Dirty Professor

by Mia Ford

  Standing on the curb outside, I turned around and admired his house. It really was a magnificent home, and I had to wonder why he was living there all by himself. Unless, of course, he wasn't. Maybe he had a wife who was out of town. I knew absolutely nothing about this man. He very well could have an entire family off at Disneyland for all I knew.

  It just didn't add up to me. A guy like him living in a large house like that all by himself? How did he afford it? Why did he choose to live in such a big place all alone?

  But I didn't spend too much time questioning it. None of it mattered. After all, I was never going to see him again, so wondering over his living arrangement didn't matter. Once the cab pulled up, I gave the driver my address and felt relief as we drove away. I'd managed to have a night of intense pleasure with no awkwardness after. As much as I'd have loved to fuck him again someday, it just wasn't in the cards.

  I didn't have time for a rebound boyfriend, not right now. And I knew better than to expect anything from a guy who takes a girl home to fuck without so much as knowing her name. As nice as he might have seemed – and he did seem nice – he didn't put off the vibe that he wanted something serious.

  Which was a blessing because truthfully, neither did I.

  ooo000ooo

  By the time I got home, it was after five in the morning. I groaned when I looked at the clock, realizing that I had to work a few hours later. I put on some coffee and trudged down the hall so I could shower and get ready for the day.

  As I stared in the mirror, I could see the exhaustion written all over my face. But along with the dark circles and red, puffy eyes, there was something else there too. I smiled in the mirror and it felt genuine. For the first time in a long time, I was smiling again. There was a lightness to my spirit that hadn't been there for a long, long time. Charlie hadn't broken me, thank God.

  I applied concealer to my under-eye circles, but kept the makeup pretty minimal. Nothing like I'd worn on my night out. I had no one I needed to impress at work. I just needed to look professional and clean. My hair was thick and long, and I didn't want to blow dry it, so I pulled it back in a bun, pinning it in place as I straightened my side-swept bangs.

  I looked in the mirror again after fixing myself up and nodded approvingly. You could hardly tell I was tired. Okay, maybe if you looked close enough, you could see it. But I looked better than I had before at least. And being tired was okay. No one had to know the reason for why I'd gotten so little sleep the night before. My personal life wasn't their business.

  I left a few minutes early and stopped at Starbucks, grabbing a coffee before catching the BART into the city. As I waited in line, I felt confident and happy, which was a really nice change of pace for me. As I approached the barista, I smiled at the familiar face and ordered my usual.

  “Vanilla latte with soy milk, no whip, please.”

  “Sure thing, Amelia,” the girl said, remembering my name even though I couldn't remember hers. “And the Americano as well? Like usual?”

  My heart sank. “Uhh no thank you.”

  The Americano was for Charlie. I usually picked up his drink and we met at the BART station where we'd ride into the city together.

  The poor girl had no idea why my face fell so quickly, so I feigned a smile for her and shrugged casually, as if it were no big thing.

  “Me and Mr. Americano broke up,” I said.

  “Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.”

  She seemed genuinely sorry, and for that reason, I made every effort to read her name tag.

  “It's okay, it was for the best, Tara,” I said quietly.

  Who knew getting your morning coffee could be such a downer?

  DREW

  I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to will myself to get up, get showered, and get dressed. Last night had been fun – the most fun I'd had in a long time. But there was still that overwhelming sense of loneliness I faced most days since returning from overseas. My phone buzzed with some belated birthday greetings from relatives that I'm surprised even remembered my name – an uncle who lived in the Midwest, who I'd met maybe once or twice, a cousin I used to be close with before leaving to serve overseas, and a few other people.

  I closed out of those notifications, and when my phone went off again, I cursed. But this time it was just a reminder.

  “Therapist appointment with Dr. Emerson at nine,” I read out loud.

  I rolled my eyes and considered calling to cancel. But even though I briefly considered it, I knew it wasn't actually an option for me. Missing an appointment with the exalted Dr. Emerson would screw up a lot of things – including the disability payments that paid for my food and shit. The house was paid for, free and clear thanks to my folks, but living wasn't cheap. Even when you were living rent-free.

  The girl I'd brought home last night left – snuck out in the middle of the night. And yeah, that made me feel like shit. Not that I'd expected anything more than a one-night stand with her, but some breakfast – and maybe even getting her name – would have been nice. But she snuck out at some point, leaving me alone in my bed, making me wonder if I'd imagined fucking her in some elaborate masturbatory fantasy.

  Except, I knew it wasn't a dream. It had been too good and I hadn't been fucked up enough to dream up something like that.

  Nah, she'd just snuck out in the middle of the night. Not that I blamed her. It was usually pretty awkward to wake up and look your one-night stand in the eye. Sharing conversation over breakfast? Probably too much to ask.

  I took a piss and stared at myself in the mirror, not liking what I saw. The scruff on my face getting a little out of control and I looked exhausted. I should shave before my appointment, but I didn't feel like it. Not that it mattered anyway. Not like I had a job to go to or anyone to meet. Besides, I was just meeting this Dr. Emerson dude, and who the fuck cared what he thought? He was just giving me a psych evil. Hell, maybe the scruff on my dishevelled appearance would help my case some – so I left it.

  After a quick shower, I let my hair go wild too. It was short to my head, almost military cut but with a little length on the top. Now that I didn't need to keep my hair cropped close, I could do whatever the fuck I wanted with it. And letting it grow out sounded good to me. Again, it just added to the stereotype a bit more. Rugged vet, down on his luck, haunted by the demons of war.

  Yeah, since I was pretty much a poster boy for the anti-war crowd, I might as well look the part.

  A pair of jeans and a black sweatshirt I'd been given as a parting gift after leaving the Navy was my signature look these days. I wasn't dressing to impress anyone after all. A quick run into the city, meet with the good doctor and then back here for a nap before God knew what later in the evening. Maybe some video games. Maybe see if the pussy whipped guys who called themselves my buddies could get together again tonight, to make up for being lame asses the night before.

  I sighed, unable to avoid the reality that my life was a shitshow. If it wasn't for the fact that my parents had money, I'd have been one of those homeless vets on the street. Or worse. Probably dead in a gutter somewhere.

  I was one of the lucky ones, that was for sure. Which was another reason I didn't want to blow the appointment for my evil – even though I didn't think it would do any fucking good anyway.

  ooo000ooo

  “I'm here to see Dr. Emerson.”

  “Oh, she's running a little behind today,” the friendly receptionist said flashing me a smile that was blindingly bright – her teeth far too white to be real. “But she will see you in just a moment.”

  She. My therapist was a woman? For some reason, I pictured a balding older man with glasses. Maybe a little on the overweight side wearing an ugly sweater vest. But Dr. Emerson was a woman. I would be telling my entire life story and deepest problems to a woman. I didn't consider myself a sexist by any stretch of the imagination, but honestly, I wasn't sure how comfortable I was about that. There was some dark shit in my head and I wasn't sure about
having a woman opening up that Pandora's Box.

  Hell, maybe I was a little sexist after all. But in my defence, I would feel the same way about a woman giving me a hernia check. There was some shit only guys could relate to. Or so I thought.

  I consoled myself with the idea that I could always request a change in doctors – which I might do after today, depending on how it went. But I was going to be fair and give the lady a chance. I told myself that I wasn't going to be a sexist pig about it. And I kept telling myself that as I took the forms and started filling them out in the waiting room.

  I read through all of the questions and just shook my head. Did I drink? Hell, yeah, I had a few pops now and then. But I wasn't an alcoholic or anything like that. I always hated answering shit like this, there was hardly ever any wiggle room and I always got the feeling people were judging me based on my answers. I had a drink now and then, but I didn't spend every night all fucked up. But the only answer I could give was a yes or no. There was no maybe or chance to explain.

  Yes, I drank. How much? I had a beer or so almost every day. But it wasn't as bad as it sounded, so I fudged a bit and checked the box that said a couple times a week. I'd make my own wiggle room.

  Drugs? No. That one was easy. Well – except for smoking pot now and then back in the day. I'd had to be clean in the service and I'd pretty much stayed that way. Even now. I couldn't remember the last time I'd fired up a joint.

  I went down the checklist, ticking the box that said no to most of the health issues. I had no heart problems, no vision issues. My cholesterol and blood pressure were normal.

  Anxiety? Ehhh – maybe. But anyone who'd been through what I had in the service would probably have some anxiety, right? That wasn't abnormal?

  Depression? Define feeling depressed.

  “Fuck this,” I said, just marking no to everything on the list.

  I came here to be diagnosed, I didn't need to tell them my mental issues. It was their job to give me the psych evil, not make me do all the work. I'd never been diagnosed with anything, so that helped. This would be a first.

  I handed over the paperwork and sat back down to wait. The television in the waiting room kept playing the same medical information over and over again. Why even have a television for your clients if you're not going to let us watch something good while we wait?

  I sighed and flipped open a magazine – some entertainment rag – and saw a photo spread from a new movie with Brad Pitt. A war movie, of course. And as I stared at the photos of the beautiful holiday celebrities decked out in military garb, I cursed to myself about how much they got wrong. Except, of course, there was some unknown actor in the back, behind Pitt, and I couldn't stop staring at him.

  He reminded me of Mason.

  In that moment, as I looked at the man's face, the air was sucked straight out of my lungs and all I could do was stare. The actors in the photos weren't even SEALs – they were in typical Army uniforms. But still, I felt my pulse quicken as panic set in while I stared down at the man who looked like my best friend.

  “Drew Hunter?” The receptionist called my name, pulling me from the abyss of my own mind.

  I shook my head and cleared my throat. “Yes?”

  “Dr. Emerson is ready to see you now,” she said. “Come on back.”

  She opened the door for me and ushered me into a room with soft lighting and an even softer couch. There were throw pillows, so I situated myself between those awkwardly, not wanting to mess anything up. A box of tissues sat on a table beside the couch.

  “She'll be right in,” the receptionist said. “Just make yourself at home and get comfortable while you wait.”

  Get comfortable. At a shrink's office. Hardly possible. Even at one set up as cozy and comfortable as this was. Yeah, sure, I was supposed to come in and open up and explore my feelings and shit, but that was hard to do when you'd been taught and conditioned to push your feelings away for your entire life.

  There was a soft knock at the door, and a moment later, it opened. I stood up to greet my therapist, and when I did, our eyes met and my jaw hit the floor.

  “It's you,” I said, feeling ashamed that I never got her first name. “It's – it's you.”

  She seemed as shocked as I did, as she held onto the door for dear life. Almost like she wanted to leave again. I couldn't blame her. The instinct to bolt straight out the door and never looking back was running through me.

  “Y - you're a doctor?” was all I could think to say. “My doctor?”

  In my head, I was trying to recall everything we'd talked about the night before. I ran through as much as I could remember, trying to figure out if I'd said anything too revealing or personal. Never once had it ever entered my mind that this hot piece of ass from last night was doctor material so I wasn't overly careful with my words. But then again, it wasn't like we did much talking anyway.

  “Yes, I am actually,” she said. “And you must be Drew – Drew Hunter, I see.”

  She looked down at my file, reading it to herself. But her eyes lingered on the pages a little longer than necessary and I got the impression she was just trying to avoid looking into my eyes. Flashes of what we'd done last night scrolled through my mind and I had to admit, I felt myself growing a little warmer and getting a little stiff in the pants.

  “It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand, her eyes still not quite meeting my own. I watched her hand trembling, even as she tried to smile and play it off. “I'm Dr. Emerson.”

  “Please, call me Drew,” I said. “I mean, after what we did last night and –”

  “Drew it is then!” she said with a little too much enthusiasm before taking a seat across from me.

  She crossed her legs, and yes, I noticed her sexy legs in her pencil skirt – legs that I'd had my face buried between not all that long ago. She was dressed professionally today, her hair pulled back and even had some glasses on her face. But it was her. It was the girl from last night. Neither her clothes, her hair, or her glasses could hide that fact from me.

  And she was my fucking therapist. I didn't know if I was lucky or cursed.

  AMELIA

  Drew. His name was Drew. I had to admit, he looked very much like a Drew too. As I met his gaze, my eyes fell on his lips – lips that were so thick, so luscious, so soft, and oh so delicious. I licked my lips as I remembered kissing those lips last night – only hours ago, actually.

  No, stop it, Amelia, I told myself. You can't do this. Pretend like nothing happened. That's the best course of action. Act like it never happened. Just carry on and do your job.

  “So this is your first time in therapy, Drew?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a sly smile. “I guess there's a first time for everything, huh, Dr. Emerson?”

  If he expected me to tell him to call me Amelia, he was going to be waiting a long time. As awkward as it was for the man I'd just fucked to call me doctor, it would be even more awkward – and much too casual for my liking – if he called me by my first name.

  “I've looked over your file. The Navy was kind enough to send it over, and it seems that you've been suffering from what appears to be PTSD. I understand that you're looking for a formal diagnosis, as well as to get treatment for your condition. Is that, about right?”

  “I'm fine,” he said, brushing it off. “I'm not dealing with anything anybody else isn't. I don't think what I'm going through is different than anybody else goes through when they've seen combat.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, pushing my glasses up higher on my nose as I tried to look at Drew through my professional, medical lens opposed to the one of a warm-blooded female. “If you're fine, why are you here?”

  He shrugged. “My Captain insisted upon it. I told him I could go back to work anytime now, but they seem to think I need to talk to a shrink – err, I mean a therapist. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  The notes from Drew's Captain told an entirely different stor
y altogether. Dissociation, depression, panic attacks – all symptoms that had manifested during combat. I knew men like Drew – I worked with them every single day. He wasn't going to talk to me about anything he'd gone through over there.

  Even if we hadn't hooked up, I could tell it would be hard for him to truly open up. But since we had a sexual relationship, there was no way this Navy SEAL was going to allow himself appear weak or vulnerable in front of me. Especially after his bravado when we'd first met in the bar last night. It was hard enough to break through that tough exterior as it was, but now, given our history – limited thought it was – I felt like it very well could be impossible.

  “Well, Mr. Hunter –”

  “Drew, please. I insist.”

  I cringed. I normally don't mind calling my clients by their first name, if it made them more comfortable. But this wasn't normal in the slightest and I had to tread carefully. Very, very carefully.

  “Fine, Drew then, as you may or may not know, the reason you've been sent to me is because I'm a specialist on post-traumatic stress disorder in combat veterans. But we've run into a bit of a problem, and to be rather blunt with you, I fear it might affect our professional relationship. My colleague – Dr. Frank – doesn't have my level of experience with veterans, but I'm sure he'd be more than happy to –”

  “Are you transferring me?” he asked.

  He stared at me wide-eyed and slack-jawed – looking almost offended by the suggestion I was going to make.

  “I believe it would be in your best interest, Drew. I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I can help you. Not with our – history.”

  It pained me to admit that. I'd only been practicing for three years, but never in my life had I admitted I couldn't help someone. I'd never turn a client away who needed my expertise. It was something of an unwritten rule of mine. But I was torn and caught in a no-win situation. I was, as the old cliché went, caught between a rock and hard place.