by Max Henry
She disconnects, clearly under the impression that our little rendezvous is a thing of the past.
Whatever. If the good doctor should have learned one thing about me by now, it’s that I never play fair.
The games have just begun.
TWELVE
Edith
Tuesday comes around way too fast. I see my previous client out, and then shut the door with shaky hands. Nerves seem to be a slight understatement.
I’m absolutely out of my element.
I’ve treated five clients via video call in the past. Two teenagers, one senior citizen, and two middle-aged women. Nobody of Boe’s caliber.
I bolted from his apartment well aware of the error in judgment I’d made. He’s not the type of man to care about the wellbeing of the other person. He’s exactly what I warned Molly away from. And yet like a moth to the flame, I’m drawn in, knowing the danger that faces me.
I navigate to the app on my laptop and switch the webcam on. A little positioning, and an extra button on the blouse loose, and I’m ready to go. Soft light filters in from my office window, the day outside overcast. Auburn streaks in my hair are highlighted by the stream of sun, adding what I have to admit is an alluring depth to my image. I roll my lips twice, smack them together, and then hit Call.
“Right on time, Doc.”
Goddamn him—I smile. Boe leans on his desk with both elbows, shoulders hunched as he leans forward. The angle makes me think his phone is propped up on something, rather than him using a laptop as I do.
“You know I like to adhere to schedule as best I can.”
He grunts in agreement.
I focus on the notes before me to save from getting lost in his eyes. They’re as crisp on my monitor as they are face-to-face. Technology isn’t doing a very good job of lessening Boe’s effect on me.
“I have a few topics here that we must work through in order to appease the court.”
He leans back and folds his arms. “List them.”
I drop my gaze back to the sheet before me, fingers restlessly playing with the ends of my hair. “The origin of your aggression, your reasoning for the assaults, and how you propose to avoid confrontations in the future.”
He regards me, massaging his chin. “We’ve covered my reasoning already.”
“Do you think we could improve on that, though?” I study him also. One can learn a lot from physical cues.
“Nope.”
So damn arrogant. “The origins,” I test. “We touched on that in your second session.”
“Did we?” His eyes narrow.
I wither under his scrutiny. “Your grandfather. You mentioned he was the one to first engage in physical hostility with you.”
Boe breaks away, glancing off to the side as he works the knot of his tie. “What is it you want to hear, Ms. Potts?”
Another underhanded power move. He’s dropped my title, therefore degrading me, whilst also using my formal title rather than the first name we’d agreed on.
“I want to hear what the hell makes you so damn defensive.” His head snaps around at my curt tone. “Why do you insist that the world is against you? No man is an island, Mr. Johanssen.” Two can play at his game.
“Perhaps not, but most days it’s survival of the fittest.” His chin dips, slight lines marring his forehead.
He challenges me. But also he’s apprehensive.
“My question is, though, Boe, who are you fighting? Are people really antagonistic, or are you simply striking first so that it lessens the chance of being hurt?”
“Isn’t that what you did,” he taunts, “by sneaking out of my apartment? Struck first?”
Bastard. “Perhaps. But today we’re focusing solely on you.”
“You want to know what started the fight, am I correct?” He relaxes, head tipped back with one eyebrow cocked.
“Please.”
Boe rises from the seat, rounding it to stand at his office window. Venetian blinds shield the mid-morning sun from his phone, allowing me an uninhibited view of him while he appears to mull the topic over, hands slung in his pockets.
“My father swindled people out of their money,” he states, still with his back to me. “He was the reason for more than a few family breakdowns within our town.”
I push my laptop off to one side in order to better take notes. I’ve struck gold—as if I’d interrupt him now. My job from here in is to simply observe.
“Understandably it left some of the kids at school with a sour taste in their mouth when it came to sharing a class with me.” He runs a hand over his head and then places both on his hips. “One little fuck would target me, daily. I was around eleven at the time. He’d been picking on me on and off for about four years when it boiled over.
“To cut a long story short, I went home upset to my mom. Granddad happened to drop by while I was in tears telling her about it all, and he flipped his lid. Mom intervened, and when he directed his anger at her, I lost it.”
“You started the fight?” I clarify.
Boe shakes his head, slowly returning to his seat as he continues. “I shoved him, but he was, of course, a lot larger than me. He said ‘You want to be a man? Then you need to fight like a man.’ In his mind, teaching me to box was how you dealt with bullies. Fight violence with violence.”
“That never ends well,” I empathize. “Especially with children.”
He nods, an unusually stoic look on his face. I’ve seen him cocky, stern, and smug. But this? It’s the most genuine I’ve seen Boe Johanssen to date.
“You can’t blame this on him though.” He entwines his fingers in front of the screen, blocking his face slightly. “He was doing what he thought was right.”
His respect for the man interests me. It alludes to a much deeper relationship. I’d place money on Boe spending as much time, if not more, with his grandfather than he did with his father.
“Tell me about school,” I ask. “You mentioned the bully, but how were your days otherwise?”
“I kept to myself mostly.”
“And college?”
The twitch is slight, but I catch it. “I didn’t go.”
Of course, I already knew that with the background report I drew up. I purely wanted to see how he’d react to what he probably perceives as a weakness.
“By choice?” I press.
His darkened eyes bore straight through the device, sending a shiver racing across my flesh. “No.”
Boe’s father was charged his final year of high school. The trial would have upset the entire family’s day-to-day goings-on.
“How many more questions are there?” Boe drops his head, fingers knitted in his dark hair.
I sense that I’ve forced him to delve into memories he’s kept buried for a long time. Memories he’d rather forget.
“We can wrap up early today. Split the rest of the session on to another day.”
“Yeah.” He straightens, staring off over the screen. “Okay.”
I open my mouth to say more, yet he kills the call. I take a moment to pause before gently shutting the laptop. My notes are scrawled across the page, random groups of words with lines connecting my thought patterns.
Boe is a complicated man—that much is true. But I think I may have been wrong with one of my early assumptions.
He knows exactly what it is he runs from. Exactly what it is he avoids.
And perhaps, his reasons for refusing to tell me aren’t so arrogant after all?
THIRTEEN
Boe
What a goddamn mess of a day. After my session with Edith, my distraction level was so high that I missed out on a sale to Rogers. Fucking Rogers of all people.
Mind you, the moron could use the extra commission if he plans to keep Kendra satisfied.
My fingers tap on the steering wheel while the traffic crawls across the intersection before me. Light rain wets the windshield, not quite enough to warrant using the wipers, but enough to be a pain in the ass when you’re
out in it. The monotone drone of the afternoon DJ on the car radio cuts to my ringtone. I smack Accept on the dash panel.
“Afternoon, sis.”
“Thought I’d make a quick call while the monkeys are quiet. We’ve probably got all of five minutes,” Clara says with a chuckle.
“Ditto.” The outline of my apartment building taunts me on the horizon.
“We haven’t spoken since your first session. I wanted to check up on you and see how it was going.”
I’ve always loved her bluntness; it cuts the crap and saves so much time. “They’re progressing.” I shift through the gears, our lane finally moving on.
“Progressing how? In a good way? Or bad?”
“They just are.”
Clara, being younger, missed most of the bullshit with Dad. She was aware that something at our father’s work stressed him, but she was still naïve enough for the trial to go straight over her head. Of course, she knows what he did, now, but that doesn’t change the fact she was protected from the worst of it at a critical age.
Discussing the direction Edith wants to take our sessions would only raise questions I don’t want Clara to ask.
“You’re still going, though,” she queries.
“For now.” I slow and come to a stop behind a car that waits on another to park. “I still don’t see how these friendly chats with a shrink are supposed to help me.”
“They’re meant to allow you a safe space to unload your problems, Boe.” She sighs.
“I don’t need a ‘safe space’, and I sure as hell don’t have problems to unload.” I exhale as the traffic moves off again. “They suit me just fine buried down where they are.”
“Bottling isn’t healthy. You need to share the burden every so often.”
“She’s asking me things I don’t want to discuss, Clara.”
“Perhaps she’s asking about things that need to be said,” she challenges. “If you get defensive, that means she hits a nerve.”
“Surely that’s not a great idea when you’re treating a man for rage issues.” It couldn’t feel any better than it does to pull into the apartment garage today.
All I want to do is lounge around in my underwear and drink beer.
I want to shake this bullshit air of sophistication I wear to snare sales, and just be a basic goddamn man.
“What is she querying?” Clara asks. “Is it relevant, you think?”
“It’s relevant.” I slip the Cadillac into my park. “I just don’t think it’s helpful.”
“Things often get worse before they get better. Stick it out, okay?”
“And if I don’t?” My head hits the seat rest, legs falling wide against the confines of the car.
“Then you go to prison, remember?”
“At least I’d get my meals cooked for me,” I tease.
“Ugh. You do anyway, considering you hardly have any food at home.”
“Cooking isn’t a man’s job.”
“Tell that to the chefs who prepare your meals.” Clara laughs. “Goddamn, brother. You’re a lost cause, aren’t you?”
“Apparently that’s what therapy is for.”
The humor disappears from her tone. “Just stick it out. I promise it’ll end up being a good thing.”
It already is. But for all the wrong reasons. “I’ll call you next week.”
“Okay. Take care.”
I disconnect, kill the engine, and then retrieve my gear from the car. An unread message on my phone catches my eye. I lock the vehicle and swipe to open the thread as I head for the lift.
What’s your favorite take-out?
Interesting…
Is this a professional question?
I smirk at my reply and pocket the phone to enter the lift. Her answer comes through, vibrating against my leg, as the lift reaches my floor.
I’m establishing your profile ;) Just answer the damn question, Boe.
Italian, I reply.
I’m still in the middle of thinking up something else sarcastic to say when she flicks a message back.
Be at yours in forty minutes.
Edith, Edith, Edith. I let down my guard with her today, frustrated by the need to dredge up the less savory recollections of my grandfather. He had his vices—we all do—but he was an honorable man. Unlike my father.
I let that show. I gave Edith a glimpse at the man I am when I lie awake at night. The man who allows himself no more than thirty minutes a day to break down and feel before he locks that shit away where it belongs. And surprisingly, it proved beneficial.
Women love a man to mother. Edith, though… It seems she loves a man to mend.
I hope the food isn’t the only surprise, I send before opening my apartment door.
You’ll have to wait and see.
FOURTEEN
Edith
The best memories come from ideas executed on a whim. Or so I’m told.
I’ve never been the type to do anything on an impulse. I have set days for cleaning set parts of my house. I follow the same schedule every week for when I do my shopping, exercise, and what days I allow myself a treat.
Pre-planning equals stability. And stability is the antidote to chaos.
I like my days in order. I like the security.
Boe is the epitome of chaos.
A plastic bag of take-out in one hand, a bottle of whiskey in the other, I arrive on his floor. If the swirling pattern in the carpet and abstract artworks don’t make me feel like a hooker in a hotel, then the revealing attire beneath my overcoat sure does.
I knock on his door with the side of my high heel, my stomach twisting in knots from both hunger and nerves. Quite the combination, I tell you.
“Forty-five, Edith,” the smartass answers as he opens the door. “Your punctuality is slipping.”
“Just let me in.” I give him a wan smile and nudge past to set the heavy bag down on his kitchen counter.
Boe appears relaxed in grey sweatpants and a Black Sabbath T-shirt, yet the lack of spirit in his eyes reveals the truth. He’s drained, mentally. Tired and worn down after an emotional day.
Most people underestimate the tax a day stuck in your head can take. Physical exhaustion is a legitimate side effect of mental fatigue.
“I bought four options, so hopefully I have one of your preferred dishes.”
His gaze roams the length of me, lingering on my bare legs. “I’m certain you will.”
“How are you?” I busy myself retrieving plates and utensils for us both.
He leans his elbows on the counter island, watching me move around the space. “I’ve had better days.”
His admission surprises me somewhat. We’re already so far from the defensive man I first met. “I figured you could use a pick me up.”
Boe hides his amusement behind linked hands. “How did you know I wouldn’t have company?”
I set the knives and forks down beside him, and then unpack the meals. “Because if you did, I imagine I would have had some lewd invitation to a threesome or the like.”
He chuckles, settling on one of the two stools. “You do know me, Dr. Potts.”
“Edith, please.” Otherwise, things will feel seriously strange when I drop this coat.
“Edith, then.” He reaches for one of the take out dishes.
I slide it from his reach. “We can eat later. I’ll pop these in the oven to keep warm.”
“I don’t know about you,” Boe says, sliding from the stool, “but I’m pretty damn hungry.” He rounds the counter, stalking me as I shove the polystyrene containers onto the oven rack.
“Well, I’m not.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Edith.” Firm hands settle on the sides of my ass while I bend to figure out the damn heat settings. “You came here with dinner.”
“I did.” That should do.
“Then why aren’t we eating?”
I straighten in his hold, wedged between Boe and the only excuse I could think of to get myself over here witho
ut giving it all away. “Because—” I unclasp the top button of my coat. “—I’m not hungry yet.”
His chin drops, attention fixed to my hands as I undo the last two buttons. The heavy fabric falls to the side revealing my true motive.
“Fuck, Edith.”
Pure silk and lace. This blood red set cost me a packet. I bought it three years ago for a guy who I thought may have appreciated it, yet the relationship ended the week after my Victoria’s Secret purchase was relegated to the top shelf of my wardrobe.
Although Boe doesn’t need to know that. As far as he’s aware, I bought it just for him.
Maybe I did?
“You need to work up an appetite first, baby?”
I nod, letting the coat drop from my shoulders. It pools around my heeled feet, leaving me on full display. He fingers the ruby pendant that hangs at the top of my cleavage, his fingers dancing up my throat towards the matching earrings.
“I damn well said it, didn’t I? I knew there was a passionate creature underneath all those sensible suits and skirts.”
My palms trace a path over his pecs toward his shoulders. I squeeze his traps, massaging the firm muscles before resting my hands there. “Very intuitive of you, wasn’t it?”
He expels a loaded breath and then knocks my hands away in the process of stripping his T-shirt over his head. I lean back, hands braced on the counter, and watch as he sheds the cotton and throws it to the side.
Mama’s hungry now.
“You said you couldn’t blur the lines, Edith.” Hands to my hips, he hoists me onto the counter. “Does this mean I need a new therapist?”
I wrap my legs around him, pressing my throbbing core against his hard stomach. “Can you keep a secret?” He grins. “Because I can.”
“That’s quite the risk,” he mutters. “For both of us.”
“It is.” I could lose my license. He could go to jail.
“What other surprises do you have, huh?” Boe leans forward, hands atop mine on the counter, and kisses my neck. “Tell me about you, Doctor. What makes you who you are?”
His warm touch explores my bare back, his kisses a brand against my flesh as he works his way up my throat to my jaw. I’m rendered speechless, barely able to make sense of what the hell I want to do next, let alone coherent enough to hold a conversation.
