The Practitioner

by Ronica Black

  “What the hell just happened?” She sipped the scotch and massaged her temple. She’d never lost control in a session before. Then again, she’d never had personal feelings for a client before. She’d been attracted to some, yes, but never moved. Not like this. She sipped more alcohol and willed it to sort some sense into the mess of her mind. She’d have to end it. Here and now. She couldn’t see her anymore. Michael would understand. It had happened to him.

  She groaned at the realization. Michael had ended the sessions, yes. But then he’d married him. They were going on ten years.

  “This can’t be happening.” Who was this Riot? Why did she have to be so…everything? Sensitive, artistic, beautiful, intelligent. Why couldn’t she be like her other clients? Boring, mundane, complaining about their wives, money, sex, and a receding hairline. Those guys were easy to help. Show ’em a little leg, boss them around, teach them how to treat women, and bam, off they go, well trained and better for it. They feel better about themselves, their sex lives improve, and they are happy. But Riot, this woman. She was different. She had looked at her with such soul, such heart. And the way she’d reacted to her touch. It had stirred something she’d thought she’d buried deep long ago. How could it be that it had drifted so close to the surface again and she not know?

  She drank more as her mind spun. She thought of Riot’s fierceness. The way she fought losing control. Squeezing the chair, pushing back against it. The internal battle she’d fought had been obvious, spellbinding. Elaine had been captivated by her. She had been fighting her feelings, fighting what they both felt, and Elaine had been right there with her, battling inside herself.

  But she’d messed up. She’d let it out and let her true feelings surface. She was sure Riot had seen it. It was too late now to fix it.

  Chapter Seven

  A knock came from Elaine’s office door. She rose, felt the tingling of a buzz, and opened the door.

  “How did it go?” Michael, her partner for over ten years, entered with a smile.

  She collapsed again on the couch and nearly spilled her drink. “Michael, what the fuck did you do to me?”

  He laughed softly and closed the door behind him. “So you liked her?”

  ‘You’re evil,” she said. “The devil himself in pressed chinos and a polo shirt.”

  “I thought you might find her…interesting.”

  “She’s gay.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s gorgeous.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Somehow you knew. Don’t be smug.”

  “She was into you?”

  She sat up and tucked her legs in under her. “You knew she would be. Did you know she requested this outfit?”

  He sat next her and rested his cheek on his fist. “Maybe. It’s something you would’ve worn anyway.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point? I asked her what she found the most appealing, and what she described was you.”

  “Not Nancy?” Nancy was younger, sporty, sparky. Lesbians loved her.

  “No, not Nancy.”

  “What about Claire? She’s around my age.”

  “Claire isn’t you. Claire would bore her. You are what she needs.”

  “Michael, I can’t do this. You know I can’t do this.” She closed her eyes.

  “Can’t do what? Feel?”

  “Don’t fuck with me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  She opened her eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment.

  “You like her don’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. She sipped her drink, wishing it could make her disappear.

  “It’s okay to like her,” he said softly. “I thought you’d be thrilled at having a woman for a change. A gay woman to boot.”

  “I’m not ready,” she said.

  Michael sighed. “Elaine, it’s been five years.”

  “Michael, don’t.” Her throat tightened. “Please.”

  “Okay.”

  “I have to end it.”

  “Because you like her.”

  “Because—because she likes me.”

  “The men like you. What’s the difference? You help them.”

  She shook her head with frustration. “It’s not the same.”

  “Why not?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Can you help her?”

  She looked at him. Met his deep brown eyes. He was such a good guy. Had such a good heart. Why was he doing this to her?

  She finished her drink and rose to get another.

  “Elaine?”

  She poured herself another glass. Took a long sip before she answered. “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Stop using my words against me.”

  “Be certain when you speak. Even if you don’t feel it.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Tell me.”

  “Yes, I think I can help her.”

  “Then you must.”

  She sank into her desk chair. “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Then end it and date her.”

  She balked, struck at his forwardness.

  “I’m serious. Either suck it up and help her, like you do all your clients. Or end it and ask her out.”

  He stood and approached the door.

  “How about I just end it?” she said, holding up her glass to him.

  He pressed his lips together in disappointment. “That would be running. And you’ve done enough of that for many lifetimes.” He opened the door and walked out, leaving her alone with her scotch and swirling thoughts.

  “Fuck.”

  She stared after him, half wanting to throw the glass at the door, half wanting to down it quickly. Instead she did neither, and placed it on her desk. The candles still burned, causing shadows to dance along the walls. She pictured Riot standing before her with her eyes closed. She remembered allowing her gaze to linger as it moved up and down her body. Her T-shirt had been tight, showing off a flat stomach and ample breasts. The jeans were loose, hanging off her hips, showing just a peak of her underwear when she breathed deeply.

  She felt her skin flush with desire again, burning hotter this time, fueled by alcohol. She thought of Michael’s words. End it and date her. End it and date her.

  She couldn’t do that.

  She wasn’t ready. Probably never would be. The idea brought on anxiousness and a need to flee. Michael was right; she was a runner. But there was no use changing her ways now. She needed to get out of there. Get her mind right again. She grabbed her phone and opened her dating app. She scrolled through her possibilities. No. Not her. Not her. I need younger, no a bit older. Blonde. Yes.

  She sent a message.

  The woman didn’t look exactly like Riot, but she was close enough. She knew what she was doing and what it meant, but she didn’t care. She had to do it to make the madness stop. She never claimed to be the healthiest person around, Michael knew that. She had her issues just like anyone else. But what Michael didn’t like was how she handled hers.

  She left the scotch and rose to sling her purse over her shoulder. She crossed the room and blew out the candles, then locked her office door behind her. She walked down the hall and exited the building through the rear. Rain knocked on her umbrella as she hurried to her car. By the time she crawled inside and lowered her umbrella, her phone had dinged with a new message. She closed the door, called the service, and listened.

  “Yeah, I’m Kyle, twenty-seven, five foot seven, short blond hair, brown eyes. I’m up for anything and everything. Looking for older women, fit and fine. Bi-curious okay with me. First time with a woman? Let me be the one. Call me at 602-555-1437.”

  Elaine sat for a moment and watched the rain run down her windshield. She shouldn’t have drunk; that was a no-no. And the excitement of the session had been more than she was used to. And though she fought it, she could feel the desire coming on. The w
ise thing to do would be to go home. But home was the worst. Pain lived there. Festered there. It was often suffocating. She placed her palm on her heart and willed the fluttering to stop. After a few minutes of deep breathing, she felt a little better. With a new determination, she dialed the number and put the phone to her ear.

  Chapter Eight

  Johnnie hurriedly entered her loft and closed the door behind her. Breathless, she leaned against it and tried to get her bearings. She’d driven straight from the woman’s office on autopilot and could not recall the drive home. The woman’s voice thrummed through her and her skin still burned from her steady gaze and heated touch. She opened and closed her hands. They were sore from gripping the steering wheel. She’d almost had to tear them off once she’d pulled into her parking space.

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  She took in her spacious loft and inhaled the clove smell of her scented candles, which lingered long after they were blown out. She thought about sinking down onto the couch to relax in the scent, to try to rid her of the spicy cinnamon smell of the woman’s office. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sit still or be able to concentrate on a movie. So instead she glanced at the bed with the sheets messy and strewn. It called to her, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  She rubbed her temple and crossed, zombie like, to the fridge and opened a cold bottle of water. Once she swallowed, she could hardly bring herself to stop, a raging thirst overtaking her. She hardly stopped long enough to breathe before she was twisting open another. The cold felt good coating her windpipe, but it did little to cool the fire still burning inside her. She emptied half the second bottle and tossed her cell phone onto the kitchen counter. There were texts and messages, but she couldn’t deal with them right now.

  Instead she walked to her bed where she placed the water on her nightstand, and sat to remove her shoes. She noticed the tremble still remained in her hands as she fumbled with the laces. Her T-shirt was clinging to her back, and her heart still raced beneath her chest. If she closed her eyes she could still feel the woman’s touch, feel her palming her jaw, so delicately, as if she were cupping a baby bird. As if Johnnie were fragile and would crumble right before her.

  No one had ever touched her like that before, so gentle and caring, looking at her like she was something precious, something that would vanish into thin air if not treated with great care. She ran her hands through her hair and realized she didn’t even know the woman’s name. She didn’t know anything about her. Only that she had moved her in ways no one else had ever done and she’d done it all in under an hour.

  Go home and feel all these feelings.

  What did that mean? What was she supposed to do?

  She couldn’t even control the shaking of her hands, much less anything else. Unable to sit still, she rose and walked into her living area. Somehow, she had to slow herself down and get control. She had to do something. She eyed the large canvas against the wall. It was behind several others that were smaller in size. She moved those aside and brought out the big one. She placed it on her easel and ran her hand across the surface as she imagined what she would paint. She loved the rough feel of the canvas and the way it sounded as she moved her hand along its surface. Sometimes she could sit for an hour, running her hand over the canvas trying to dream up an image to paint. It usually soothed her, but tonight it only fed her growing fire. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The woman would not leave her mind. She opened her eyes.

  Yes, the woman was perfect. The woman would do.

  She tore off her T-shirt and got to work with her mind focused. She had to get her on canvas. To capture that look, the one of desire. She had to bring her eyes to life, and paint her skin as it glowed in the candlelight. Her hand didn’t shake as she began to sketch. Her heart rate slowed a bit but still beat heavily, which only fueled her mission. When she painted, nothing else mattered. Nothing could infiltrate her focus. Though inwardly she wanted to celebrate at having the urge to paint, she kept her focus on her work, too determined to take the time to smile.

  Somewhere in a far-off land, her phone rang. Light years later, someone yelled at someone outside her door. She only moved from her stool when the sun fully set. She turned on her standing lights, angled them at the canvas, and continued. When she grew thirsty again she ignored it. Hunger long ago had faded. When she looked at the clock for the first time, it said nine fifteen. When she looked again, it was after eleven. When she finished, it was after one.

  She didn’t bother to stare at the painting; she had the image burned in her mind. She killed the bright lights and sank into the couch with her paint splattered hands in her lap. Her arm and shoulder singed with pain, but she didn’t care. She felt pleasantly spent, as if she’d just ran a marathon.

  When her eyes threatened to close, she cleaned up. When her step grew heavy, she stripped, and stepped into the shower. She wanted the water hot, and she stood still under its assault, letting it beat up her skin and taut muscles. She let it wash away the day and the dry paint but it could not wash away her mind. She could not lather the woman away, rinse her off, and then repeat. The most she could do was dry off, stumble into bed, and pray for sleep. But the high ceiling loomed and the fan she kept on for sleep taunted her. Her mind began to slow and melt, and it jumped from the woman to her friend Jolene, to a time when they walked the hot streets, searching for a purpose, a life, a home.

  A tear slipped down her cheek and her mind fell into another file, this one from her childhood. And an image of Ashley came. Her best friend. They were twelve years old and growing closer. Too close. They’d lay in bed at Ashley’s father’s house, giggling into the night, talking about the boys at school. But then Ashley had grown quiet and Johnnie had turned to look at her, to make sure she was okay. To her surprise, Ashley had kissed her. The move had startled her and she’d stared, confused. Ashely turned and leaned down and kissed her again, this time, reaching down to touch her between the legs. Johnnie had made a noise of surprise and pleasure. She kissed her back and stared up at her as she touched her through her pajamas. A light came on and it pierced her eyes. Ashley was torn from her and drug from the room, crying. Johnnie had sat up and watched with horror as her father ushered her away. And there, at the doorway, stood Ashley’s mother with her arms crossed.

  “I’m calling your mother. You’re no longer welcome here.”

  Johnnie blinked heavy eyelids. More images came. Short and blurred. Voices, some clear, some muffled, calling from the past. This was how it was every night. The past coming back to haunt her and torture her. She would lie there and feel it all again. Shame, embarrassment, sorrow. None of the memories that came were good.

  She blinked again and this time held the image. It was the woman and she was smiling at her and reaching out for her. Johnnie stared and warmed as she reached for her in return. When their hands touched, she fell into the woman and then fell into sleep, with all the rest dissipating from her mind.

  Chapter Nine

  Elaine found Kyle quickly at the small coffee shop. She was sitting in the back corner, sipping a coffee while staring out the window. Her taut muscles showed through her tight T-shirt. Her hair was longer than Riot’s, but her jaw was nicely angled and set, as if she were on a mission of great importance. Elaine refocused and ordered an iced chai latte. When it was ready, she walked slowly to the table and extended her hand.

  “I’m Elaine.”

  “Kyle.” She seemed pleased as she gave a firm handshake. She motioned for her to sit and Elaine did.

  “I have to admit, I’m not usually into the whole meet for coffee thing,” she said with a coy smile.

  “I’m not either,” Elaine confessed. But for some reason she needed to meet this woman first. Was it because of Riot? Or was it because of her latest fiasco with a woman? Both were at the forefront of her mind. But with a long sip of her chai latte, she pushed them both firmly away.

  “So how do we do this?” Kyle ask
ed.

  “I don’t know. I think we’re supposed to talk.”

  Kyle sat back. “Is this your first time?”

  Elaine laughed, amused. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. You seem a little nervous.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, a little uneasy.”

  Elaine took in a deep breath and sat back to cross her legs. “It’s been an unusual day.”

  Kyle leaned forward. “Instead of asking about it, how about I just make it go away?” She reached for her hand. Elaine allowed her to cover hers. The touch did nothing for her. Her skin felt warm but unremarkable. Not like Riot’s.

  Elaine stared at their hands and then stared into her face. Kyle was young, confident, strong.

  “You don’t want to know all about me?” Elaine asked.

  Kyle smiled. “Only what you want to tell me.”

  “That makes this very easy then.”

  “Good.”

  Elaine removed her hand. Her heart fluttered and she felt a little lightheaded. She wouldn’t be able to push things tonight. “I’ll tell you what I like, and you tell me if you’re interested.”

  Kyle drew closer and pushed her coffee away.

  Elaine whispered, “I like to watch.”

  “To watch.”

  “Yes.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. I want to watch you do things to yourself.”

  Kyle looked out the window and mulled it over for a bit.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I get to touch you?”

  “No.”

  “Will you ever touch me?”

  “No. Not tonight.”

  Kyle sat back as if in deep thought.

  Elaine sipped her latte. “I will, however, tell you exactly what to do.”

  Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  She smiled. “That sounds interesting.”

  “I think so.” She pushed back from the table to stand.

  Kyle stood with concern marking her face. “You okay?”