Forbidden: a Contemporary Romance Anthology

by J. L. Beck

  Instead, he was ordered to see some head doctor about his feelings. What did this guy know about deployment? Had he ever gone through it? Probably not. Most likely the guy had read a few books, took a few tests, and declared himself an expert. He couldn’t think of anything that was more of a waste of time.

  Brock Turner sat outside of the nondescript building and stared straight ahead, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the worn steering wheel of his beat up Jeep. Maybe he could find an excuse to get out of this stupid appointment. Surely there were any number of important tasks that needed done, like cleaning his gear. Or watching paint dry.

  A steady beeping pulled him from his thoughts and he glanced down at his phone. How kind of it to alert him to his impending post-deployment evaluation. Despite this being a mandatory requirement, Brock was still tempted to skip it; however, he knew he’d never hear the end of it from his commanding officer. Better to go, bullshit his way through it, and get it over with as quickly as possible. Since it was almost 5pm on a Friday, hopefully this Doctor Davidson would be just as eager to sign off and go home.

  Unable to justify stalling any longer, he hopped out of his Jeep and walked up the cracked concrete path. Someone had taken the time to attempt to make the grounds look appealing, opting to plant hydrangeas, the splash of color providing a sharp contrast to the boring beige of the office building. With a sigh, he rubbed his hand over his freshly cropped hair, he’d been picking little black pieces of it off his uniform all day, and reached for the front door handle. Although Dr. Davidson’s office was on the fourth floor, he opted for the stairs rather than the elevator. He figured it would allow him to postpone things a little longer and maybe help him work off some of the nervous energy flowing through him at the moment.

  All too soon he found himself outside of a frosted glass door with simple lettering that read “Dr. V. Davidson.” Taking a deep breath, he braced himself then knocked once. Surprise flooded him at the response he received. He had been expecting to hear a masculine voice, not the soft feminine one that called out for him to enter. Maybe it was the guy’s secretary.

  Pushing the door open, Brock stepped through the doorway and froze. He had assumed Dr. Davidson was some middle aged man with graying hair and a gruff exterior. He had been dead wrong. Seated before him behind a large oak desk sat a pretty woman in her early thirties with green eyes and brunette hair pulled back from her face in a long braid. She rose and extended her hand to him.

  “Hi, you must be Brock. I’m Dr. Tori Davidson.”

  Still reeling, he shook himself and grasped her hand, her palm soft against his calluses. “Uh, hi. Nice to meet you, Dr. Davidson.”

  “You can call me Tori. Please, have a seat.” She gestured to one of two comfortable looking leather chairs in front of her desk. “Before we get started, I’d like to say that I realize you most likely don’t want to be here and I can’t blame you. I have not personally been deployed, but I grew up an Army brat and both my father and brothers have been deployed. I’ve seen the effects it can have on a person, so I do understand better than many therapists. As unpleasant as this may seem, it’s important. Far too many of our soldiers come back from deployment with wounds that may not be visible to the naked eye and we want to make sure we don’t let anyone fall through the cracks. The more you cooperate, the faster we can get through this.”

  Brock felt his lips twitch. “I take it you’ve dealt with your fair share of reluctant soldiers.”

  A soft smile crossed her face, enhancing her beauty. “You could say that. Shall we get started? I’m sure there are a million places you’d rather be right now.”

  As he settled into the worn leather, he returned her response. “You could say that. How does this work? Do you ask me what I think of my mother and analyze my dreams or something?”

  “If that’s what you want to talk about.”

  Unsure if he was more surprised or amused, he leaned forward and braced his elbows on his legs. “Seriously?”

  Tori laughed, and the sound sent ripples through his body. “Not unless you really want to talk about your mother. I’m more interested in hearing about your experiences overseas and how they’re affecting your daily life.”

  His mind flashed with an image of bloody sand. Careful not to betray any hint of his thoughts, he sat back again and began to build every wall possible.

  Tori eyed Brock Turner from across a low worn coffee table. Nothing stylish, simple military issue furniture. This was going to be like plucking teeth from a seagull. She’d had her share of soldiers who weren’t the talkative type, but he seemed even worse than most. Which meant she was about to spend an hour in silence playing a game of mental ping pong.

  “Anything you want to share?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and refused to meet her eyes. Years of practice kept the long sigh from escaping her lips.

  The seconds ticked by, slowly and with pronounced exaggeration as the wall clocks ticking grew louder with each silent minute.

  She threw out another bone. “We don’t have to talk about your feelings. We could talk about sports, weather... anything you want.”

  He gave her a nice-trick-lady stare and said nothing.

  Damn. Sometimes that dragged a few monotone syllables from even her most reticent clients. Brock Turner was a challenge... and she hated those.

  The urge to sigh rose again, but she stifled it and glanced down at the moving screen of her iPad. Maybe she could get a book on there and read... then she wouldn’t have to waste an entire hour.

  She watched him shift and shuffle across from her on the chair. “You can take off your ACU top if you want.”

  He met her eyes for a heartbeat and then pulled apart the hook and loops, unzipped the top, and stripped it away. If they were going to sit in the warm room, they could at least be comfortable.

  Once he settled back in she tried again. “Do you have a girlfriend, Sergeant Turner?”

  His brow crinkled up like smudged wet nail polish.

  “Are you applying, Doc?”

  A blush tracked up her neck and made her ears burn. “Of course not, just making conversation.”

  He grunted. Such a masculine sound. Tori didn’t like the butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence in her belly. She shouldn’t be appreciating that sound—not from a client. Not from him.

  She checked her watch. Twenty minutes of nothing was a long time. She stood, arranged her skirt, and went behind her desk to gather some paperwork.

  “Are we done?” He asked, gruffly.

  Tori looked up at him and then took a seat. “No, I’m simply doing some work since you won’t allow me to do my job.”

  “Your unnecessary job.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  He stood and skirted the chairs to stand in front of her desk. “Name one person you’ve helped with this head-shrinking nonsense.”

  Now he was just insulting her for no reason. She pushed herself up meeting his goading stare with a glare of her own.

  Without a word she turned to the filing cabinet behind her desk and gestured at the long line of folders. “Every single one one of these men or women was considering suicide when they walked in my door. I helped them. They are your battle buddies, your friends. One of them may have saved your life in that sandbox. Maybe you should be grateful for that.”

  Her tone was harsh. She could hear it hard and unyielding, her patience at its breaking point. When he didn’t respond she pointed to his ACU top. “We are done for the day. I expect to see you back here tomorrow, and every day until you are cleared to resume active duty.”

  A tick started in his jaw, tightening it like a crank wheel. He pushed out a gruff, “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She watched him fix his uniform and leave her office. It wasn’t until she plopped back in her chair that she let herself breathe normally again.

  Why was it all the stubborn bastards she found attractive?

  What an utter waste of time
. Not only was Tori nothing like what he had expected from a therapist, she seemed barely competent to do her job. What was the point of going to these dumbass appointments if she was going to ask him inane questions about whether he had a girlfriend? Of course he didn’t have a one; why would he? He had seen how rarely relationships worked out during deployments. Women were more trouble than they were worth.

  As he sat in his car, basking in the cold air blasting from the vents, he flinched at the sharp sound of a door slamming nearby. Brock forced himself to ignore the images threatening to encroach on his thoughts. He was stateside, he reminded himself, not in the damn desert. There were no enemies waiting to ambush him here, just the typical every day assholes.

  Angry now, he put his seatbelt on and pulled out of the parking lot, heading to an old, familiar location. He didn’t need someone trying to get him to talk about his feelings. What he needed was a few beers with some friends. Knowing his buddies, he wouldn’t be drinking alone for long.

  Brock pulled up to his favorite bar, a little hole-in-the-wall called O’Malley’s, and pulled out his cell phone to text his best friend. Hopefully Jason was up for some mindless conversation. He had barely started typing when a knock on his window startled him. On high alert, he reached for his weapon, only to realize he didn’t have it on him. He steeled himself for a fight and turned to face his attacker.

  Cursing, Brock scrubbed a hand over his face as recognition dawned. He glared at his best friend as he pushed the car door open. “Son of a bitch, Jace. Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing here?”

  Jason Riggs shrugged and leaned against Brock’s Toyota Corolla, his posture relaxed, but his eyes scanning for possible threats. “I knew you had your post-deployment appointment and figured you’d need a beer or three. No one likes doing these damn appointments. Who’d you see? Edwards or Tanner?”

  Brock grunted and began walking toward the entrance. “Neither. Some chick named Davidson.”

  His friend flashed a wide, devilish grin. “Seriously? You got Davidson? Lucky bastard. Is she as hot as they say?”

  “Not sure what they say. I thought II was meeting with some middle-aged bald guy.” They grabbed a couple of stools at the bar and Brock thought back to his meeting with Tori. He wondered how her hair would look freed from that braid and tossed around her face.

  Jason rolled his eyes and took a long pull from his bottle of beer. “You must be living under a rock then. I heard she’s got legs for miles, a hell of a nice ass, and perfect tits.”

  Irrational annoyance filled Brock, and he found himself struggling against the urge to punch his friend. “Sure, I guess she’s hot. Doesn’t change the fact she’s trying to get inside my head. All that bullshit talk about feelings? What good does that do us? She has no idea what it’s like.”

  Sobering, his friend grimaced. “Yeah, none of us are happy about the appointments. Be glad you didn’t get Edwards. He’s a real asshole, not to mention ugly as sin.”

  Sipping his own beer, Brock had to admit he’d lucked out in getting the therapist that was at least easy on the eyes. Like Jason had said, her legs went on for miles and she sure as hell had a body that wouldn’t quit. The professional clothes and hairstyle only added to her allure somehow. Feeling his dick grow uncomfortably tight, he shifted on the hard stool and scowled. Damn, it had been far too long since he’d gotten laid if he was letting her get under his skin.

  “You’re thinking about Dr. Hottie, aren’t you?” Jason asked, amusement clear in his voice.

  Brock flipped him off without looking his way. “Shut up.”

  “How often do you have to see her? Mine’s got me going every few days.”

  “Every fucking day, she said. Can you believe that?”

  Jason winced. “Why don’t you just tell her what she wants to hear? That’s what I’m doing with Edwards to get him off my back.”

  “I should.” Yet, something told Brock she would see straight through that ploy. Besides, as annoying as the appointments were, he wasn’t going to object to getting a little more face time with the pretty therapist. It sure beat staring at the same tired faces every day when he’d been in the sandbox. And even better that it got him out of early morning formation.

  Tori popped the cork on her white wine with a little more enthusiasm than usual. She even eyed the glass she sat on the countertop but tipped the bottle to her mouth instead. Every day was turning into the same old routine. Hard-headed men who assume she can’t do her job while staring at her legs or her boobs or her ass. She could wear a paper sack to work and they would still feign machismo while imagining god knows what involving parts of her anatomy she didn’t even consider on a regular basis. It was to the point she’d begun changing her wardrobe for them. Skirts were out, nude pantyhose were gone, tank tops were definitely a no go. Hell, she lived in fucking sweater sets these days. Anything to cover as much as possible. But she still got propositioned on a weekly basis. She’d give Brock Turner a day before he asked her back to his place. Even if a relationship with a client wasn’t a definite misconduct violation, they never asked her on a date, it was always some sort of code for a hook up.

  She threw herself onto the love seat and curled her arm around the bottle. It was getting easier and easier to pop a cork and drink her stress away. That worried her more than the indifference that seemed to be building when it came to the men she saw in her office on a daily basis.

  When she joined her practice with military medicine, she imagined herself helping these men. Helping men like her father. Helping men like her brother. The memories rushed to her mind, but she fended them off with a quick guzzle of wine.

  She kicked off a high heel and then the other before slinging her feet over the opposite arm of the love seat. Now it seemed she was barely keeping herself together let alone helping them.

  Recalling her last client of the day, Brock Turner. His eyes told her he’s seen things. Bad thing. Things he should be talking about. It pained her to watch him keep it locked inside his mind like a trap. And more times than not the ones she could pick out, those carrying that burden, were the ones who eventually ended up cracking under the pressure. She refused to attend yet another funeral because of some dumb man’s stubborn pride.

  The bottle was half empty now, she sat it on the glass coffee table with a clink. Her laptop sat beside it. Without a second thought she opened her screen and called up a text doc. It took seconds to type a resignation letter and a few more to print it out on official stationery.

  Staring down at the paper she thought she might feel something. A sense of loss or hope or dread even. But nothing. It was a white piece of paper that would end a chapter of a her life. A failed chapter at that. She folded it in thirds and sat it on top of her now closed computer. The wine called her back to it. She curled back up on the couch and let herself float in the abyss.

  Brock sat in his car debating the merits of blowing off the appointment while the minutes ticked by on the clock. Though tempted, he knew it would be idiotic. This woman could deem him unfit to return to active duty. Perhaps Jason had a point; he should just tell her what she wanted to hear to get her off his back. Resigned, he turned off the ignition and headed into the building. At least she was easy on the eyes.

  He walked to her office and knocked twice, frowning when he received no response. What the hell? Did he have the appointment time wrong? As he reached into his pocket for his phone to check his calendar, the door opened to reveal a harried looking Dr. Tori Davidson. Her hair was messier today, the strands slipping free from the confines of the bun to frame her face in a way that added to her sexiness. An image of her tangled in bed sheets flashed across his brain.

  Tori cleared her throat. “Are you planning on spending the hour standing there or do you want to come in and get started? I can’t clear you for duty if you don’t even make an effort to pretend to care.”

  “Sorry, Ma’am.” Something was different with her; today she exuded
an air that told him she had zero fucks to give. He wondered what had changed. Regardless, her brusque tone and attitude appealed to him more than expected.

  She stepped back to allow him into the office and as he passed, he caught hints of her perfume. The soft floral scent fit her and he felt himself start to harden. Irritated with himself, he took his seat and forced his thoughts away from the off-limits therapist. He seriously needed to get a grip.

  “Care to tell me what you’re thinking?” Tori sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, the motion pulling her shirt tight against her breasts. Yesterday, she had worn a rather plain sweater that did little for her figure. Today, however, she wore a tailored blouse that was far more flattering. As if noticing his appraisal, her gaze hardened, and she seemed to dare him to comment.

  Brock decided to have a little fun. “I’m wondering what exactly you want me to say, Doc.”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, what do you want me to say? What do you want to hear so you’ll sign off?”

  Green eyes flashed with irritation. “I want you to give a damn. I want you to take this seriously. Is that so hard for you to understand? Otherwise, you’re wasting my time and yours.”

  He leaned forward and braced his elbows against his legs, using the posture to hide how much he was beginning to enjoy baiting her. “Fine. War is hell, deployment was no cake walk, and I’m glad to be home. What more do you need to know?”

  “That’s really all you have to say?”

  “Tell me how you can understand what it’s like over there. Give me a reason to say more. You do that and then maybe I’ll open up.”

  Why did she even bother coming to work today? As if she expected anything different. Tori squeezed the bridge of her nose and took a few inhales and exhales to try to tamp down the headache forming.

  She almost gave him some smart ass response but something in his eyes spoke of authenticity. Maybe he really did want to open up but needed to know that he might be heard. Or maybe she drank too much wine last night and now she was looking for qualities in her patients her rational mind knew weren’t there.