Anything For Them

by Lola StVil

  “You shrinks kill me. You think you can fix me by making me talk about how I felt when my mommy took my blanket away?” She scribbles something down on the notepad beside her and then turns her attention back to me.

  “Do you think you’re broken?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘You think you can fix me by making me talk about how I felt when my mommy took my blanket away?’ My question is, do you think you’re broken?”

  I gaze at her. “Trust me, everything in me works...very well.”

  She rolls her eyes but maintains a pleasant smile. “According to your file, you have five brothers, and they are all in law enforcement. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “It must feel good to have family that can relate to your struggles.”

  “What struggles?”

  “Those faced by agents the world over. It’s not an easy job.”

  “Oh, so that’s the plan to get in my head? Let me save you some time, Doc. There’s nothing wrong with me. That raid was a good one, and we did what we did for the right reasons. I don’t regret shit.”

  “You don’t regret losing some of your teammates?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I see you like to play with people’s minds. How about I ask you some questions? See how you like it.”

  “These sessions are about you, not me. It’s best we stay focused.”

  “Oh no, Doc, you don’t get to worm your way out of this. You want to get inside my head, well I want to get inside you too—I mean…in your head,” I reply with a sly smile.

  “Agent Hunter, these sophomoric antics won’t work with me. And what’s more, they will not help you in the long run.”

  I smile to myself and shake my head. She asks what I find so amusing.

  “You sit there and act like you know what it’s like to be an agent, but you have no idea. We are the ones who have to go out and risk our asses while you sit there in your fancy chair and judge.”

  “I’m not judging. I get that you, and your team, risk your lives.”

  I laugh. “Doc, what do you know about risk? You strike me as a woman who has never taken a risk in her life. In fact, I bet you’re a strictly missionary kind of woman,” I accuse. I wait to see if that gets her. There’s just something about her tough, professional demeanor that I want to crack, if only for a few seconds.

  However, my rude comment doesn’t get to her. Instead, she writes something else down. I get up, shake my head, and take a step towards her. She stands up, uncertain as to what I’m about to do. She looks up at me as I loom above her.

  “I bet I’m right, huh, Doc? I bet you don’t even wrinkle the sheets, do you?”

  “When you are ready to have a real session, please contact my office. Until then, good-bye, Agent Hunter.”

  “Yeah, whatever, Doc. See you around.”

  ***

  As soon as Jackson is gone from my office, I grab my water bottle and down the whole thing. My face is flushed, and my heart is pounding inside my chest. Everything about Jackson Hunter says danger. It’s not the kind of danger that a woman would run from; it’s worse—the kind of danger that women flock to in hopes of getting a taste. Jackson is over six feet tall, with wild, dark eyes that seem to look inside my very soul. He’s an endless stretch of muscle and manliness. And yet for all his alpha demeanor and swagger, I sense sadness behind his eyes.

  I wish he’d given our session a real shot. I wish he’d put away all his preconceived notions about therapy and given this a real chance. Maybe he’ll come around and let me help him. Or maybe he doesn’t need my help because he has some amazing woman in his life he can talk to and she has taken care of all his needs.

  Why does that thought sting a little?

  I start laughing at myself. Apparently, all it takes to get me to forget my professionalism is a hard body and a piercing set of eyes.

  Well, Mia, now that you are done ogling your reluctant client, maybe you can get back to work.

  I call my assistant, Argo, and ask if my next client has arrived. Argo does exactly what I thought he was going to do—enters my office with a big smirk on his face.

  “Oh, honey, please tell me he’s coming back. I need more of that man in my life,” Argo says. Argo doesn’t just work for me; he’s also my best friend. I was the first girl he came out to back when we were in high school.

  Argo is black and pencil thin, with warm brown eyes and cheekbones most women would kill to have. He’s been working his ass off, and now he is only a few weeks away from his nursing school graduation. I couldn’t be more proud of him.

  He’s the reason I haven’t gotten six cats and a rocking chair yet. He thinks he can talk me out of becoming a full-fledged spinster. “Argo, is my next client out there?” I ask.

  He closes the door behind him and practically dances over to me. “Mimi, girl, you know I know how to be a professional. Okay? No one is out there. Your next appointment doesn’t come for another twenty minutes. We got time. So, now I need you to spill all the tea. Start talking.”

  “Argo, you know that I can’t tell you anything about my sessions,” I remind him.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You took an oath, blah, blah, blah. But those rules don’t count because this is a special case. Do you know who just left your office?”

  “Yeah, Jackson Hunter.”

  “Yes, as in one of the five Hunter brothers. Normally, white men don’t do it for me, but honey, every single member of that family could get it,” he says as he puckers his lips. Argo knows everything that goes on in the FBI building across the street. Well, everything that isn’t top secret. He hangs out with the other administrative staff and lunchtime is a gossip fest.

  “I’ve heard a few things about his family, but I wasn’t really paying attention,” I admit as I take out the file for my next client.

  “Well, pay attention, honey. I’ll run it down for you. The Hunter brothers are like my grandmother’s hot chocolate: rich, hot, and tasty. Each one of them owns a townhouse left to them by their grandfather. And they have a hard-on for charity and shit. But that’s just the bio. What you need to know is that only one of them is still single, and you just let him walk out of here.”

  “What did you want me to do, tackle him?” I laugh.

  “To start with! Shit. Desperate times,” he mumbles.

  “I am not desperate,” I counter. Argo tilts his head to the side and arches his eyebrows in disbelief.

  “Mimi, let me see your phone,” he says as he searches the office for my cell.

  “No, there’s nothing on there—”

  He spots my cell near the window and dives for it. I try to get there before him, but I fail. He gets to my phone and looks at my apps. “Girl, every app on here says ‘desperate.’”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “You are raising virtual cats!” he says, holding up the screen so that the animated kittens begin to purr.

  “Aaron is allergic to cat hair. And ‘Pet-Pev’ is fun for all ages.”

  “Girl,” he says, filled with judgment.

  “And I will have you know I don’t just have a few virtual cats; I now own the pet shop in ‘Pet-Pev’ village.”

  “Oh my God. You need help!” he says as he goes to delete my app.

  “Don’t you dare!” I plead.

  “It’s for your own good!” he says. I leap and knock the phone out of his hands; it goes flying. We both make a run for it, but I get there first.

  “Ha! I’m faster,” I declare like a kid.

  “This time, but I’m gonna delete that damn app and make sure you have a life.”

  “Aaron is my life. And so are you, when you’re not being a pain in my ass,” I tease.

  “You’re lucky I have to get ready for your next appointment. This is far from over, missy!” he says mischievously as he heads out into the waiting room. I’m smiling so hard, my face hurts. Argo is such a sweet soul; it’s hard not to feel goo
d around him. When Tom and I spilt up, Argo was there every step of the way. And when his grandmother passed away last year, we cried together and held onto each other. He’s family.

  The rest of the day is pretty uneventful, although I have to admit there were a few times when my mind drifted to thoughts of Jackson Hunter. I was thinking of ways to reach him as a client, but in all honesty, I had other thoughts—thoughts that had nothing to do with work.

  By the time my last session is over, I’m exhausted and more than ready to head home. It’s Friday, and that means pizza night. It’s Aaron’s favorite night of the week, not just because he loves pizza, but because I allow him to stay up all night like a big kid. The truth is, he never lasts more than half an hour past his original bedtime. But he likes thinking he’s a rebel and that he’s staying up as late as the grown-ups.

  I gather my things and call out to Argo in the waiting room, “You sure you won’t join us tonight? Aaron wants to try something yellow on his pizza. Or at least that’s what he said last week. I’m hoping he forgot because pineapple on pizza is just wrong.” Argo doesn’t reply. I walk out to the waiting room thinking he might have stepped away from his desk. But no, he’s standing right there. I hear the elevator door close behind him.

  “Was that a delivery guy?” I ask. Argo nods, all the while looking at something on his desk. I can’t tell what it is from where I’m standing.

  “Did they finally send my new business cards?”

  “No,” he replies in a whisper. When Argo turns towards me, worry and dread are etched in his face.

  “Argo, what is it?”

  He steps aside so I can see what the delivery guy just dropped off: a single black rose.

  Shit.

  He’s found me.

  The first thing I want to do is pack my stuff, grab my kid, and run to the other side of the world. Argo can see the alarm in my eyes, and he knows exactly what I am thinking.

  “Just tell me what you want me to pack and where we are headed next, honey, cuz you know I got you,” he vows.

  In my mind’s eye, I am already packed and ready to go, but that’s just it, go where? And how long can I keep running? It’s difficult to do, but I make myself pause for a few moments and think. Yes, running is the very first thought, but is it the right one? Aaron loves his school; it’s been a year, and he’s made friends. I am finally building a solid list of clients, and living here in New York City with Argo has been amazing. When I lived in Connecticut, he begged me to come to the city and said that I would love it. He was right. Why should I have to give that up?

  “Okay, let’s try and stay calm here, okay?” I reply as I make myself take deep breaths.

  “To hell with being calm. If Gorman has found you again, then we need to go. There is no way I’m letting anything happen to you or my godchild,” he says as he begins to pack up his desk.

  “Wait, okay? Let’s just wait for one moment. Maybe it’s just a joke. Maybe Tom is playing a trick on me.”

  “Since when was Tom organized enough to even order flowers? This is a guy who used to microwave eggs. He doesn’t plan anything. This isn’t him. Besides, you and I both know Tom would never scare you. He’s not a creep; he’s a man-child.”

  Argo is right. Tom doesn’t have one malicious bone in his carefree body. In fact, we would still be together right now had I agreed to act like a teenager forever. Tom is irresponsible and foolish. But he’s not cruel or mean-spirited.

  “That’s true; Tom would never do this. In fact, when Gorman first popped up and began to stalk me, Tom offered to help by looking after Aaron while I dealt with everything.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t accept his offer. Knowing Tom, he would have traded Aaron for a handful of magic beans,” Argo says, clearly trying to cheer me up.

  “Okay, let’s just think for a second. When Gorman started sending the black roses, it was usually followed by a phone call with him breathing on the other end. And we haven’t gotten a call, have we?” I ask, filled with hope. The moment the words come out of my mouth, the phone on Argo’s desk rings. We both look at each other. Fuck.

  Argo picks up and says, “Don’t let this perfect face fool you, bitch, I will cut you!” Seconds later, Argo’s eyes go wide, and he places his hand over his mouth.

  “Who is it? Is it him? Is it Gorman?” I ask, too terrified to keep my voice steady. Argo removes his hand from his mouth and speaks into the phone.

  “Hello, Reverend Worth…yes, we are still planning on helping out with the canned food drive next month. Yes, that’s right… Sure, no problem… Good night.” Argo hangs up the phone and shakes his head. “Well, I’m going to hell.”

  “I saw your profile pics on Tinder; you were always headed for hell,” I remind him.

  “Well, yeah, but shit, I didn’t want to go express!” We start laughing. It’s an unexpected release that both Argo and I needed.

  “So, what now?” he asks.

  “Well, we wait to see if Gorman calls. If he doesn’t then maybe this was some kind of mistake. Maybe it was delivered to the wrong place.”

  “Yeah, okay. Maybe,” he says. My face falls.

  “What?” he says, noting my reaction.

  “Can you at least sound like you believe it?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m black. That means I was raised to be suspicious and distrust every damn thing. That’s what keeps my people from saying dumb shit like ‘What was that in the woods; let’s go check it out!’”

  I smile and will myself to push the dread and fear away. I picture it getting smaller and smaller until it’s no more than a dot in my mind’s eye.

  “Girl, are you visualizing?” Argo asks.

  “Yes. I’m taking control of the situation instead of letting it take control of me.”

  “Okay, well, while you do that, I’m gonna get my pepper spray in case we need to throw down.”

  I shake my head and speak in a calm voice, “There was no follow-up call. This could be nothing.” Argo looks over at me; he reads the quiet plea in my eyes. He knows that I need this to be nothing. He knows the hell Gorman brought to my life. Argo pulls me in for a tight hug.

  “Don’t you worry; I got you. And there’s no way I’m gonna let anything happen to you.”

  When we pull apart, I manage to blink back the tears. I even manage a smile. “There was no follow-up call. Gorman is part of my past. Right?”

  “Right.”

  ***

  Aaron and I usually follow pizza night with a movie on the sofa. I want to cancel and just spend the night holding him as tightly as I can, making sure he’s safe. But Aaron would ask way too many questions. He’d wonder why he couldn’t see a movie like he normally does on Fridays. And besides, there really is no need to panic because I didn’t get a creepy call after the flower came. So, everything is okay. Why should I change our schedule?

  “Are we ready to go?” I ask my son.

  He looks down at the coffee table to make sure we are all set. In addition to the pizza, he has helped me put out popcorn, juice, and fruit. I know he won’t touch the fruit unless I make him. But still, I put it out. We get cozy under a thick dinosaur-themed comforter and get ready to watch the newest installment of Toy Story.

  I look over at him as he watches TV. The character on the screen, Woody, does something silly, and Aaron laughs with his whole body. There’s a spark in his eyes; there’s something magical about my kid. God knows sometimes he can really test my patience, but I couldn’t see my life without him. I know I can’t shield him from everything, and that one day, he’ll go out into the world and face hard times. But I just pray to God that he can still keep that spark in his eyes.

  “Mom! Stop it!” he says.

  “Stop what?” I ask, although I can pretty much guess what he’s going to say next.

  “Stop looking at me.”

  “Sorry, but you’re very handsome,” I reply.

  “I know, Mom, but watch the movie,” he says in a matter
-of-fact tone.

  “Okay, okay. One question first,” I reply as I put the Toy Story gang on pause.

  My son sighs dramatically and turns to face me. “Yes,” he says.

  “What do you know for sure?” I ask.

  “I. Am. Loved,” he says, tilting his head side to side with each word. That’s his way of telling me he knows and that I don’t need to remind him. I don’t care. I’ll remind him every day.

  “That’s right,” I reply as I lean over and kiss his forehead. That’s when I notice that the slightly faded “wash off” tattoo on top of his hand has been altered.

  “Did you add something to your stegosaurus tattoo?” I ask as I look closer.

  “Yeah, Argo helped me put sparkles on it.”

  “Why does a dinosaur need to sparkle?”

  “Argo says everything needs to sparkle.”

  Yeah, that sounds like Argo.

  ***

  “No!” I bolt upright in my bed as if someone zapped me with a live wire. My heartbeat is off the charts, and I’m bathed in cold sweat. I look around; for a moment, I am not sure where I am, and then it comes back to me—home. I’m home. It’s just a nightmare, the same one that I have been having for weeks. I rake my hands through my damp hair and hang my head.

  Why the hell won’t these dreams go away?

  The nightmare always starts the same way. My team gets ready to enter the warehouse, and they look for my signal. But somehow there are two versions of me in the nightmare. One version tells them it’s clear to enter, and the other version says to stay back. The cruel part is that no matter which version my team follows, half of them end up engulfed in a sea of flames.

  I get out of bed and into the shower. The hot water pours down on me and helps relax my tense muscles. But it doesn’t take the image of my teammates’ burned flesh away. I can still hear them screaming. I know it’s in my head, but I swear to God, they might as well be standing right next to me. I go over that day again and again. I look for ways I could have altered the ending, and each time I come up with nothing.