by Jillian Neal
Setting their sights back on Dr. Newsome, they headed towards the gathering crowd surrounding him. Trevor’s father, Dr. Singleton Sr., was soaking it up like a pig in mud. He wasn’t letting Newsome get more than five centimeters out of his reach.
“Oh good, the cowgirls have ridden in. Hope you didn’t park your horses near my Scion, ladies.” Trevor tried for a joke and achieved a few uncomfortable chuckles.
To Holly’s delight, Dr. Newsome shot Trevor a warning glare before turning to her with a warm smile. “Ms. Camden, how are you, dear?”
“I’m great. Excited to be here and to get classes started.”
“I was reviewing your thesis again last week. Very impressive work. Your points on healthy sexuality being negatively affected by politics and pornography approached through the lens of sociobiology were absolutely outstanding. I swear I’ve been doing this since the earth cooled, and it’s rare I’m so taken with a master’s thesis work. UN is very lucky you’ve decided to continue your research here.”
Certain she was going to burst from pride, Holly beamed. “Thank you, sir. That means so much to me.”
“And Ms. Kinders, how are you?” Newsome smiled at Beth.
While they exchanged pleasantries, Holly offered Trevor a gotcha grin. Take that Singleton. His mouth was twisted up like he’d just been instructed to lick Holly’s boots. Laughing at that, Holly narrowed her eyes. “So nice to see you again, Trevor, and of course you wouldn’t attend a campus gathering with your father. Dr. Singleton, how are you, sir?” She offered her hand while watching Trevor try to decide if he’d just been insulted.
“Ms. Camden.” Dr. Singleton was worse than his son. He and his wife both held positions on the board, which they readily used to get their way on most everything.
“I personally found Ms. Camden’s thesis to be tiresome and contrite. She offered no real solutions to anything,” Dr. Singleton took a stab. “Trevor’s work was far more compelling.”
How stupid did you have to be to understand that publicly disagreeing with your boss might not be the best idea?
“I couldn’t disagree with you more, Dr. Singleton. Ms. Camden’s assertion that most of today’s sexual health problems resulted from lack of viable, pertinent, non-politically motivated sexual education was spot on,” Dr. Newsome came to her rescue.
Dr. Singleton offered no rebuttal.
“Have fun at the barbecue, Trev?” Holly cornered him by the refreshment table with a gloating grin. “Maybe Dr. Newsome will let you grill his corn for him or something. I’m pretty sure we just saw that he’s going to become my supervisor.”
“Why don’t you go back to your one room schoolhouse out on your beloved little ranch and leave the actual degrees to the men who deserve them. You are nothing more than a stubborn, whiny, ridiculous excuse for a psychology student. Besides all of that, if Newsome takes you on, I highly suspect it has more to do with what’s in your pants than what’s in your head.”
“You know, no matter how many times I try to be nice you just always manage to flip my cowgirl switch by being a complete douche. Listen up.” Holly leaned in for the kill. “Dr. Newsome is going to be my advisor. Don’t think for one second that the entire department doesn’t know that your daddy’s money paid for the piece of expensive carpeting you’re standin’ on. What’cha gonna do when daddy’s money can’t buy you into whatever you want, Trevy? Life’s gonna suck then, isn’t it? Poor thing never learned to piss without daddy holdin’ your hand. Stand back and watch me, asswipe. Things are about to get real, real interesting.” With the quick flip of her hand, the contents of Trevor’s punch cup were pouring down his designer shirt and puddling on the toes of his ridiculous loafers. “Whoops.”
Chapter Seven
“Dr. St. James, might I join you for lunch?” Disdain dripped from Dr. Elliot Gibbons’ lunch invitation. It always did.
Dec took great care to remember that Dr. Gibbons was capable of completely ruining his life with one swipe of his pen. Being fired from this job meant a one-way trip back to London. Back to the incessant drinking culture. Back to the farm where he could prove his father’s predictions correct — that he really didn’t deserve to live. Back to facing Victoria’s father’s practice and Victoria herself, though Dec highly suspected she’d already moved on to another unsuspecting bloke she could take advantage of. He didn’t care if he had to personally wipe Dr. Gibbons’ ass on a daily basis. He was keeping this job and never going back to the London he’d known.
“Certainly, sir. Where shall we dine?”
“Anywhere is fine. You choose.”
Anywhere was certainly not fine. Holly had been right. Too many stuffy imbeciles in Trace and it would lose all of its rampant appeal. Plus, it would be a cold day in hell when Dec showed his boss where to find him when he was out of the office.
Normally, he jogged the ten blocks to Banhwich Café for outstanding curry to go or a sandwich, then jogged back to Trace, got tea, and hid himself away for the two hour lunch afforded doctors at Lifespan. Trace encouraged all of his customers to bring lunch there. He wasn’t going to serve it, but people paid readily for tea and coffee and then dessert to go with. The business plan meant Trace was pulling in more cash at lunch than most places downtown ever hoped to.
But none of that would be happening today. Unfortunately, Dec had already changed into his running shorts, something Gibbons had voiced his disapproval of in the past.
“Don’t suppose we could get into Longbranch with you dressed like that,” Gibbons commented as if he’d known precisely what Dec was thinking.
“Give me just a minute. I’ll change back into my suit. No problem, sir.”
Edgy from not getting his run in and not having any tea, Dec shifted against the stiff cushion at his back in the corner booth of the stuffiest steakhouse in Lincoln. It had to be eighty degrees in there, and Gibbons literally had him up against the wall. He seemed to have planned it that way with their seating location.
He listened to Gibbons drone on about some problem with the students from Nebraska-Lincoln doing clinicals at Lifespan this semester while he attempted to chew the brisket Gibbons had insisted he order. It largely resembled something manufactured from the local Goodyear plant. Some kind of unforgivable John Denver Muzak was being piped through a sound system that sounded as if it was on life support and going down for the third time. Hell couldn’t possibly have been much worse than this. Satan himself wouldn’t listen to John Denver, surely.
“I’ll tell you, Docklan, it’s just not the same as when we started the firm. Insurance nightmares. Drug reps. Every other commercial on television is for a new better medicine. Patients who think they know more about their issues than we do. Interns with opinions. Longer hours. Lawsuits. If it weren’t for the bottom line, I’d drink more.” His uproarious laughter accompanied several pieces of half-chewed brisket that landed on the table. Dec fought not to gag.
“It’s Declan, sir, and I rather respect that my patients are more educated on medications and their own feelings and symptoms. Taking charge of their own health is a positive sign for our industry, is it not?” Try though he might, he couldn’t help but argue.
“Just gotta remember that mental health is a two-way street,” Gibbons huffed once he’d regained his composure.
“Between the doctor and the patient, you mean?”
“No. We have to make certain we keep enough patients coming back to keep us in business. We can’t have them reach wherever it is you think they should go too quickly. You’ve only been here a year and you’ve already released a dozen patients. That’s not good for our bottom line.”
“Ah, I see. Be good at my job but not too good because preparing clients to handle their life without our aid makes us less money.”
“Exactly. Now you’re seeing it the right way.”
Rage Against the Machine’s Killing in the Name had already played in his head three times. Normally, he didn’t care for the repetition in the song,
but he currently found the phrase ‘Fuck you’ over and over again rather soothing. Most importantly it drowned out Gibbons and John Denver. Who could really ask for more than that?
When Gibbons began complaining about his wife, Rage Against the Machine no longer seemed to work. Agitation twisted in Dec’s gut. The lyrics were more difficult to access with every word Gibbons whined.
“I’d let her go, but you know how it is. Psychologists in family practice aren’t allowed to get divorced. I mean, God knows you know,” Gibbons laughed.
The hot breath of the ridiculous laughter incensed Dec. He sank his teeth into his tongue. No, if you were stupid enough to marry a woman you were absolutely certain you would never get addicted to because you couldn’t stand her in exchange for a job at London’s premiere psychotherapy foundation that happened to be headed up by her father, you most certainly could not get divorced. Too bad he hadn’t figured that out a little earlier in life.
“Wouldn’t mind trading her in on a younger model, two twenties are better than one forty.” His wink made Declan want to vomit, or perhaps it was the brisket. “I’m sure you understand.” Gibbons continued on with his repugnant laughter.
Dec closed his eyes, trying to force himself to appear unaffected. The hazy swirl of his life, or the parts he remembered, spun rapidly in his mind and churned in his gut. Deep breaths. He knew how to keep his temper in check. He’d had to learn that when he learned to stop seeking out drugs to dull the searing pain of life.
Holly. Suddenly, when he’d been seeking another lyric, another song, something else to concentrate on to soothe him, Holly’s beautiful smile planted firmly in his mind. His breaths came easier. He’d been fantasizing about her since he’d walked out of her apartment after she’d whipped off that ridiculous sweatshirt that was so large on her frame it had to have belonged to some male figure Dec had instantly hated.
With every breath he took to keep from telling Gibbons exactly what he thought of him, more of Holly’s clothing disappeared. Last night, in his dreams she’d been wearing black leather and lace. Sexy as hell, but it quite hadn’t suited her. No, his little cowgirl’s perfected seduction came in that once in a lifetime combination of deliciously naughty innocence. An angel in public, a seductress behind closed doors. He had every intention of drawing out her seductively wicked side in bed Friday night. He’d slowly coax it every night this week if he was allowed.
For the purposes of shutting out his boss’ stupidity, he pictured her wearing nothing but those alluring cowgirl boots she wore so well and a pair of white lace boyshort panties, complete with a pink bow and a hidden open crotch.
His mouth on her heated skin. The rough scrape of his morning beard inside her tender thighs. Slowly, gently, drawing her sweet little pearl into his mouth while he drew her deepest desires from her soul. Her musk and her arousal fresh on his tongue. Friday night.
“St. James, your phone’s ringing.” Gibbons’ annoyed chirp ripped Dec from the fantasy.
“Sorry, sir, I. . .was so caught up in your story.” He gambled. Gibbons’ grin said he won. He’d pay homage to the universe later for that one.
Holly’s name glowed on his phone screen and all of the annoyance and tension bled from his psyche.
“I need to take this, sir.” He stood, threw down thirty dollars, and headed outside. “You have absolutely impeccable timing, my love. I was just about to lose my mind.”
“So, I saved you from a life of mindlessness? Seems I should be rewarded a king’s ransom for such a thing.”
Dec had no trouble envisioning dozens of ways to reward her. “A king’s ransom, huh? And how would my cowgirl like to receive her spoils?”
“Preferably naked in bed.”
Dec tried to turn his low rumbled groan into something of a cough when three people in the parking lot turned to glare at him.
“Listen, I don’t have long. Trace called me. All of his waitresses skipped out on him again. I told him I’d come help him out. I thought maybe if you don’t have practice today, you might want to come help, too. Then I could see you.”
Oh, the assumptions one could make when they didn’t want to probe deeper. Surely she didn’t really believe he made enough money playing guitar in bars to survive on. She was far too perceptive and quick to think such a thing. Most human beings liked nothing more than to be right. The most intriguing humans wanted to understand and be understood.
Dec’s mind negotiated with itself. He didn’t want to tell her about his day job. He also didn’t want to lie to her. She clearly didn’t want to ask because she’d already made assumptions that he was busy during the day with band practice. All of that most likely meant she didn’t want him asking too much about how a cowgirl living in an apartment with no land to speak of made money at all. Interesting, and given the current complexities of his job, somehow also comforting. He wondered how often she filled in at the tea shop and then decided it didn’t matter. There was so much more to the two of them than their professions anyway.
“Practice. Yes. Um, not tonight. I’m a little busy for the rest of the day, but I could pull the dinner shift with you if Trace needs the help.”
“I’ll ask him when I get there and let you know.”
“We still on for To Have and Have Not after your shift?”
“Definitely. See you later.”
Throughout the rest of his afternoon, Dec kept a timer running in his mind. Holly had texted to say that Trace’s sister had agreed to fill in for the other barista. He’d been instructed to meet her at her apartment later with his DVD player. He’d agreed simply because inviting her to his home would make everything far too easy. He had precious little resolve when it came to her anyway. His expansive bed, his hot tub, his couches — hell, the countertops in his kitchen, they were all far too available for him to put her off. He could keep his head straighter at her place. Friday night, he’d take her home, wrap her up in a little bit of comfortable luxury, spoil her thoroughly, and make her fly higher than she’d ever flown with another lover.
He shook himself when Matthew Hutchins knocked on his office door just before easing inside and setting down his battered guitar case. Dec always arranged it so Matt was his last patient of the day. Once their session was over, he’d been helping Matt learn to play guitar.
Dec stood and smiled. He shook Matt’s hand and was genuinely thrilled to see broad grin on his patient’s face.
“Something must be going well.”
“You always know stuff like that don’t you, Dr. St. James?”
“It’s kind of my job. Tell me what made your day.” Dec settled on his couch while Matt took his favorite chair. Matt had never cared for sitting on the sofa. According to him, the clichés were just too much. Dec had assured him he understood.
“More like made my whole month. I asked that girl Megan out for Friday night. She’s the one I was telling you about that I met at group sessions at the Center. She said yes.”
The thrill of accomplishment and pride for just how far Matt had come warmed Dec’s entire being. “Congratulations. She’s a very lucky girl.”
Matt turned serious a moment later. “Well, I mean, she isn’t though, Doc. Obviously, you know why we both go to those group sessions. Lucky kids don’t end up in sessions for all of that shit. We’re both fucked up, I guess. Her stepdad.” Matt shuddered, so did Dec.
“I am very sorry for her, but I’m terribly proud of you. And we’re all fucked up. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Finding a person that wants to hang out with us despite whatever our particular brand of fucked-uppery is a tremendously great part of this world.”
Matt laughed, another thing Dec wasn’t certain he was ever going to get to hear eight months ago when he’d taken him on as a patient. He’d been seeing him three times a week, every week. Asking a girl out was a massive step for Matt.
“Yeah, I guess maybe you’re right.”
“Maybe.” Dec chuckled. “Little nervous about this date?”
“Are you some kind of mind-reader or something? How do you do that?”
If you rub your hand against the knee of your jeans any harder you’re going to wear in a hole. You’ve shifted in your seat about a dozen times in the last two minutes, and there’s a dew on your forehead. Of course, Dec would never point any of those things out so he just smiled. “Honestly, I have a date myself Friday night, and I’m a little nervous. I was hoping it wasn’t just me.”
“You’re not nervous. You’re just saying that. Liar.” Matt withdrew. He almost always did. He’d lived through hell, and he trusted no one. Not that he should. Dec didn’t see this as a failing. Teaching Matt new boundaries and how to enforce them was his job. Teaching him that some authority figures were trustworthy would come years and years down the road, if he ever got there at all. Matt was seeing other counselors to help him deal with all that his uncle had done. His mother had hoped Dec might help him navigate some kind of normal sexuality balance for a nineteen-year-old kid.
“I told you months ago I would never lie to one of my patients. I’m not lying to you. I just met this girl and she’s got my head spinning day and night. I am nervous. I want to impress her.”
“Really?” Matt slid closer and narrowed his eyes.
“Really.”
“You’re way too cool to get nervous, Dr. St. James. You probably know how to do everything the right way.”
“Trust me, no one knows how to do everything, and there is no one right way to do anything at all. Have you decided where you’re taking Megan Friday?”
“Well, she’s in the county home so she has to get special permission and everything. She did that, but I don’t want to take her anywhere that might make her uncomfortable. I don’t want to do anything wrong. Sometimes. . .she can have. . .uh. . .what do you call the things that make you think you’re back in a bad place when you aren’t?”