“Hey there, pretty girl.” I turn from staring at the rows of bottles and lamenting my shitty love life to the sound of that creepy nick name. He totally thinks I’m his girlfriend, and he’s made up a cutesy nickname that’s better suited for a father talking to his one-year old daughter.
“You’re late,” I say, taking another sip from the drink I just ordered.
“Sorry,” he puffs, out of breath. “Lawyer stuff. See, you psychologists have real schedules. If you see a client. . .”
“Patient,” I correct. It’s a pet peeve of mine.
“Right. When you see a patient, you practically have a buzzer set as to when your sessions start and end. Being a lawyer doesn’t work like that. I wish it did. I’d make more money with less work.”
“I’m just messing with you, I know how it is. My best friend is a lawyer. Kennedy Bransfield, you know her?”
When his eyebrows go up and his face looks like he just walked into his own surprise party, I know he recognizes her name. Kennedy lives in New York also, and over the past few years has made a huge name for herself as a criminal prosecutor. I’d told her since we were kids that she should be a lawyer. Her parents were actually disappointed when she took my advice. They had her groomed for either the medical field or private business, but now her dad still thanks me for turning her to law because she’s made a real reputation for herself.
“You know Kennedy Bransfield?” He might as well have replaced her name with “The Rock” for all the awe and respect in his tone.
“Since we were kids. We grew up together.”
“She’s a pitbull in court. I’m not a litigator, but guys at my firm who practice criminal law have gone against her. It hasn’t been pretty.”
I’ve never actually seen Ken in court, but if I close my eyes I can imagine her eviscerating defense attorneys like she’s Jack McCoy in Law & Order. I smile. “Yeah, she’s a tough woman. Always was.”
“I’ll say.”
I already have a drink but he orders me another one out of habit. I feel like he read a book or saw a movie that told him men are supposed to do things like that—order the little lady a drink, it shows dominance and sexual prowess. I may not be the most experienced when it comes to dating, but I can tell Andrew doesn’t go out a lot. Between his awkward pet names, his ordering for me like I’m his wife in the 1940’s, and his overall clunkiness when it comes to conversation, I know he goes home and does a little jig every time I agree to see him again.
I accept his second drink even though I don’t plan on actually drinking it. We talk for a few minutes as the place gets more and more crowded, mostly with lawyers carrying those little black or brown briefcases like they do on T.V. It’s kind of funny to see all of them all over the floor. I wonder if they ever mix those up with the person next to them. Those are the kinds of thoughts I’m having instead of actually listening to Andrew tell me about his day.
Time passes and I get just a little bit buzzed—I decided to trade my usual glass of Merlot for a vodka tonight. Even with the drink, it’s hard to care about Andrew’s corporate law bullshit. I don’t know why he thinks I’d be interested in that, or why he never asks me about my job. I fake it the best I can, though, smiling when I’m supposed to smile, saying ‘uh-huh’ when it makes sense and feigning surprise when he tells me about something that’s supposed to actually interest me.
He stops his story and winces a little. “You alright?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he answers. “It’s just this migraine I’ve had all day—it just doesn’t seem to get any better.”
“Oh, I’ve got you. I used to get migraines all the time. I have these great over the counter pills that have caffeine in them. Boost your energy and kill your headache—it’s win-win.”
“That sounds great.”
“They’re amazing.” I may take them when I’m too lazy to get my butt to Starbucks to get a cup of coffee—just saying.
I reach into my bag and start rattling around for my pill bottle. I have so much crap in here that searching for an individual thing becomes a full out archeological dig. All I’m missing is a pick axe and one of those cool headbands with a light on it. “Sorry,” I tell him as I rustle through tissue packets and way too much change. “I know it’s in here somewhere.”
“Take your time, it’s not a problem.”
I get so annoyed that I can’t find the bottle that I start throwing stuff around in there. Finally, I see it buried at the bottom. “Aha! Found it.” As I lift my hand out of my purse, something that’s definitely not a pill bottle comes flying out and hits the floor just beside Andrew’s feet. I look down and see the folded piece of paper that Preacher left on the bookcase in my office before.
Oh shit.
Before I have time to dive for it, Andrew reaches down. “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve got it,” I tell him, but he waves me off and grabs the paper anyhow.
“What’s this?” he asks. It’s none of your business, that’s what it is.
“Nothing,” I tell him, trying to hide my panic. “Can I have it. . .”
That’s when he goes to look at it. “What do we have here?”
“Stop please,” I say. “Can I have that back?”
“Doing some creative writing in between saving people’s minds? That’s great.” This is what I meant by awkward. Andrew thinks he’s flattering me, and he probably thinks he’s being playful and flirty by reading what’s obviously private, but it’s giving me anxiety to see him hold it and read those words that were only meant for one other person that definitely isn’t him. He looks back down.
“Andrew, for real, please stop. That’s private.” He smiles. He thinks we’re playing a game, but I’m not playing at all. I’m about to get really pissed and flip out. I might need one of these lawyers to defend me in my assault case.
He looks up from my paper suddenly and his face changes from a smile to something approaching fear. It’s sudden and weird. I think he’s looking at me, but then I realize he’s looking just over my shoulder.
“The lady said to give that back, Andrew. I suggest you do what she says.”
Oh my God. I know that voice.
Preacher.
He doesn’t look at me, even though he’s standing so close his chest is practically touching my back. He’s just staring my date down. “So, what’s it going to be? You going to give that note back to her or are we going to have the kind of issue that gets me arrested again?”
I think Andrew just shit himself.
And I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
I don’t know what a grown man who’s shit his pants actually looks like, but the face Andrew is making has to be close.
He doesn’t hand me my note back, but rather drops it. I don’t think he’s trying to be rude. It was automatic, like a reflex. Preacher bends down, picks up the note he left in my office and gives it to me gently.
“You dropped something.”
“Thanks. I’ve got it now. Following me much?”
“You make me sound like a stalker.”
“If the shoe fits.”
It occurs to me a few lines into our little back and forth that I’m pretending like Andrew isn’t here anymore. I’ve gotten temporary amnesia when Preacher’s around before. I forget that other guys exist because, well, who cares about other guys when I have him? He’s a lady boner in a button-down shirt.
It isn’t just his height, his physique, or his confidence though, it’s how he puts all of the qualities that make him so hot together—how he fuses them seamlessly into a sexiness that’s not like any other man.
“Eh. . .”
The sound of Andrew’s obviously fake throat clear brings my head out of the clouds and back to the reality that I’m here on a date. Maybe the weirdest date in the history of dates, but still one regardless. I’m sitting with a guy I’m trying to convince myself to like, while the guy I’ve spent a decade trying to get out of my head is standing so close that
I can smell the musk that only he has. My life has become an episode of the Twilight Zone.
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. This is. . .”
“Preacher,” he says, stepping forward and gripping Andrew’s hand tightly. “Nice to meet you Andrew.”
“Nice to meet you also. . . Preacher, is it? That’s unusual, huh? You going to take my confession?” Andrew laughs at his own joke a little too hard. Preacher doesn’t. “Ummm, anyways,” he says, trying to make the moment less awkward. “How did you know. . .”
“Your name?” Preacher asks. “I was just at the’s office a little while ago and Lyric mentioned that she had to cut our session just five minutes short so she could make drinks with Andrew.”
“Oh,” Andrew says, exhaling and looking relived. “You’re one of Lyric’s. . .”
“Patients, yes. She’s one of the best in the city.” After a few moments of awkward silence, Preacher speaks again. “I’ll be heading out now. Just stopped in for a drink—ironic that it would be at the same bar. Who would’ve guessed?
“Happy accident I suppose.” Andrew can’t wait for Preacher to leave.
“I guess you’re right, Andrew. And Doctor?” He asks, looking at me now. “I was going to call the office, but since we had this. . .what did you call it, Andrew? Right, since we had this happy accident, can you remind me what time was our session is tomorrow? I lost the card your secretary gave me.” Bastard. He turns to Andrew. “Have you met her secretary? Sophie, I believe her name is.”
“Nope, never had the pleasure.”
“She’s incredible. Great at so many things. I particularly love her attention to detail and the little doodles she makes in that appointment book of hers. Very detailed.” He looks right at me, and just like that he’s gotten his way. He always does. “So, Doc, what time am I seeing you tomorrow?”
I’m so mad I could burst out of my skin, but he has me in checkmate. “First thing, remember? Nine o’clock, just like we said.”
“That’s right. I’m so forgetful sometimes—usually when something else is distracting me.” He reaches out and shakes my date’s hand again. “Andrew. Pleasure.”
“Same here bud. Be good.”
“I’ll see you at nine then?”
“It seems that way,” I tell him. I think he’s going to walk away, and he should, but he doesn’t. He leans in and puts his mouth within an inch of my ear. I can smell him. He can smell me. The hairs on my back of my neck stand up instantly, and I freeze like a prey animal waiting to be devoured. That’s when I hear the depth of his voice so close that it echoes in my ear.
“I’ll be inside of you by 9:05. You can count on that.”
I’m instantly wet. I forget about Andrew, forget that we’re at a crowded bar, and forget that I’ve worked for a decade to forget about this man who could literally do anything he wanted to me right now.
I feel my panties soaking, and a throbbing between my legs that’s so intense it’s begging to be relieved.
But I can’t do anything about it sitting here, and he knows it. He pulls his face away and leaves. I watch him take a few strides until he disappears in the crowd, and everything that’s happening inside my body is telling me to follow him, but I can’t.
Andrew’s oblivious to what’s happening—as always. He’s sipping his drink and making small talk with the lawyer next to him. Meanwhile, I’m ready to explode, and that’s exactly what Preacher wanted.
The part of me who likes to pretend things have changed is outraged and shocked, offended even.
But the part of me who remembers how I felt when I saw that tall boy walk towards me when we were seventeen wants to close her eyes and wake up at 9:05 tomorrow.
Fourteen—Lyric
The Present (8:55 am)
An abomination.
That’s what we are—wrong in every way two people can be wrong for one another.
There’s no other word for something that shouldn’t be, but exists anyhow. Just like the power he has over me. Just like the way he makes me feel an ache between my legs.
What scares me most of all isn’t the way he makes me feel, it’s in knowing the ways he can make me behave.
I said yes to him last night at the bar before he was even out of the room—not with my mouth, but with the absence of my rejection. I could have said no—told him off and threw my drink in his face for good measure—but I didn’t.
I wouldn’t.
He made me wet with nothing but his words and a promise to fuck me in the morning, and I melted, submitting to him as I always do.
I knew then—just like I’ve always known—that’d I’d made an unspoken pact with a devil who lives in the body of a Preacher.
But I hate myself for it. I hate myself when I’m around him. He’s my addiction, plain and simple, and, right now, I need a hit.
I’d convinced myself that everything was different, that I’d rid myself of everything in my old life, that I’d moved on and started living like a proper adult—not a kid, not a college student, but a real live adult who’s free of the confines of the past.
That is, until the past made an appointment to see me.
Until the past walked in my door and made every nerve ending in my body come to life.
Until the past followed me to bar and pretended like no other men but him exist.
Until the past whispered in my ear that he was going to be inside me this morning.
Sophie’s coming in around ten o’clock today, when I have my first actual patient, which is why I told Preacher to come at nine. I don’t need an entire hour to say what I need to say to him—a few terse words about how inappropriate he’s been, followed by me letting him know that I can’t see him like this anymore. Not professionally, and definitely not socially.
I pace, up and down my waiting area, for five minutes, wondering why I didn’t just call him and cancel.
In all of my self-analysis, I lose track of time and hear the creak of my office door as it swings open forcefully. In he walks, looking as intense as ever.
“Good morning.”
“Let’s go.” I turn and walk into my office. This is me trying to be firm, to set boundaries. I had a whole speech about them planned out in my head last night after the bar, but you know what they say about the best laid plans. Whoever wrote that must have been staring into Preacher’s eyes.
“So fast? But it’s only 9, I still have five minutes.”
He’s so cocky. “Nothing’s happening between us, so you can get that out of your mind right now. This is where I work, and I haven’t seen you in a decade. Show some respect.” He doesn’t answer, just listens as I get more and more worked up with my little lecture. I swear I see a grin cross his face.
“9:01,” he says.
“Stop that right now. And while we’re discussing boundaries. . .”
“Are we?” he asks. “This doesn’t feel like much of a discussion.”
“Let me finish. Like I was saying. . .”
I lay it all out—how it’s creepy that he came to my office with no warning, how it’s even creepier that he followed me on a date, to which he tells me. . .
“9:02, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t, and I told you to stop that. Like I was saying, about last night and following me on my date. Don’t. . .”
He cuts me off. “That wasn’t a date, so don’t worry.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, that was not a date you were on. If you want to lecture me about not interrupting your dates you’re going to have to use a better example, because that thing you were doing when I saved your note was not a date.”
“How dare you! Who the hell do you think you are to tell me about my life?”
“Oh come on, Lyric.” He stands to his full height and I take a small, unconscious step back. “And 9:03 by the way. You can bullshit yourself— you’ve always had a talent for that, but you can’t lie to me. I see right though you.”
I know you
do, and it frightens me in ways I can’t ever explain. “I’m not bullshitting.”
“Yes, you are,” he says forcefully, stopping me from talking. “That. . . man you were with shouldn’t be carrying your briefcase let alone taking you out. He doesn’t know you and he doesn’t want to. He just wants someone, but he doesn’t deserve you.”
My sarcasm is rising in my throat as my blood starts to boil at how pretentious he’s being. “I didn’t realize you had Andrew mic’ed up and could tell exactly what he said and felt. My mistake.”
“It is your mistake—because you’re mine. There are no Andrews or Gregs, or whoever-the-fuck. There are no men but me.”
Holy shit. I try to hide how hot that last statement was. “Is big, bad, emotionally detached Preacher actually jealous?”
He laughs at me. It’s infuriating. “Of that big wad of human dough? I don’t think so, Lyric.”
“I think you are.”
“Interesting,” he says. “And is that your professional interpretation?”
His sarcasm is getting to me, burrowing beneath my skin like a parasite, making me angry in ways that only he can. “It’s the truth. Plain and simple. Fight it if you want, but we both know the idea of me with another man is driving you nuts.”
“I’m not jealous of that chubby little beta you’re wasting your time with.”
“Would you stop attacking his body?”
He takes a step towards me. “No,” he tells me. “I don’t think I will, not until you stop telling the kind of lies you’re accusing me of telling.”
I scoff. “What lies?”
“Defend him all you want. Hate me all you want. But if you needed someone to protect you and it was between me and him, who would you choose?”
I’m not playing this game. “I’m a big girl. I can protect myself.”
“Please,” he says condescendingly. “Spare me your feminist bullshit, will ya? Tell the truth—you’re in danger, who do you want standing between you and your attacker? Me, or the Pillsbury Doughboy”
Preacher: The East End Boys Page 9