The Therapist

by J. A. Belfield

  He strode-jogged across the tiles, his hands held up in a plea for her to stay put. He quit a foot shy of a collision and danced back on his toes, his hands coming to rest at his hips as he let out a heavy breath. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  She hugged her arms across her chest. Covering what, only moments before, had done a decent job of distracting him, and he noticed for the first time the soft sweater she wore and the way it clung to every line of her body. The leggings the desk had hidden, which highlighted every curve of her legs.

  He forced his focus to her face. “Look, shoot me if I’m wrong, but you don’t look completely happy about cancelling your appointments with us.” He sniffed in another breath, relaxed his shoulders. “So, do you want to talk about why you won’t be coming back?”

  Her eyes glanced away, then back to him. Even in the windowless foyer, the blue of them appeared as translucent as the ocean. “The thing is, I’ve been using my savings. To pay.” She tapped her toes against the floor—something Chase had already begun recognizing as a nervous trait in her. “I had a trust fund that passed to me when I turned eighteen, and I’ve been saving it for …” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Something important.”

  “And this was important to you.” He didn’t ask it as a question, because the answer was obvious even before she confirmed with a nod of her head.

  “If it wasn’t, I would never have even considered something like this.” Her face tilted up toward his. “No offense.”

  “None taken. But that still doesn’t explain the cancellation.”

  She nodded again, her gaze dropping with the movement. “Mother opened my post.”

  Okay, they were getting somewhere.

  “And my bank statement.”

  “Does she usually open your post?” Chase asked, frowning again, again, again.

  She gave a half shrug, half nod. “I’m usually pretty good at intercepting it. But the postman was running late, and I’d already left for the bakery, and …” She let out a weighted sigh. “She was there waiting for me on my lunchbreak, demanding to know how I’d managed to spend hundreds of pounds in just a couple of weeks.”

  “Is that really any of her business?”

  “According to my mother, while I’m living under her roof, it is.”

  “Did you tell her the truth?” he asked, curiosity poking through the annoyance he felt on her behalf.

  She laughed, but it sounded more sad than amused. “My mother isn’t the kind of woman you can tell you’re seeing a sex therapist and expect to stay on her Christmas card list.”

  “So you lied?”

  The creases of her lingered smile ironed out as she nodded. “I lied. Outright lied. I told her I’d spent the money on a wedding gift for Michael.”

  “Sounds pretty close to the truth, to me,” Chase said.

  He patted himself on the back when another laugh blew free on her sigh.

  “I guess it does,” she admitted, sobering again as quickly as she had the first time. “But I still can’t come back. Because if she sees another statement like this one, it won’t be explained away quite so easily.”

  “And you can’t use your income.” Another statement—because no regular bakery would pay a wage to cover his fees.

  She shook her head. “She’d still see, either way. And I’d still have to explain myself, and …” Her gaze locked with his for a moment, as if she willed him to figure it out on his own and save her having to admit, yet again, that her parents ruled her life.

  “Which is why you’re not coming back?” he asked instead.

  She gave another nod. Another dip of her chin. “I’m really sorry, Mr Walker. You have no idea how … how …” She flicked her fingers up as if searching the air for the word. “… mature I’ve felt since visiting with you here. But I …” Her gaze lifted to his again. “I’ve got to go. Sorry. Bye, Mr Walker.”

  Not even bothering to recall the lift, she spun for the stairway door, pushed through, and vanished from sight.

  It took all of Chase’s willpower not to shoot after her again.

  ***

  After ten minutes of Chase just standing there, just staring like an idiot at the door Abi had disappeared through, the reception door created a quiet whoosh sound behind him.

  “There you are,” Raelyn said at his rear. “What’re you doing out here?”

  He slowly turned toward her, but didn’t meet her eye as he said, “Abi cancelled.” He crossed the small landing and squeezed past her into their premises. “She’s not coming back.”

  The statement gave him about three seconds’ reprieve, before her heels tapped after him. “What do you mean, she’s not coming back?”

  “She’s not coming back, Rae,” he said again, still striding for his office—maybe saying it enough would help it sink in.

  “Like, ever?” she asked.

  Stopping at his door, he half-spun toward her. “Yes, Rae. Like, ever. She cancelled. We lost her. She’s not coming back. That clear enough?”

  “Yes, it’s clear enough.” She said it quietly, but more like she could gauge his mood than because he’d hurt her with his tone.

  Drawing in a deep breath to balance himself, he asked, “Do we have any more clients today?”

  “No, she was the last one,” she said to his profile, and he nodded.

  “Then, pack up for the evening. Collect Sam from the opticians, or wherever she’s gone. We’ll call it a day.”

  “You have the T’s this evening.” More words cautiously spoken. “Don’t forget them. Jones will flip.”

  “I didn’t forget.” At least, he hadn’t—up until the point Abi O’Shay had walked in and blew him off kilter.

  Though, why the fuck should he care that he’d lost her. As a client. Every client left eventually. None of them stayed forever.

  He hated that her dismissal stung more.

  Maybe The Club was exactly what he needed to shake his arse out of the funk it’d climbed into.

  “Are you going tonight?” he asked, finally bringing his gaze around until he could see her.

  “Maybe. Depends on our mood later.”

  Of course she and Samantha would only consider it as a package deal. They always did.

  Giving her a nod, he turned for his office. “Go on home, Rae,” he said, and as he marched into his own space, he felt certain The Club would knock some of his shit into place.

  The Club could make a person forget their own name.

  ***

  Chase didn’t want to think about Abi O’Shay. He didn’t want to think about how disturbed she’d seemed on finding him behind the desk, instead of Rae or Sam. Or how distressed she’d seemed when she’d turned away from him and done a runner.

  Or how perfectly her sweater and leggings had moulded to her body.

  He definitely didn’t want to think about losing her. As a client. Only as a client. Because she wasn’t actually his. Never was. Never would’ve been.

  Instead, he forced his mind into the moment. Blanked out the flash of pale, pale eyes that stared out at him from his mind. And forced himself to act happy to see Mr and Mrs T, as they stepped from the rear of a black vehicle with rear-tinted windows—one of The Club’s.

  Smoothing her dress over her legs, Mrs T made a scan of her surroundings, her eyes full of an uncertainty Chase understood.

  “Not what you were expecting?” he asked her, as her husband rounded the vehicle to where they both stood.

  “Not exactly,” he said, placing a hand against the small of her back.

  Cracked concrete supported their feet, made darker by an earlier rainfall, while warehouses bathed them in shadows. Not one of the buildings showed activity. Nor light. At least they all had their windows intact and didn’t look derelict, or like they’d be full of vermin. A couple of them, Chase knew to be active during the day. Others were waiting for their leases to be snatched up, but at the rates the owner charged, he doubted they would be in the immediate fu
ture.

  “Come on.” Turning toward the one directly behind him, he motioned for the couple to follow. “And don’t worry. This is merely a façade.”

  Mrs T’s heels seemed loud against the empty ground space, as the couple fell into step beside him, and Chase had to smile at the effort they’d put in. With her hair pinned like she’d had it specially styled, Mrs T wore a pale evening gown that draped low over each shoulder and cinched her waist. Equally as well turned out, her husband wore his dark suit and bowtie well, the cut of the fabric to the standards of a reputable tailor.

  “How are you both feeling about this evening?” he asked, as he brought them to a pause before a corrugated door. “Nervous?”

  “A little,” Mrs T admitted.

  “But mostly excited,” Mr T added, and his wife nodded.

  “Good,” Chase said. “You should be both.” He knocked a hand against the metal, creating a resonant boom throughout the building.

  Little noise beyond a quiet shuffle came from the other side of the door before it groaned open. In the created gap stood the equivalent of Gibraltar Rock. In a suit. One that barely fit, while fitting everywhere perfectly at the same time.

  “Do you have a key?” Even the voice that came from the rock sounded like an earthquake.

  “The key is to a door to a curious world, where curiosity never kills the cat,” Chase said in a serious tone.

  “Name?” he asked, equally as rough and rumbly,

  Despite knowing the bouncer would recognise him on sight, Chase still answered, “Walker plus two guests.”

  “Guest names?”

  “Titcomb and Titcomb.”

  The tower of muscle stepped back, his chest puffed out as he permitted them entry, and Chase took the lead past him and into the dark space within.

  The door groaned just as loudly as it closed, and the four of them would’ve been in total darkness if not for a flicker of light off to the right.

  “Follow the torch,” commanded what had become a mountain of shadow in the darkness.

  Reaching out, he felt for Mrs T’s hand and clasped on. “Don’t get lost,” he warned and guided them toward where the wall-mounted firelight beckoned them forth.

  As they neared, the shape of a cloaked figure stepped from the wall, the blackness of the fabric matching the shade of the mask covering what had to be a woman’s face, if the frame of the body was anything to go by. She didn’t speak. Just turned and walked away.

  At Mr and Mrs T’s glances of confusion, he gave a reassuring nod. He already knew they were expected to follow, and so fell into step behind the swish of the floor-long cape.

  Lifting a hand, the figure paused them all before a blockage. A moment later, a metallic screech sounded out as the panel holding them back worked free, and a second cloaked and masked figure stood waiting to greet them.

  Without a word, Chase stepped through the next section of their route, a flicker of his fingers beckoning for the trailing couple to do the same, and as the metal squealed shut behind them, he awaited instruction.

  “Welcome to The Club,” the figure said in a low tenor. “You will proceed to the changing rooms and remove any clothing you are currently wearing. Only the garments you will find on offer in the changing rooms are permitted beyond this point. Once you are prepared for the evening’s festivities, you may deposit any personal belongs you would like to be kept safe with the changing room assistants. From there, you will be given directions to your destination. It is important you listen carefully to any instructions you are given.” He stepped back and waved for them to continue. “Proceed.”

  A few metres farther in, a right turn took them to a curtained opening, and Chase pushed through into a space containing five boxed-in cubicles, each of them cordoned by a heavy drape that currently stood open and exposed only emptiness within. Not that Chase had expected anyone else to be in there. Jones often insisted on a staggered arrival from his guests, for those who preferred to maintain anonymity.

  To the right of the area was a windowed desk, behind which stood two masked females. The one on the right smiled as Chase glanced over. “Please use one of the cubicles provided to remove your clothing.”

  Inviting Mr and Mrs T ahead of himself, he waited until they’d each chosen a section and slid the curtains closed, before heading to the next one along.

  Hangers had been left dangling from the few coat hooks in there, and shutting himself inside, Chase removed everything, from shoes, socks and trousers, tie then shirt, and the shorts he preferred over underpants. Naked, he arranged everything on the hangers and, with his personal belongings scooped up, carried them out, across to the window, and to the waiting women.

  Lips painted a glossy red, they both smiled again at his approach. The one on the left slid a card and pen across the counter toward him, as he lay everything before them. “Identification number,” she said.

  All members, or guests were given a personal number in the information packs they received. And all members were expected to memorise that number—or risk losing whatever they handed over for safekeeping. Once a person, or persons, identity was confirmed at the first door, names were left behind inside The Club.

  Chase jotted down his number, and she retrieved the card and pen, before carrying all of his belongings off toward a row of lockers. Chase watched as she pulled one open, placed his clothes inside, then slid the card with his ID number into a pocket on the front of the door once she’d closed it.

  “Anything else?” the other woman asked.

  “Yes, can you send the next two guests on to me? I’ll be at the selection table.”

  “Certainly,” she said smiling. “Have a lovely evening.”

  Allowing a small nod, Chase made his way around to the side of the locker desk, along a dark and narrow corridor. Every area a guest passed through led directly to the next. The entire setup always ensured no guest needed to double back on themselves. Far less chance of meeting other arrivals that way. Far less chance of recognition.

  The corridor opened up on the left, where a long table draped in a white cloth took up most of the ten-by-six space. Masks had been spread out over the whiteness. Masks that’d been split into two choices. Red. Or black.

  As he always did, Chase picked up a black one. Gender neutral, the mask held no beaded adornments, nor any feathers or crap a lot of the masks on the market seemed to come with. Made from a silky fabric, the accessory had been created simply, dipping down low over the nose, a little flexibility in the softer cheek sections, and rounded in a sleek curve where it raised over the forehead. Exactly as Jones had requested they be made.

  As Chase slipped his onto his face and fitted the elastic around the back of his head, Mr and Mrs T padded around the corner.

  He braced himself for the appraisal. Knew it was coming, even before the couple’s gazes crawled over his naked body from head to feet. Every guest at The Club got checked out by every other guest in attendance. Luckily, he’d grown used to being eye-mauled a long, long time ago.

  Mrs T seemed to have trouble dragging her attention from his rear. “Red for the ladies and black for the men?” she asked.

  “Nobody is singled out in such a way here,” Chase told her. “You only select the red if you’re comfortable with being kissed on the mouth. The black is to let other guests know not to pursue that activity with you. The colour is merely a way to inform other guests of your preference.”

  Her gaze skipped up to his own mask. “Which should we choose?”

  “Whichever you’re comfortable with. You might not, necessarily, go in there each wearing the same colour, even.”

  Before Chase had even finished speaking, Mr T had selected a black mask, which he began fitting over his face. Mrs T seemed more considerate in her choice. As if she needed to weigh up both options before deciding one of her fates for the entire evening. After a few moments, she stepped forward, her fingers folded over the strap of a red one, and smiling to herself, she placed it
around her eyes and stretched the elastic over her head.

  “Ready?” Chase asked.

  She nodded, as Mr T said, “We’re ready,” and Chase led them through to the final preparation.

  A heavy-looking door had been padded and studded, and looked a whole lot of soundproof. Like something from Men In Black, in his dark suit and shades, a dude almost as big as the first guy they’d encountered stood guard. Half smiling, he offered a nod of greeting, and Chase met his outstretched hand with his own in a masculine clasp.

  “How’re you doing?” the bouncer asked.

  Although no names were ever used throughout the evening, Chase knew the bouncer’s name, and the bouncer knew his. Another of his old school buddies. It always amazed Chase how many of them had fallen into the sex trade, in one form or another. Personally, he blamed Roy’s Gym. The place had a whole lot to answer for.

  “Good,” Chase said, as the guy tugged him in and slapped a hand against his shoulder. “You?”

  “I’m still breathing. It’s always a good sign.” He let his chuckle run its course, before reaching for the gold-coloured knob of the padded door. “Okay, lady and gentlemen, the word of the evening is scarab.”

  “Scarab. Got it.” Chase rolled his shoulders out and stretched his arms out behind his back. With a quick flex of his neck either side, working the kinks out there, he gave the bouncer a nod. “Okay, let us in.”

  Unbothered by Chase’s regular ritual, he twisted the knob and swung open the door, to reveal a low-lighted room coated in hints of red.

  Behind him, the bouncer wished Mr and Mrs T a good evening as Chase stepped into the room, and a moment later, the door closed them in. When he turned to face the couple, their gazes seemed to be drinking up every detail on offer, their bodies held rigidly still, aside from the twist of their heads.

  “Welcome to The Club,” Chase said. Where rich folk gathered to act out their desires. Sordid. Depraved. Downright filthy. If fantasies were a ticket for access, The Club was the plane journey to the destination. “This is the Red Room,” he explained, glancing back over the space.