Five Years

by Brooklyn Knight

  Again, I was lying. Mitch or any one of the Big Boys could diagnose me them-goddamn-selves and prescribe a million more sessions. The likelihood I’d attend each and every one was unreasonably high.

  Finally, Blaine stepped to the side and let me pass. “When you get back, we’ll continue discussing the Berringer meeting,” he called out.

  “Of course,” I agreed quickly, but the only thing on my agenda was seeing Amaris Flowers again. Anything else barely registered.

  When I got to the office, the woman at the front desk, Sheila, acknowledged me with another warm smile. I knew her name now because I’d asked when I called to reschedule the session. If I was going to be coming here, I wanted to know the names of the people with whom I interacted.

  That was what I told myself, but the truth was, I wanted allies.

  When the door peeked open and Miss Flowers’s alluring presence invaded my personal space, my body stiffened.

  Jesus Christ, the response she was dragging out of me was enough to keep me in therapy for years. The woman put me off my game. My tongue, and every other part of my body, including my fucking cock, was tied into goddamn knots.

  “Mr. Dangerfield.”

  And shit – her voice sounded like something out of a fairy tale.

  “Good morning, Miss Flowers.” I actually smiled.

  She actually noticed. “You’re happy to be here this morning?”

  Heat flooded my cheeks and I cursed my pale skin. “Why do you seem surprised?”

  “Need I remind you of your presentation the other day?” she asked lowering her gaze.

  I chuckled and scrubbed my prickling neck. “No. I was closed. That’s how you described me anyway.”

  Her mouth wrinkled in an attempt to resist a smile.

  “The homework you gave me was intriguing,” I said quickly, trying to disguise the true reason for my eagerness to return. “I was anxious to see you again… to discuss it.”

  “So that explains the reschedule,” she noted through a lighthearted giggle.

  That fucking sound…

  “Okay well, let’s get this shit-show started,” she said turning on her heel.

  I frowned. “Shit-show?”

  “That was the word you used,” she recalled.

  Now my neck and face were on fire. “I’m not that man anymore,” I assured her.

  She jolted, but the response was so miniscule, I barely saw it. I wondered if she was aware she’d done it. “Of course you’re not,” she agreed slowly. “Please… follow me.”

  To the ends of the goddamn earth, I will…

  Today, Amaris was wearing a skirt and long-sleeved silk top with a bow at the neck. I followed, as she had instructed, just to get another eye-full of that rolling ass. Instantly, visions of it plunging over my cock fled into my mind; my fingers gripping into that tiny waist, keeping her planted on my lap as my manhood filled that tight space between those firm thighs.

  My breath caught.

  I increased my stride half-a-step until I was next to her. My arm brushed hers, and surges of electricity zapped me; and I swore a small moan rose out of her throat.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was trying to minimize her allure. In fact, I wondered if she had any idea how stunning she was. The modest attire did little to disguise her beauty.

  She hurried inside and took her place in her throne.

  I assumed my position in front of her.

  Our eyes locked and she smiled.

  “So you said the exercise intrigued you?”

  “It did.”

  She crossed her legs and pulled at the material, as if it was doing a poor job of covering her flesh.

  My mouth watered just thinking about it.

  “Tell me about it,” she requested, oblivious to my internal flames.

  I opened my leather messenger bag and pulled out the sheet she had given me. Her eyes dropped down and her head tipped to the side.

  “You circled words under the water.”

  “Was I not supposed to?”

  “No, you’re perfect, I mean…” she cleared her throat. “That was perfect. I’m glad you took the homework seriously. Part of me thought you wouldn’t.”

  I shrugged. “Our session stayed with me all weekend.”

  You stayed with me all weekend.

  “Some of the things you said had me up thinking until the wee hours of the morning,” I finished.

  We sat in the uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.

  “Disappointed,” I began, referring to the exercise, even though my eyes were pinned onto her. “With my colleagues, sometimes with my staff. I perform at a high level and I feel that others should put out the same effort.”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything, so I continued.

  “Afraid. I have professional goals and aspirations. I don’t get afraid or scared, but if I’m honest, thinking about the lack of success scares me. A little.”

  “A little?”

  “More than a little.”

  “On a scale of one to ten, ten is high…”

  “A six.”

  “That’s a significant rating.”

  “I’ll take that,” I agreed. I moved on quickly, noticing the spike in my anxiety, but choosing to ignore it. “Inadequate. Lack of success makes me consider that I’m not good enough.”

  “For who?”

  “The industry.”

  “The industry isn’t a who, it’s a what.”

  I blinked.

  She was doing it again. She was taking the normal shit and turning it on its head.

  Amaris leaned forward and my eyes dropped to her blouse.

  Instantly, my gaze caught the curve of her breasts against the fabric.

  “You have done such a fantastic job with this exercise. I’m very proud of you.”

  My brows cinched. “Proud?”

  “Well, yeah,” she said, sitting back. “I know it took a lot for you to consider this in earnest. Need I remind you that when you came last week, you weren’t exactly open to this therapeutic relationship, but look at what you did. You were amazing, Mr. Dangerfield.”

  I waited for my heart to detonate. The things she was saying were striking me like arrows to a bullseye and it stunned me. I had no idea I was so hungry for validation. I got validation on a regular basis, from colleagues, from clients, from Mitch; but this validation, this simple acknowledgement of my effort did more to me than one hundred contracts. Maybe because it wasn’t work related? Maybe because it was about… my character?

  Miss Flowers leaned in again. “Let me push you a little.”

  My throat tightened. Fuck, she could push me wherever the hell she wanted – against a wall or her desk.

  I swallowed, trying to find my voice. “Please, call me Maverick. Or Mav.”

  She smiled but didn’t oblige. “All of the words you selected, they definitely provide a deeper understanding of the root of your anger – but they’re all geared towards other people.”

  My brows crowded. “What do you mean?”

  “These sessions are about you, Mr. Dangerfield; not your colleagues or the industry. When you come with explanations like that, it’s almost as if you’re deflecting. You’re taking your feelings and projecting them onto other people or things.” She paused and narrowed her eyes at me. “I guess I’m wondering… Are you disappointed in yourself about anything?”

  I sifted my hands through my hair.

  She continued, pushing me, the way she said she would. “Are you… afraid of anything that’s not related to work? Do you feel inadequate for reasons other than professional ones?”

  I cleared my throat. Something unexpected was lifting inside of it, making the lining thick. And my eyes were burning like a fire had been lit behind them.

  Fuck.

  I scratched the back of my neck. It was also burning. “This shit is… confidential, right?”

  “Of course, you know that,” she said. Her eyes flashed. Her voice was
low.

  Too fucking low.

  I adjusted my tie for no reason. I scratched my ear. “My buddy has met a woman,” I revealed. I sat back hard in the chair. “He’s my business partner, but he’s also a good friend. We used to run the streets together. Every weekend, it was another woman, but now, he’s talking about this woman and it feels different. You have to see the look in his eyes when he talks about her. It’s like a light is shining right out of them.” I paused. “This one is gonna be different for him,” I predicted, “and I’m thrilled but…” I paused, not sure how to proceed.

  Amaris found words on my behalf. “How does this relate to the iceberg?” she pressed me gently. “How does it relate to you?”

  I grunted, throat like sandpaper. “I’m disappointed – in myself – because I feel like I’m not good enough. I’m good enough at work, but I mean… in my personal life.” My voice was smaller. Thoughts of the deep dark feelings that crept over me every now and then almost consumed me, but I summoned all of my willpower to push them away.

  Amaris’s lips pinched. “How old were you when you started to feel that way?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged.

  She waited.

  “I might have been seven years old. Something like that.”

  “Who told you that you weren’t good enough?” she whispered.

  I tried to swallow the darkness. “My mom.”

  Amaris’s brows pulled.

  The session continued this way for the remaining twenty minutes. I told her bits and pieces about my childhood, how nothing I ever did was enough for my mother. Any accomplishment I achieved was topped with another. If I didn’t meet the objectives, she set out for me, that was when the verbal abuse began.

  She’d call me everything but a child of God.

  But it was okay.

  I was a man now. Besides, growing up under those conditions had made me into who I was. I was on the partnership track because my standards were so high.

  Thanks to my mother.

  The session was quickly winding to a close. In fact, I knew exactly how much time was left, because my eyes were fixed on a clock hanging on the wall. When ten minutes remained, Amaris started to wrap up.

  “You’re doing it,” she whispered.

  “Doing what?”

  “You’re dissecting your primitive anger and going deeper with it. Let me know if I’m off-base, but I don’t think you’re mad at Mitch or the Big Boys. Or even your colleagues,” she suggested. “Perhaps you’re mad at your mother.”

  My chest hitched.

  “You’re resentful because you were constantly scrutinized and ridiculed. Now, subconsciously, you doubt your ability to find true love, because you don’t know if you’ll be good enough.”

  All of my breath dissipated from my lungs. My eyes stung and I jerked them down to the paper.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I snapped, and then I reeled in my tone. “I’m sorry, it’s not you I…” I chuckled. “You’re right,” I agreed. “You’re absolutely correct. This is something I’ve tried not to think about, because every time I do, it makes me feel sick,” I whispered. My throat turned thick.

  Amaris nodded, smiling. “I know it’s not me,” she assured me. Her back was pressed against her seat, almost unnaturally so. “It’s called transference. It’s what happens when a client projects their feelings onto the therapist. It’s totally normal. It’s part of the process.” She smiled. “I’ve got you.”

  We stared at one another.

  “Where should we go for our next session?”

  To my brick stone; my master bedroom.

  “Do you wanna explore your intimate relationships or talk more about your mother next time?” she asked.

  “My… my mother,” I choked out.

  She smiled and spun around in her chair.

  I watched as she opened her calendar. “Today was good,” I muttered. I felt open and exposed, but I couldn’t deny that I also felt lighter and less burdened. That nagging heaviness was nowhere to be found.

  “I agree,” she said. “You worked really hard today.”

  I dry-washed my hands. “What’s my homework?”

  She laughed.

  What I wouldn’t do to hear it again - like in the morning, just as the sun and my cock were rising.

  “You’re actually looking forward to homework? What a difference two sessions make, huh?”

  I laughed with her and waited.

  “How far can I push you?”

  “As far as you want,” I said. “I’m a big boy. I can handle whatever you dish out.”

  She laughed, but it was a nervous one.

  “Write a letter to your mother.”

  “My mother?”

  “Tell her the truth about how you feel concerning the way she treated you.”

  Suddenly, the walls of my throat threatened to close.

  “Write it and the we can process it together in our next session.”

  Fuck me.

  I nodded, mouth tight.

  Amaris spun back around, peering at the calendar. “Next week, same time?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  6

  Maverick

  ~Session Three~

  The week flew by, and this time, I didn’t reschedule. I’d needed the four days to wrap my mind around what Amaris had asked me to do, and the other three to actually do it.

  A letter to my fucking mother?

  I only spoke to my mother three times a year: her birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I’d insinuated that I was a man and that I was over the shitty way my mother had treated me as a child, but now that I thought about it, maybe I wasn’t.

  I battled with dark clouds every day, even when it was sunny outside, and anytime I had to interact with my mother, everything was instantly overcast. For weeks.

  I thought I’d gotten over my mother’s constant criticism; that was, until Amaris decided to use her psychological shovel to dig it all up. But maybe it hadn’t been buried as deeply as I thought.

  Everything she said in that fucking session had been so spot on, her words had turned into darts, piercing my soul to the core.

  I wore my aggression proudly.

  I touted it as being the reason I was a boardroom bully.

  I didn’t commit to women, telling myself I didn’t want to be tied down; but the truth was, it was only a symptom. My lack of commitment was because of fear, not machismo.

  At least Amaris hadn’t asked me about my father…

  My eyes stung when I finally penned the three-page document, and the minute I’d written the final word, I folded it up and shoved it into my messenger bag.

  Now, I was back at CCDS, and when Amaris pushed the door open, an upsurge of relief washed over me. Shit, there was no way I’d be able to do any of this without her, and when she smiled at me, eyes crinkling in the corners, the sudden, shocking thought that I didn’t want to do life without her slammed into me.

  What?

  “Are you ready?”

  I pulled myself up. “Let’s get this shit-show started,” I said lightly.

  She laughed. “So we’re back to the shit-show?”

  “This week we are,” I said. I tried to sound cheerful, but my efforts fell flat. “I don’t know if I can do this.” My eyes started to sting. Never in my fucking adult-life had that happened.

  “I told you last time, I’ve got you,” she reminded me. “Let’s go.”

  This time I led the way to Amaris’s office, and when she passed across the threshold, it was me who closed the door before taking my seat.

  She sat in her throne and clasped her hands in her lap, peering at me, expectant. “The assignment was tough, huh?” she considered.

  I grunted. “The assignment was tougher than the account I scored two months ago,” I said, and she laughed.

  Her lighthearted mirth eased my tension a bit.

  Deciding to tackle the inevitable, I reached into my
messenger bag and pulled out the envelope. I hadn’t looked at it since ramming it in there.

  I jerked my hand towards her, but she only stared at it.

  “Read it to me,” she requested.

  I balked. “I thought you were gonna read it,” I said. “I wrote it for you.”

  She was shaking her head. “You wrote it for you,” she corrected me, and she offered me a reassuring nod. “Go ahead, Mr. Dangerfield.”

  I sniffed and recoiled my arm. My fingers shook as I unleashed the flap of the envelope and unfolded the paper.

  Amaris leaned forward.

  “Okay, I…” I cleared my throat and pinned my eyes on the document. “Mom,” I moistened my drying lips. “I haven’t spoken to you since November, which makes almost a year. But that’s okay, because I’m still working on the partnership. That was the last thing you told me to pursue. And I didn’t jump on that stock you suggested as yet, so I still have a month or so to get it done before I speak to you.”

  I blinked, eyes stinging. I repositioned myself and continued to read. “But I do have something to say to you, and it couldn’t wait until November, because my therapist said I needed to say it now. I’m not going to call and say it because I don’t want to get angry when you try and shut me down and suggest that I’m acting like a bitch.”

  Like you used to say about dad…

  I didn’t write that part, so I didn’t say it.

  I took a breath and continued. “I am who I am because of you. It’s a blessing. It’s a curse. I have always wanted to be everything that you wanted me to be: hardworking, dedicated, successful; but at what expense? I’m thirty-five years old, and reality is hitting me: that you don’t really care about me,”

  Or dad.

  “That you never did. Your criticisms and put-downs have planted roots in my soul, dark roots that have grown into trees. It’s an everglade.”

  Amaris shifted in the seat.

  My hands tightened around the edge of the paper. “I’ve been going to therapy for the past three weeks, chopping through the forest of my emotions. Everyone says I’m angry, and I didn’t believe them. I had no idea what they were talking about; but the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realize that I am angry. I am aggressive, and it’s because of you. I hate the way you make me feel like I’m not good enough. I hate the way I’ve allowed you to subconsciously control my emotions for years. I am angry and I am aggressive. I’m also…”