you could make it.” He nods at me, and then I’m ushered away so the next grieving soul can be greeted.

Before I step away completely, I get a closer look at the art on the casket. It’s as if someone took a black sharpie and used their grief to create their own form of beauty. It was captivating. The stark difference between black on white is so hypnotic that I have to force myself to walk away.

I recognize several of Matt’s friends from the medical field and head their way to mingle for a while. “Dr. Theodore Grant, a friend of Mathew’s.” Inserting myself into their conversation, and introductions are passed around. Then they get back to the topic at hand.

“She’s taken it hard, as expected,” someone in the group says, as I look on, feeling like a spectator.

“But her silence is a real concern.”

Their heads nod. Their body language can be characterized as anxious, and worried.

“Not one word,” another person states as he meets everyone’s eyes in turn.

“Not a single word, or a single tear,” another chimes in.

I listen with the utmost interest, taking notes mentally, naturally analyzing what’s going on around me as it unfolds.

Then a sudden break in the sea of guests opens, and I notice a young woman sitting in a chair tucked in the alcove. Her long dark wavy hair is slightly covering her face. She never looks up or acknowledges the several people surrounding her.

I watch and study her, evaluating her disposition. The answers that usually come to me instantly are hidden behind the mask she wears. I start to walk toward her as she slowly lifts her head. The lighting behind her is now glowing, as if a halo surrounds her. She looks like a beautifully fragile bird wounded by life, her pain seeping from every pore of her body.

Within feet of reaching my target, her doe-like violet eyes meet mine. agony, grief, and a silent warning that I’ve come close enough. This must be the daughter. Abandoned by fate, her life as she knows it has been stolen in an instant. Now all that’s left to do is steady herself and go on without them.

I’m instantly swept up into her web of darkness. The empathetic sadness is difficult to fight off, but then again, I’m no stranger to grief myself. I’ve lived it; I’ve just never lived through it.

I’m suddenly brought back to the present when the young woman tilts her head, as if she’s looking straight into my soul, demons and all. Her beauty is the kind that brings men to their knees, and I find I can’t tear my eyes away from her. She is impossible to ignore, her alluring splendor something I instantly crave.

Despite all this, I consciously choose to leave her in her sorrow and walk away while I still can. No matter how strong the pull is, I intentionally turn away. I fear the impact has already seeped into my psyche. Now I must fight to regain control.

I pull into the underground parking garage, and once inside the elevator, I press the penthouse button. Within seconds I’m walking into my oasis, with the lights of Reno flickering in the background. I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Here I am, alone at last.

I’m still haunted by her eyes, knowing that they are now forever imbedded in my memory. But as much as I want to deny it, she is by far the most intriguing woman I’ve ever encountered. Reaching for a bottle of wine, I find the glass unsteady in my hand. An intoxicating image of her forms in my mind, I begin to rationalize my reaction.

My behavior suggests empathetic feelings toward an individual who has experienced a similar traumatic event. I’m overcompensating with compassion and substituting it with a distorted kind of empathy. I realize I’m diagnosing myself cynically and totally overthinking this.

Taking my glass upstairs, I change from my suit into a pair of pajama pants and reach for several files concerning my appointments tomorrow. Dissociation is my objective. Working on other people’s issues instead of my own is where my comfort level lies.

“Levi is here,” Miss Knight announces bright and early the following morning.

Acute stress disorder. I contemplate while tapping my Montblanc pen on my desk.

“I’ll be right out.”

Levi’s story is disturbing, having witnessed his father kill his mother, although he continues to deny he was ever there. At fifteen, he’s clever enough to skirt the authorities—but not me. I’ve been asked to examine all aspects of what happened that day. The investigator seems to think I can pry the details out of Levi, so he can be a viable witness and be prepared for court. I don’t doubt my ability; I just wonder if it’s the right course of action for Levi.

As I open my door, our eyes meet. I note that he’s wearing his poker face. Levi enjoys a good challenge as much as I do, but at fifteen, he’s not equipped to play in my world.

“Dr. Thor,” he says, and walks right past me. He sits in the chair directly opposite mine

“Levi.” I acknowledge him as I sit, crossing my legs and allowing the file to balance on my knee. As I observe his body language and take note of the fidgeting, lack of eye contact, and his lackluster welcome, I realize that something is off.

“Did someone do or say anything that has you troubled?” I ask.

Levi is acutely sensitive and totally in tune with his surroundings and the people around him.

“My aunt. I overheard her talking to her real son.” He circles himself. “This, is only temporary.”

This is news to me. It’s my understanding that this is a permanent arrangement. I’ll have to address the situation with his aunt, and I make a mental note to call her. Levi’s home needs to be a safe place, and so far, she has completely failed at the task.

“Is it possible you misinterpreted the conversation?” My gut tells me he heard the conversation just right, and that’s what has me unnerved.

“I don’t think so.” He shrugs one shoulder.

“I guess.” But it doesn’t address the bigger problem. The one I know threatens to consume him. The reason he’s here, the reason I agreed to help him.

“Levi, when a new problem confronts you, how do you tackle it?”

“I don’t know.”

Typical teenager. I need to steer the conversation where we need to go, so I decide to be direct.

“What’s the one thing you remember most about the day you lost your mom?”

There’s silence, but I wait it out. Secrets always have a way of revealing themselves. Keeping them in the dark and blaming himself is doing more harm than he realizes.

“Dr. Thor, I only remember the can of SpaghettiOs. My mom left it out for me after practice. I microwaved it and ate at the table.” His eyes narrow, as if warning me to stop asking the same questions over and over again.

“Where you alone?” I ask.

His eyes are shooting daggers at me.

“Tell me if I’m wrong, Levi. Is it your sense of guilt, fear, or loyalty that’s holding you back?” I lean forward, unyielding in my pursuit of the truth.

“Even if I was there, I wouldn’t have been able to save her. I never could before.”

Finally, here’s the anger I’ve been waiting for as I’ve watched him attempt to escape the pain. His eyes reveal his deep panic, but I will catch him if he falls.

“You’re referring to the other times you witnessed physical abuse at your father’s hand?”

“Right. If I stepped in, he would take it out on me, too. You learn fast the rules of violence.”

I realize that this child had to grow up fast and learn how to handle his abusive father.

“Where was your safe place, Levi?” My eye contact never wavering, I watch him struggle with the question, considering if it’s a trick. He’s smart, because it’s definitely a trick.

“Under their bed. They never looked there.” If indeed this is where he was hiding, he would have had a perfect view of the scene that unfolded in that very room.

“That’s a smart place, Levi. Distancing yourself from the violence was the best plan. Is that what you did on that day, too?”

“No, I told you Dr. Thor, I wasn’t there!” He yells it at me, his anger only a symptom of his profound fear. We are getting closer to the truth, but I will only push him so far. I won’t hurt the trust I’ve built.

“Okay, Levi, I’ll leave it for now.”

His entire body relaxes.

“Tell me about your baseball game over the weekend. First baseman, right?” I witness the beginning of a smile, and the willingness to share the one thing that truly brings him joy.

“It was great. I tagged two guys out and made a run for the team. We won. It was fun. We went out for pizza later with one of the team player’s parents.” Pride shines from his eyes and it pleases me that he has this small happiness in his life.

“I’m delighted to hear that, Levi. Stick with it.”

I’ll also be addressing this subject with his aunt. He needs this diversion, and this one is healthy in so many ways. It’s sad that I’ll have to reinforce the basic needs of a child, not to mention how to care for a child who has experienced a life-altering event, but that’s my job.

“Are we done, Dr. Thor?”

“Yes, Levi, we are.” I want to leave it on a positive note. I set a reminder on my desk to call his aunt, then walk him out the door. I know what he witnessed that day, but he’s just not ready to share the horrifying story. We haven’t reached the pivotal point in which he trusts me enough to confide in me. But we will.

“Yes, Olivia.” I’m answering in my car. “I’m on my way home now.”

“Would you like some company?” she asks.

Yes, but only one specific kind.

“Of course.”

I’m already planning the scene in my head.

“We can order in, if you like,” I suggest.

“I’m on my way.”

Beautiful Olivia, my rich and spoiled Olivia. She’s a means to an end, but nothing more. On paper, she’s perfect; just not perfect for me. She must know there’s no future for us; there’s nothing there but physical need.

Once home, I hear the elevator rise. She has my code, not that it means anything. It’s just convenient.

“Hey, baby,” she says, walking toward me and reaching up to kiss me.

I passively return the kiss, then immediately go to the kitchen.

“Wine?” I offer, watching her place her phone on the island along with her purse.

“What kind?”

Like I would stock anything but the best.

“Caymus Cabernet Sauvignon.” Watching her, I fill two glasses.

“Very nice, Theo.” Her first sip is long and drawn out.

“Rough day?” I ask with a hint of sarcasm that seems to stop her cold.

“Yes, but I’m here now.” She takes another sip, keeping eye contact over the rim of her glass. It’s a sign I recognize as a go. At least we’re on the same page. She finishes her wine quickly and our eyes meet. I reach for her and notice her pupils are slightly dilated. I turn her around, now facing the windows. The lights of the city are blinking bright against the dark skies. I move her severely styled hair aside, whispering in her ear.

“Xanax, Klonopin?” I always know.

She ignores my question as I slide the zipper down her very expensive dress, revealing very expensive lace.

“Come, Olivia.” I offer her my hand, and she eagerly accepts it, stepping over her dress. We enter my office. The dark wood spans the masculine décor, and my desk is immaculate. I turn on the lamp, leaving the room hazy, the details obscure. “You can tell me to stop at any time.” I whisper in her ear, but she won’t.

“Your bra, Olivia.” I take a step back to remove my jacket, watching her firm curves and slender limbs reveal themselves. I loosen my tie, and slowly pull. “Now your panties.”

There’s fervor in her response as she watches me admire her exposed body. I sense her silently calling my name as she stands naked in front of me. My muscles flex as I unbutton my shirt. I watch her salivating gaze scan my bare chest, a silent need in her eyes, but that is more than I am willing to give. I prefer the scene to be cold, distant, and completely in charge.

“Turn around and lean over the desk, Olivia.” There’s a look of engulfing emotion I dismiss immediately as I physically turn her away from me forcing her down on my desk. I unbuckle my belt and slide my pants down, leaving my Calvin’s.

“Spread your legs.” I hear her haul in a breath and tense. She knows not to say a word. Not yet anyway. I slide down my trunks and my aching hard length springs to life. Condom in place, I step between her legs nudging them apart, admiring her black pumps as the head of my staff plays in her nectar.

I don’t do intimacy, I don’t do love, this is what I do, and I do it well.

“Fuck me, Theo.” Her thighs are trembling.

“I say when, Olivia.”

Her back arches in an attempt to rush me, but I won’t be rushed. I’ve detached myself from anything but my pure physical need. My way, always my way.

Squeezing her heart-shaped ass, I run my finger close; so close I can hear her whimper. Her sexually charged body is screaming for me to fill her with mine.

As I loom over her, I enter her wet pussy slowly, inch by inch, tormenting her desire. I feel her quiver beneath me, which makes me more rigid and engorged. I probe in a slow repetitive rhythm until my cock is buried to the hilt.

With great force, I penetrate her again and again, hearing her breath hitch. My hand grabs her long blonde hair, twisting it around my fist, while the other grabs her hip. “I need to fuck you hard, Olivia, hold on.”

She obeys without hesitation. I slam into her as my rapid pace increases. The erotic image of my cock entering her body has me right on the edge. My grip tightens as she accommodates for my unyielding pace.

“Olivia, I’m about to explode, come now!” I release her hair and hold her hips in place as I bring it home. I feel her tighten, and moan. “Fuck!” I say as I come, soaring high on my drug of choice.

When I come back down, I lean over her, noticing she smells like jasmine and sex. “Good, Olivia.”

Quickly separating from her and pulling up my trunks, I help her up, but our eyes never meet.

It’s just sex.