Five Years

by Brooklyn Knight

  “Yeah,” I grunted. I pulled myself to my feet and smoothed my hands over my lapels.

  The woman tipped her head in a polite nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Amaris Flowers.”

  Mrs. or Miss? Shit. What the hell does it matter? That thought didn’t stop my eyes from dropping to her barren ring finger.

  “… and I’m the therapist who will be working with you.”

  Silence as I stared at her.

  Her mouth twitched, but she held her steady. “If you’re… ready, you can follow me into my office.”

  “Right,” I agreed, trying to re-center myself. “Let’s get this shit-show started.” I took a confident step in her direction, and she turned on her heel to lead the way.

  Miss Flowers marched ahead of me, but the way her posture had stiffened didn’t go unnoticed. There were also other things which did not escape my scrutinizing gaze, such as the way her ass rolled beneath the fabric of her pants, like it had a fucking mind of its own. Or how the way she smelled seemed to match her surname to a fucking tee.

  Just looking at and smelling her told me all I needed to know about the way this therapy session was going to go. Not only was it going to be a waste of my goddamn time, just like I’d prophesied to Mitch and Blaine, but it was going to take a shit-load of energy for me to stay focused.

  Shit! There was no way a woman this attractive could be any good. Just like in high school, all of the pretty girls were as dumb as fucking rocks.

  And speaking of high school, she was young, had to be in her early thirties. I wasn’t much older, but shit – my line of business had a way of building a beast. It was all grit and muscle. What Flowers did was nothing more than feelings and emotions, the kinds of things that didn’t facilitate resolve or control. They didn’t factor.

  By the time we entered her office, my jaw was set. I was ready to begin and get it over with. It had been a battle, but I’d successfully escaped the mesmerizing sway of her hips; hips more than capable of supporting a baby or two.

  Where did that come from?

  Miss Flowers would pull out her notepad and psychoanalyze me, go deep, and she was welcome to do just that. She had one session to do whatever the hell she thought she needed to do; then, she could send her report to Mitch and The Boys, reiterating the things they already knew about me: that I was a fucking badass, and there was no way that would change.

  What was more, if Mitch took even half a second to think about it, he would realize that he didn’t really want me to change.

  I took note of her office. It was bland, save a vase of pink carnations roses displayed on her desk, and a bookshelf bursting with books. I wondered who’d given her the flowers and about the content of the books on the shelf. I looked at the spines:

  Prayers that Work.

  CBT Interventions.

  Thirty Day Devotional.

  Setting Boundaries at Work and at Home.

  She motioned her hand to a leather loveseat positioned in front of her own leather armchair and settled herself.

  I clamped the inside of my cheek between my teeth, as she pulled out a file and flipped it open.

  “Mr. Dangerfield, you don’t seem very pleased to be here this afternoon.” Her eyes were pinned to the documents in the file, and her lips were pulled down.

  Her pouting lips…

  “Not even two minutes in, and you’re diagnosing?” I quipped pressing my back against the chair.

  Flowers adjusted a few papers and finally allowed her eyes to meet mine. Her stare was steady, but those eyes were still bright. She smiled and tipped her head to the side. “Not quite,” she admitted. She shrugged. “I’m reading your body language.” She motioned her hand in my direction. “Your arms are folded, which tells me that you’re closed.”

  I could be open, if that’s what you want…

  “And you’re grimacing. It’s pretty apparent,” she said with a shrug.

  I unfolded my arms and leaned forward. “I’m assuming our session has started.”

  “Correct,” she confirmed, and now she was looking at the documents again. “Let me just verify your demographics. I want to make sure I have the correct Mr. Dangerfield, and not an imposter.”

  “There’s only one in this town,” I informed her.

  The smile.

  Without delay, Miss Flowers rattled off my address and place of employment. She asked about my medical history and the name of my medical doctor.

  Grudgingly, I answered.

  “Substance abuse history?”

  “I used to smoke reefer in college. Like, every day. I stopped after I graduated.”

  “Okay. Alcoholic intake?”

  “Only when I’m stressed.”

  “How often is that?”

  “Every damn day.”

  She narrowed her eyes, as if she wanted to ask more questions, but moved on.

  “And you’re thirty-five years old?” she asked.

  “You’ve got me,” I said, and I sat forward. “How about we begin? I have a meeting in a couple of hours. I can’t be late.”

  She closed the file. “Of course,” she agreed, “and I’m sorry that this is an inconvenience for you. Perhaps for our next session, we can schedule a time that works better.”

  Next session? I grunted to myself. There’d only be one, and after that, she’d never see me again. I’d wait until the end to let her know.

  Miss Flowers rested the file on her modest desk and turned fully to face me.

  Again, my curiosity regarding the woman was piqued. I tried to shove away the urge to let my eyes drink her, or my nose inhale her, but it was almost useless. I hadn’t expected my therapist to look so… drop-dead.

  Her hair was curly and long, with tendrils framing the side of her heart-shaped face, spilling over her shoulders. The professional suit she was wearing did little to disguise her allure, but her throat, adorned by a string of milky white pearls, was a buttery brown.

  Shit, now I was acting like fucking Blaine. He’d met this Nichola woman online, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d be Googling and Facebooking the hell out of Amaris Flowers the minute I returned to work.

  My eyes lifted to the wall behind her desk, where her prestigious credentials were on display. “You graduated from Yale?”

  She blinked, but quickly recovered. “I did.”

  “What year?”

  She moistened her lips, and immediately, my eyes shot to her mouth. The pink tip of her tongue, the way it caressed her mouth captivated me beyond reason.

  “I graduated five years ago,” she answered. “I was top of my class. Some people are meant to do this. I guess you could say I’m one of them.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I love people and I take my job very seriously.”

  “You love people?”

  “I love helping people.” She leaned forward, just a little.

  Now, I could see the color of her eyes. They were light brown, with distinct flecks of green. And there was a spread of warm freckles sprinkled over her nose, fanning out onto her cheeks.

  “I’m happy to answer any questions you have about me, Mr. Dangerfield. For some clients, it’s important to have information about their therapist. Trust me, I get it.”

  I was sure that she didn’t. Shit, I didn’t even get what the hell was happening, but I decided to take her up on her offer.

  “I appreciate your permissions,” I informed her, and then I paused. “How old are you?”

  Flowers’s breath caught. “I’m thirty-one,” she responded. “I was a high-flyer in school.”

  “A nerd?”

  She chuckled. Something inside of me heated at the sound.

  “Maybe,” she responded, smoothing her hand over her curls. “I was taught to always stay focused on the straight and narrow.”

  “You learned that in school?”

  “Yes. And from my mama.” She cleared her throat, as if the words had slipped out. “I obtained my Bachel
or’s in Psychology by the time I was twenty-one, and my Master’s in Clinical Mental Health Counseling by twenty-three.” She shrugged. “If you’re questioning my competence, I can assure you, I’m well trained and I’ve been in the field for quite some time. But I’m not a know-it-all.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you’ll never have to worry about me making assumptions about who you are or what you think. I’m here to learn about you. I’m here to help you reach your goals.” She paused. “I’m here to assist you in tapping into your full potential and display unconditional positive regard.”

  “Break that expression down for me.”

  “It’s a clinical term which means I’m on your side, no matter what,” she clarified.

  I hummed and stroked the edge of my jaw. “What makes you think I’ve not already succeeded in tapping into my full potential?” I asked, tipping my head upwards.

  “There’s always room for growth. Do we ever really arrive?” she questioned philosophically.

  I chortled, amused. “So you’re going to help me reach my full potential at my place of employment?”

  “Or in your personal life,” she answered. “Whatever you desire, if we work hard enough, we can make it happen. That’s one of the exciting things about therapy, Mr. Dangerfield: you never know where you’re going to end up.”

  A thick, dense, quiet vibrated between us. We stared at one another, but when she tucked a rogue curl behind her ear and moistened that mouth of hers again, I pressed my back against the leather, which suddenly felt as hard as a piece of fucking concrete.

  Flowers stretched her neck. “Tell me, what brings you in, Mr. Dangerfield?”

  My muscles tensed. “You read my file, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you know, very well, what brings me in.”

  “True,” she agreed, “but the information in your file are things others have said about you. I’m much more interested in knowing your interpretation of the situation.”

  I grunted and allowed a slanted smile to tilt my lips.

  Okay.

  It took me fifteen minutes to clue my therapist in to the things that were happening at work – basically how a few thin-skinned assholes were complaining to my boss about my people-skills.

  The entire time, Flowers nodded, her brows drawn together, as if she was engrossed. A few times, she laughed at a comment, and one time, she’d responded with a ‘really?’ By the time I was finished, my skin was burning, and my mouth was tight.

  The fucking nerve of my colleagues. And the fucking nerve of Mitch. The situation slammed into me. I complained about it to Blaine all the time but saying it to Flowers felt different.

  Maybe it was because we had just met, and I didn’t know her from a goddamn hole in the wall. Maybe it was because the only thing she was doing was listening, not offering opinions, advice, or telling me I needed to do more, a phrase I’d heard all my childhood from my mother.

  I raked my hand through my hair and inhaled, and Flowers scrutinized me. Her features were soft. Her mouth – that fucking mouth – was pursed a little.

  Shit! This must have been what she looked like in the moments before she kissed someone, or when she was about to explode with a climax.

  Huh?

  Her voice ripped me out of my lewd thoughts. “It bothers you that people don’t appreciate you.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Suddenly, my throat was dry. “What did you say?”

  She shrugged and sat back. “You feel like people don’t value you, all that you’ve done, the talents and skills you bring to the table. You work hard, and your efforts brings results.”

  My teeth were clamped, and she peered at me, as if waiting for me to say something, but for the fucking life of me, I couldn’t unleash my jaw.

  “What does that feel like?” she asked.

  I opened my mouth and then closed it.

  She waited.

  I rocked my head from side to side. “It pisses me the fuck off,” I finally answered.

  “Anger is a secondary emotion, Mr. Dangerfield.”

  “What the hell does that even mean?”

  “It means that when someone is angry, if they consider it carefully, they will always find that underneath the anger, there’s another emotion.” She shrugged a small shrug. “I’m wondering what that emotion could be for you.”

  I stared at the woman, noticing the unnatural way in which my chest was lifting and dropping, heaving. I looked away from her. I heard her shift in her seat.

  Like a magician, she whipped out a handout. On it was a picture of an iceberg. The word anger was emblazoned on the peak, jutting out of the water, and on the submerged area, there were a ton of words like disappointment, sadness, fear, mistrust…

  She eased her chair closer to me, and that fragrance bombarded me.

  I blinked, trying to maintain my focus, but when she rested the handout down and leaned forward, there was nothing I could do to keep from stealing a glance at her healthy C-cup cleavage.

  “Anger is the part we see, the part I see,” she said, pressing a unmanicured nail on the exposed part of the iceberg. “It’s the part Mitch and your colleagues – and possibly others – assess and judge; but underneath it, is all this other stuff; stuff that only you know about and feel…” She let the words linger, and I let my eyes do the same.

  When she looked up at me, I snatched my gaze upright.

  She smiled and tucked that curl behind her ear once again. “What are your thoughts?”

  I scratched my jaw. “Honestly… I don’t know. I mean…” I inhaled. “I um… I never really thought about my… anger like that. I didn’t even know I was angry until you…” I searched her face and she smiled.

  “Have you ever been depressed?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “No feelings of sadness? No heaviness?” she paused. “Any recent losses?”

  “No.”

  She nodded and smiled. “Okay. Let’s go ahead and schedule your next appointment.” Miss Flowers turned back to her desk and I glanced at my watch. Damn, had forty-five minutes already whizzed by?

  It was over.

  In fact, this was the part I had been waiting for; the part where I’d tell her there was no fucking way I would be coming back to this goddamn office. I had come once, and that would have to be good enough for my boss.

  That was what I was supposed to say, and now was the time in which I was supposed to say it; but suddenly, my mind had changed.

  She was tapping on her laptop, pulling up her calendar. I noticed colored blocks, full of surnames and file numbers. A sudden, inexplicable jealousy rose up in me at the thought that her attention and her smile would be shared with other people – other men.

  “As I said, it’s obvious that this time doesn’t work for you,” she said, looking at me over her shoulder.

  “No, it’s… fine,” I reconsidered. “I’ll make sure my secretary clears my calendar for whenever you schedule me.”

  “Perfect,” she chirped. “How about two o’clock next week? That’ll give you time to consider what we talked about today.”

  “That works.”

  She tapped the keys and then spun around to face me. “Done.”

  The way she was positioned in her seat forced the fabric of her pants to stretch over her thighs. Obviously, they were the same color as her throat, and from what I could see, they were toned.

  So were her arms.

  Miss Flowers worked out.

  She cleared her throat and rose to her feet. “It was a real pleasure to meet you today, Mr. Dangerfield.” Her hand shot out, and I looked at it for a second, before taking it into mine.

  “I’ll see you to the door, but before I do, I want to give you some homework.”

  My neck rolled back, and I grinned. “Homework? You mean like something to do while I’m at home?”

  “Or while you’re at work, it doesn’t matter,”
she replied.

  “I’m a busy man,” I informed her. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I have to be honest: I probably won’t think about this meeting for more than thirty seconds after I leave here.”

  I was lying. Her fragrance would most likely linger in my nostrils for hours, and images of her smile would dance on my brain for days.

  I folded my arms again, but this time, I was conscious of the assessment she’d made when I’d first entered her office. Despite that, I refused to unfold them. I’d acted out of character more in the last forty-five minutes than I had in my entire fucking life. The arms would stay folded, and she could read into it however she wanted.

  “I know you’re super busy,” she said. “You work at one of the leading investment firms in the city. It doesn’t get much busier than that. Still, if you get a second, I want you to consider the worksheet. Look at the words under the water and consider which ones may apply to you.”

  I peered at her, feeling a vein in my neck twitch. “I’ll see what I can do,” I muttered, and she smiled.

  Miss Flowers led me to the door, and once again, I was mesmerized by her trim waist and rolling ass.

  When she spun around to offer me a final goodbye, my eyes jerked up and I tried to smile.

  But smiling was the last thing I wanted to do.

  Now, there was something else on my agenda. It made no sense, but it was there, nonetheless.

  I wanted to know more about this woman. My intrigue was so potent, it was making my throat thick. I wanted to know more about her, and I would do just that, in the second session.

  And maybe even in the third.

  3

  Amaris

  “Have a good night, Sheila. I’m outta’ here, and trust me when I tell you, I’m not looking back. At least not until Monday.”

  Boundaries 101, a topic my professors had drilled into me during grad-school. I flicked the light off in my office and tried to skip out of the door before she could give me any updates.

  That’s what email was for: updates.

  And not on the weekend either. In fact, Sheila had been given strict instructions to only use my work email for client-related stuff. I didn’t want it cluttering up my personal inbox: totally unprofessional as well as an ethical violation.