Rock My Body

by Michelle A. Valentine

  Still unable to look at him, I shake my head, feeling my hair slide across his face. “No.”

  “Did you say something, Dr. Mead?” Josie asks from across the table, and I’m instantly mortified that I said anything out loud.

  My cheeks heat, and I know without a doubt they’re rosy red. “No, Josie, I was just thinking out loud.”

  She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me. “Okay...”

  For a moment, I worry that I’ll have to explain myself further, but thankfully Randall sits next to her and Josie forgets me almost immediately.

  I snap my gaze to Tyke and narrow my eyes, the urge to let him know that he’s not going to possess any power over me whatsoever overwhelming. No amount of smooth talking will make me change the rules I’ve set for myself. I’m going to remain celibate, no matter how much it freaking kills me.

  “No more of that will be tolerated, Mr. Douglas,” I tell him sternly, which only makes his smile widen.

  Dear God. Why does he have to have such a sexy mouth? This isn’t fair. How am I expected to live so close to this man if he continues to pursue me in such a forward manner?

  Tyke rests his arm on the table and grins crookedly. “We’ll see.”

  I open my mouth to scold him, but before I have the opportunity, Wayne’s voice startles me. “Good evening, everyone.”

  I turn toward the door just in time to see my boss strut into the room in yet another fabulously pressed and extremely expensive-looking suit. It’s almost as if everyone answers in unison because a chorus of good evenings rings around the room.

  Wayne takes his seat next to mine. “Dr. Mead, I trust you’ve met our newest resident?”

  I place the napkin on my lap just as Sue pushes her cart full of salad into the room. “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure twice now.”

  Tyke chokes on his water next to me, but I refuse to acknowledge his response to my choice of words. When I said pleasure, in no way did it have any sexual connotations.

  Wayne, on the other hand, begins to eat his salad, paying no mind at all to the smartass next to me. “Good. I would like you to head up his first session after dinner. Would that be all right with you, Mr. Douglas?”

  Tyke’s eyes flick to me, and then he gives me a dazzling white smile. “I’d love a little one-on-one time with her.”

  Oh, God. Heaven help me. This man is going to be trouble.

  The kind I have a very hard time resisting.

  “Man in the Box” – Alice in Chains

  Dr. Mead takes the seat across from me and crosses her smooth legs, which immediately catches my attention. My gaze travels from the tip of her black stiletto all the way up her toned, tanned calf, stopping when I get to the hem of her short skirt, stretched tightly across her thighs. All I can think of is getting down on my knees in front of her and tracing the length of those sexy legs with my hands to discover what material her panties are made of. I bet they’re lace. An image of a red lace thong pressing against her pussy pops into my mind and my dick twitches.

  Fuck.

  I move in my seat and fight the urge to adjust my semi-hard cock right in front of her. I have to stop thinking of her like this. This woman is a fucking professional. She’s not going to fuck me on a whim, no matter how much I turn on the charm. Besides, she’s my doctor for fuck’s sake, and my way back into the guys’ good graces.

  “Mr. Douglas, you may call me Frannie. I find that the less formality, the more beneficial it is in helping us connect on a more personal level, since the things we discuss in my office are very sensitive in nature. I want you to feel comfortable with me and allow yourself to open up. It’s the only way to dig deep into the true root of the issues you’re here to work out.” Frannie takes the reading glasses that are clinging to the neckline of her shirt and carefully unfolds them, before slipping them onto the bridge of her nose. “Would you like to start by telling me a little about yourself?”

  I furrow my brow. I hate talking about myself. It always feels so lame. Put me in an interview where we talk music and I can spout that shit all day long, but getting personal is an entirely different beast.

  “I’d rather talk about the possibility of me and you happening.”

  She sighs. “Mr. Douglas—”

  I hold my hand up. “Call me Tyke, and never say never. I’d hate for you to lie to yourself.”

  “I’m sure you’re used to women throwing themselves at your feet, Tyke, but that’s not going to happen. I’m here because I am your therapist, not because we are going to develop a sexual relationship. The only issues we need to discuss are about why you are here. There will be nothing else discussed in this room.”

  I scrub my hand down my face. It’s obvious I had the vibe I felt between us all wrong.

  “I’m not sure where you want me to start or what you want me to say,” I answer honestly. “I’ve never been in therapy before.”

  Frannie makes a note on the tablet in front of her before her gaze returns to me. “It’s not what I want you to say. You have to begin opening up to me in order for treatment to work. The best way for that to happen is to start small. For instance, tell me about your family, and where you grew up.”

  I rub my clammy hands against my jeans. That’s easy enough. “I grew up in a small town here in Kentucky. My parents are still married, but I don’t see them often, and I have a twin brother named Trip.”

  She nods. “Trip is also in Black Falcon with you, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you two always been close?”

  My mind wanders back to when we were kids. Every event I picture, I see Trip standing right next to me. “Yes. Since birth we’ve been inseparable.”

  Her pretty pink lips twist. “Until now.”

  I pick at the leather cuff on my wrist and shrug. “That’s not what this is all about.”

  Frannie pulls the black-framed glasses away from her face, revealing a clear shot of the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. “I don’t mean to sound as if I have already pinpointed anything. I just want to get to know you—to understand what you’re feeling.”

  I stare down at the thick leather cuff again. “Even I have a hard time understanding that sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?” The softness in her voice wraps around me, making me almost believe she actually cares.

  “I...it’s just, I’ve never been great at telling people what’s really on my mind. Talking feelings has always been difficult for me.”

  She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them in the opposite direction. “But aren’t you the predominant songwriter for your band?”

  I quirk an eyebrow, and my mouth pulls up into a half smile. “You’ve been researching me?”

  A simple shrug and the slight blush staining her cheeks tells me she’s definitely looked me up. “I wanted to be prepared. Songs usually convey the emotion its writer is feeling at the time. Knowing facts like you’ve written most of the songs tells me that you’ve been able to express yourself through music in the past.”

  I pull my lips into a tight line as I consider what she’s saying. I guess I’ve never really thought about it, but she’s right. Thinking back on most of the songs I wrote completely alone, the lyrics have always evolved from something that was going on in my life. Maybe she’s on to something, but it still doesn’t mean I can completely open myself up to a stranger when I’m not even sure what the fuck is going on with me.

  I sigh. “Maybe that’s true, but that sure doesn’t help right now. What’s all this have to do with me talking to you, anyhow?”

  She levels her gaze on me. “Why not use music to express your emotion?”

  I laugh. “You mean like sing to you? No way. That’s ridiculous.”

  She raises her brow. “Is it?”

  “Yes,” I tell her simply.

  Frannie stands and walks over to her desk and grabs a black notebook from a drawer. She comes back and stands before me. “Here.”

  I take th
e notebook from her outstretched hand. “What exactly do you want me to do with this?”

  She remains standing in front of me. “Since you seem to find it difficult to express emotion through traditional channels of communication, let’s try something different. If a song comes to mind that touches you for any particular reason, write it down, and we’ll discuss it.”

  I twist my lips, attempting to hide my smirk as I rise from my seat. “I’d much rather you touch me.”

  “Tyke—”

  I raise my hands in surrender. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, and that it won’t happen again, but I’m afraid lying to my therapist is bad karma.”

  Frannie shakes her head. “Please try and write your feelings in the notebook. It’ll give us something to talk about when I see you again in five days or so.”

  I tilt my head. “Five days? I thought we’d be seeing each other on a daily basis.”

  A small frown crosses her beautiful face. “The last thing you’ll feel like doing for the next three days is talking to me about your feelings. Detoxing will not be pleasant, and you won’t be able to focus on anything else.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes again. Why does everyone and their fucking brother keep saying that? “Don’t worry, Frannie. I’m no crackhead. I’ll be the same as always for the next few days.”

  I fully expect her to answer me, but she doesn’t say another word, just simply sighs again, and leads me toward the door. “I’ll see you once you’re able, Tyke.”

  When I leave her office, I catch myself shaking my head. Everyone always fucking doubts me. I hate that shit. I’m about to show everyone that I’m the one in control of my life and body, not some substance.

  I toss and turn in the small twin bed in my room all night; the craving that usually creeps in late at night when I have too much idle time to stress over the ultimate demise of the band coming at me in full force. Thanks to Timothy and Dr. Shepherd flushing all my benzodiazepines and oxycodones, along with everything else I brought, down the toilet right in front of me, I have zero chance of scratching that stupid itch for a high. But still, it’s not anything I can’t handle. I’m still in control.

  A loud knock on my door jerks me awake, and I squint at the morning sun pouring through my window. “Mr. Douglas, breakfast in ten minutes.”

  I groan at Timothy’s voice, wanting no part of getting up yet. “I slept like shit, and I’m not hungry.”

  “There’s no sleeping in, either.” I toss my pillow across my face and will Timothy to just go away. “I’ll be back in ten minutes to assist you if you aren’t downstairs.”

  “Jesus. This is a fucking concentration camp,” I mumble to myself before sighing and tugging the pillow away from my face.

  The dark hardwood is cool against my bare feet as I make my way over to my duffel bag and pull out some clean clothes. I eye the notebook Frannie gave me, lying on the dresser as I tug my black T-shirt over my head.

  Think of songs that express how I feel, huh?

  I grab the pen on top of the notebook and grip the cap between my teeth, pulling the pen free. I stare at the blank page that’s just begging for some words to be scratched on it. I glance around the small room, suddenly feeling very trapped in this place. Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box” pops into my head, and I begin to hum the iconic intro and sing the words to the song, wondering if the front man of that band, Layne Staley, felt trapped in his own prison when he was writing that song.

  I smile as I close the notebook, not elaborating on the lyrics of the song, simply writing the title and the band down. I’m sure that’s not exactly what Frannie had in mind when she asked me to document my feelings through the use of songs, but hey, at least I’m fucking participating in her little assignment.

  I open the door to my room just in time to see Timothy, arms poised, ready to knock on my door once again to no doubt help me find my way to breakfast like he threatened moments ago.

  His eyebrows shoot up in surprise the moment I step past him and clap him on the back. “Heading there now, big guy, and as you can tell, I’m fit as a fucking fiddle—told you guys that I didn’t have an addiction problem.”

  He sighs as he follows behind me. “Being hooked on benzodiazepines is no less threatening than any other addiction, Mr. Douglas. Anti-anxiety medications are powerful medications. It can take twenty-four hours for the first effects of withdrawal to appear. I’m guessing you dosed up before coming to us yesterday, so you’ll be jonesin’ for your next fix soon. But we’ll be here to help you through it.”

  I open my mouth to protest again, but quickly close it because I’ve said it enough times to know now that, no matter what I say, they’re going to believe what they want—that I’m an addict. It’s why I’m here. Everyone working here, including Frannie, has lost sight of the fact that drugs can be used purely recreationally.

  The moment my boots hit the first floor, my mouth begins to water and it’s not because of the delicious aroma of buttermilk pancakes wafting through the air. Frannie stands in the dining room, talking to a short balding man. She’s laughing again, and her face bears the same carefree expression she wore the very first time I spotted her—the one that drew me to her and made me crave the time in my life when I was that happy. She’s truly an exquisite creature; one I shouldn’t be thinking about the way I am. Frannie is off-limits. That’s been made clear to me by not only her, but the staff as well. That still doesn’t deter me. If anything, it only increases her allure.

  She turns to me, smile still on her face, and says, “Good morning, Tyke. You look well this morning.”

  I grin, knowing she, along with the rest of the crew here, fully expected me to be brought to my knees this morning, but I’m glad to prove them all wrong.

  “Told you I’d be fine today.”

  She tilts her head and examines my face like she’s ready to argue with me, just like Timothy did only moments ago, but she doesn’t. “Well, maybe I will see you today then.”

  “Looks like it.”

  I wink at her as I pass by her and head into breakfast.

  “Red” – Taylor Swift

  The green and orange sweater that Arnold, my nine thirty session, is wearing completely distracts me. First of all, it’s September, and while the constant beating heat of the summer has begun to drift into the crisp feeling of fall at night, it’s still too damn hot for a sweater.

  I study Arnold’s features as he prattles on about never being liked in high school. It’s what he believes has led to his addiction issues. His short stature, coupled with his obvious beer gut and balding hairline, makes it hard for me to picture him as ever being young enough to be a teenager.

  “The turning point is when I asked Lesley Peacock to the Junior Prom. When she turned me down, I couldn’t get over it,” Arnold explains as he continues to shrug his shoulders over and over as if he, himself, isn’t exactly sure about the story he’s telling me. “I think she broke my spirit, and I turned to drinking to cope.”

  I’m not buying that. I know it’s not professional, but I want to roll my eyes. “Arnold,” I interrupt. “Are you saying that that one moment was impossible to get over? That one simple rejection sent your life onto the path of self-destruction? There’s nothing a little deeper that haunts your mind every day? Something you turn to alcohol to forget?”

  Arnold’s lips pull into a tight line as his eyes drift up toward the ceiling. “Nothing that I can think of, Frannie.”

  I glance down at my cell on my desk, noticing a new text message. “Our session time has come to a close. What I would like for you to think about is if there’s something else that bothers you, other than a girl turning you down for a date. Something else you try to escape.”

  He nods and stands. “See you tomorrow.”

  The moment he leaves the room, I swipe my finger across the screen of my phone. My eyebrows shoot up when I see that the text is from my mother, asking for me to call her. Something must be wrong because I rar
ely hear from her. She’s either too busy donating her time to one of her multiple charities, or caught up in planning some over-the-top affair at the country club she and my father are members of.

  I press the green phone symbol and wait as two rings pass before Mother answers. “Frannie, darling, thank you for returning my call so quickly. What are you doing this weekend?”

  My lips pull into a tight line. Has she forgotten so quickly that I’ve recently moved? “I’m in Kentucky.”

  She sighs heavily into the phone. “What are you doing in that god-awful state?”

  It’s with that one sentence she confirms that, once again, she has paid no attention to what’s going on in my life. “I took a job here, remember?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right.” I can tell by her exasperated tone that she still doesn’t understand why I felt the need to go into a career field that doesn’t exactly meet her standards. “Your weekends are still free though, yes?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Perfect!” she exclaims, completely cutting me off. “I need you to housesit this weekend. Your father is flying to London on business, and I’ve decided to go with him. You know how I love that city, and I simply can’t resist going even if it’s only for a couple days.”

  I furrow my brow. “That sounds great, but I don’t understand why you’re calling me.”

  “Penelope already requested the weekend off, and there’s just no one else I trust to take care of Spencer and Ruby.”

  I roll my eyes as I think about my mother’s obsession with her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel dogs. She treats those dogs better than she ever treated Annie and me. My sister would always laugh when I would complain that those stupid animals weren’t my siblings like Mother would refer to them as. Even if they are undeniably cute. “Give mother a break, Frannie,” Annie would say. “They’ve actually softened her up.” Annie would only laugh harder when I would mumble that her twin daughters should’ve been the ones to unfreeze that icy heart of hers.