by Helen Vera
Mr. Freckles suddenly storms out of the room looking like he’s about to burst into tears.
“Oops.”
I sneak out of the building and cross the street, unlocking the Maserati along the way. Twenty-year-olds are such pussies. I snort as I remember how I once kicked a guy’s ass because he asked me to stop smoking next to his fucking dog. On the fucking street!
This shit is getting ridiculous. Everywhere I go around New York, I run into idiots who eat gluten-free cupcakes and hug trees like a bunch of lunatics. Real men are becoming a commodity these days. No wonder women of all ages are throwing themselves at me.
Speaking of women, I need to get Vivian Swanson out of my mind. She’s one hot piece of ass. I mean, I’ve seen her pictures in newspapers, but none of them do her justice. She’s tough yet delicate like a juicy, forbidden fruit.
I slide into the red passenger seat of my brand new sports car. I usually buy a new ride every two years, and this beauty right here is only ten days old. The engine purrs like an exotic jungle cat, and I imagine fucking Vivian in the backseat, her legs over my shoulders.
I blast the radio to drown out my dirty thoughts, and order Siri to find me a list of New York psychiatrists who provide anger management therapy sessions. I drive around the crowded streets of Manhattan, thinking of ways to replace Vivian with another shrink. I even call five psychiatrists and they all tell me the exact same thing; changing therapists is not allowed. I am legally obligated to visit the one assigned to me by the fucking state of New York.
Thanks a lot, Judge Adams.
I bang my head against the steering wheel in frustration and head back to the office.
Alison, my assistant, meets me by the glass doors of my prestigious law firm, Knight. She hands me my afternoon cup of coffee and smiles briefly while avoiding eye contact.
I take a sip of coffee and walk around the office with Alison by my side. The junior lawyers are away on their annual team-building retreat in Rome, so I’m left alone in my kingdom with two of my senior lawyers.
“You received a call from Mr. Renard who wants to know if you can handle his case.” Alison fills me in. “He’s accused of stealing an 80 million Jackson Pollock painting from his ex-business partner.”
“Not interested,” I reply as I walk the short distance to my office. Alison and her short legs struggle to keep up with my hurried pace. I hired her shortly after my third assistant, Emily, quit her job due to my ‘horrible’ temper. My track record when it comes to assistants is quite shitty.
My office is at the very end of the hall with a clear, unobstructed view of Central Park. The interior designer who furnished it knew my obsession with Japanese katana swords, so they are featured everywhere in the room. Alison predictably avoids looking at the large painting hanging across from my desk. It depicts two samurai warriors on the verge of killing each other. The image is definitely gory thanks to the violent brush strokes that bleed crimson all over the canvas.
“What else?” I ask her, taking a seat behind my desk. I boot up my computer and take another sip of coffee. My mind drifts to Vivian and her cute, flustered face. I need to figure out what to do with those 120 hours of therapy and I think I have a pretty vivid idea.
“A reporter from Rolling Stone Magazine wants to schedule an interview with you, preferably this week.”
“Call him back and tell him to fuck off,” I reply, not in the mood for any of my usual shit. “In your own language of course, not mine. The last thing we need is to piss off another fucktard with a pen and notepad.”
“Okay.” She nods.
“If anyone else calls, tell them I’m not here.”
“Yes, Mr. Knight.”
She turns around and closes the door gently behind her on the way out. I grab a Cuban cigar and turn to face the window in my swivel chair. The clouds are thick and gray now, carrying a shitload of rain. I light up my cigar with my signature katana-shaped lighter and take a long, satisfying drag.
My memory takes me back to my days at boarding school where I drove my teachers crazy. During sophomore year, I made our attractive history teacher quit her job, and then I fucked her all summer in the backseat of her Toyota.
A brilliant idea suddenly pops into my head. An idea worth a million dollar and a hundred blowjobs. If changing therapists is not allowed, then maybe I can push Vivian’s buttons until she kicks me out of her office. Just thinking about it was giving me a hard-on.
Yes. I can kill two birds with one stone and fuck her out of my system.
Sounds like a win-win situation to me.
6
VIVIAN
The week flew by faster than a peregrine falcon.
Here I am, sitting in my office, my nerves on edge thanks to my upcoming session with Jax Knight. He really knows how to leave a lasting impression. That day, after he left, it took me a while to compose myself. Mrs. Flora, God bless her heart, hardly gave me any time to regroup. She came in through the door with her trademark gloves and sat down on the couch like she owned it.
Patients who require anger management therapy are usually a lot easier to deal with. They never leave inappropriate doodles on their questionnaire, unlike Mr. Knight. His tattoos and perfectly sculpted cheekbones are weapons of mass distraction.
Andrew used to be handsome as well, but his blue eyes and blond hair were far from striking. He was your average boy next door. Jax, on the other hand, is something else entirely.
I take a sip from my butterfly teacup, hoping the chamomile calms me down. The past two weeks have been incredibly stressful, so the last thing I need is someone like him. Just because he’s rich and notorious, does not mean that I’ll simply give him a license to walk all over me.
Constance, my fellow colleague whose office is next door to mine, barges into my room uninvited. She’s obviously back from her trip to the Bahamas, tanned and relaxed by the looks of it. She greets me with a quick hug and hands me a souvenir bag. I thank her for the mug and the fridge magnet, expecting her to leave. She chooses to stay and keep me company instead.
“I feel so bad for missing Andrew’s funeral. You have no idea.” She says apologetically.
“It’s okay, really. No one could have predicted what happened. It took us all by surprise.”
“Tell me about it.” Constance nods. “Can I have some of that sweet chamomile tea of yours?”
“Of course.” I get up from my comfy armchair and pour her a cup from my red thermos. “So, how were the Bahamas?”
“Oh, it was terrific! We stayed at the British Colonial Hilton and went island hopping and scuba diving. The weather was absolutely wonderful.” She gushes. “You should take Lucy and go enjoy the warm and fun atmosphere.”
“Yeah. Maybe next spring.” I reply.
Constance eyes me with open curiosity. I smile and take a sip from my pastel blue cup.
“So, how are things at Andrew’s law firm? They must be absolutely devastated by what happened, especially his partners.”
I resist the urge to snort out loud. Lawyers at CCB were ruthless and I know for a fact that most of them hated Andrew, except for Lewis Cooper. He’s the only one who took the news hard and cried on my shoulders during his memorial service. “Oh, they are,” I reply.
Lewis, Andrew, and Steven were the main architects behind Caldwell, Cooper, and Bradshaw. Their law firm was incredibly popular because of all the divorce cases they won over the past seven years. They also had filthy rich businessmen as clients. According to Andrew, he earned millions thanks to these clients. When I first asked for a divorce, he threatened to withhold his money from his own daughter just to spite me.
“Is their business going to survive Andrew’s tragic death?”
“I think so. Besides, Andrew wasn’t handling any new cases except for one important case related to some famous construction firm in Manhattan. At least that’s what he told me at the time.”
“And what about you? How are you holding up?” She asks. I know he
r question comes from a place of genuine concern, but I’m not in the mood to discuss my feelings at all.
“I’m fine. Really. I’m just taking it day by day. Everyone is.”
Constance tilts her face to the side. Her short brown bob is distractingly shiny. It looks more like a wig from this angle. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to come back to work right now? You’ve barely taken any time off. The last time you were on vacation was more than two years ago when you were pregnant with Lucy.”
“Wow. I had no idea you were keeping track of my vacation days.” I reply with a hint of sarcasm. If it were up to me, I would have returned to work the day after Andrew died.
“Honey, it doesn’t take a scientist to figure that out. Trust me.” She chuckles.
Silence fills the air for a few seconds while she drinks her chamomile tea. I glance at my watch and realize my appointment with Jax Knight is only a few minutes away.
Fanfuckingtastic.
“So, how is Lucy? I bet she’s missing her dad like crazy.”
“I doubt it. He was hardly a father figure to her.” I blurt out. “Sorry, I did not mean to say that.”
Yes, you did! Get your shit together Vivian.
“Listen, Vivian. I’m here for you if you need to talk about Andrew.”
“There’s nothing to talk about really,” I say, trying my best not to sound rude even though she’s really starting to get on my nerves.
I get up from my chair and light my newly purchased lavender candle. I collect both teacups and candles, so my office is decorated with an assortment of Royal Albert teacups and colorful candles from Bath and Body Works. They usually help me stay calm and focused.
Not today though. Today was turning out to be slow as a turtle and full of nosy questions.
“By the way, do you believe the rumors surrounding Andrew’s death?”
“What rumors?” I ask, turning around to face her.
“Oh, hun. I thought you already knew. They’re saying that he might have been murdered. I mean, what made him go to that construction site in the middle of the night? It all sounds so fishy to me.”
I remain silent for a few seconds, digesting her words. Her curiosity was practically shining from her eyes. Boy, does she love to gossip. She really does not know when to stop asking questions.
“Sorry, I was out of line. My curiosity can get the better of me sometimes.” Constance apologizes. I hate the way she looks at me like I’m some fragile flower with damaged leaves. She really does feel sorry for me, and I hate it.
Yes, Andrew broke my heart into a million pieces, but that was long before his death. He taught me how love can easily turn into hate, and how marriage can become a battlefield. The man I loved and trusted was nothing but a mirage.
“Vivian, are you okay?”
Anger and bitterness suddenly take control of my tongue. I dig my long fingernails into the back of the armchair and shake my head no. “Actually, come to think of it, I won’t be surprised if his death is ruled a murder. See, Andrew was an expert at lying and cheating. He had this little black notebook where he kept Polaroids of all of his conquests. He even boasted about having sex with more than a dozen women! So yeah, he died a womanizer. I should have carved that word onto his tombstone because I’ll never forgive him for what he did. Not in a million years.”
Constance’s mouth is wide open in shock. She looks away, speechless for the first time ever.
Her mobile phone saves the day, so she quickly excuses herself and leaves my office to answer it. Embarrassed, I wait for her to shut the door before bursting into tears. They stream down my face like hot lava.
A loud knock on my office door takes me by surprise, and I suddenly realize that my session with Jax Knight is already here.
Awesome. Just what I needed right now.
7
JAX
I open the door, expecting Vivian to be waiting for me with a furious look on her face. Instead, I find her standing there with a pair of swollen red eyes. She’s obviously been crying. The moment she sees me, she quickly turns away and grabs a handful of tissues from her desk.
“Mr. Knight. I uh...I’ve been expecting you.”
Today, she’s wearing another black dress and a matching pair of sexy black heels with cherry red soles. I lick my lips and resist the urge to bend her over and fuck her right then and there.
“Everything okay?” I ask, shutting the door behind me.
“Yes.” She lies. “Please have a seat.”
I decide to delay my teasing for a few minutes to give her time to settle down. I watch her silently as she places the notebook on her lap and gets her pen ready. She looks vulnerable as hell, and all I can think of is trapping her against the wall and fucking her brains out.
Her gaze drifts to my Prada suit, which was custom-made by one of the head designers in Milan. I know I look good, and she seems to be thinking the exact same thing. She nods towards the coffee table separating us and asks me to pick up my questionnaire.
“So, care to tell me what those doodles are all about?” She inquires in a sharp voice. “Because last time I checked, you’re the one who needs to complete those 120 hours of therapy, not me.”
I smirk and lean back against the wide leather couch. “Are you going to tell me why you were crying earlier?”
She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “No. Now please answer my question.”
“Fine. Honestly, I think this whole therapy thing is total bullshit.”
“And why is that? Have you ever been to therapy before?”
“Fuck no. But I know the drill. You’re going to sit there and listen to me talk about my life. Then you’re going to dig deeper in order to find out why I have such a short fuse. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
She’s awfully quiet. I lean forward, my eyes languidly sliding down her sweet petite frame. “I’m too much to handle, Doc. Trust me.”
Vivian looks away and writes down something in her small notebook. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Mr. Knight?”
“Fair enough.” I shrug.
I suddenly realize that the office smells like a fucking Cinnabon. It makes me want to hurl. I glance around the room and find the stinky candle on a shelf in the corner next to a bunch of other tiny weird candles. It’s like two candles fucked and gave birth to miniature ones.
“What are you doing?” Vivian asks as I get up and walk over to the shelf.
I blow out the red candle and go back to my seat. She rolls her eyes and sulks in her chair. “You seriously need to get your nose checked because there’s something terribly wrong with your sense of smell. Cinnamon? Really?”
“Can we please get back to the subject at hand?”
“Sure,” I reply. “You want to know why I drew all those tits on my questionnaire. Right?”
She gets flustered when I mention the word tits, and her cheeks turn into two ripe tomatoes. “Oh come on, Doc. You’re acting like you’ve never seen a real pair before.”
“Mr. Knight. Kindly refrain from using such explicit language in my office.” She stutters.
“Oh come on, Mrs. Swanson. What are you a virgin or something? I thought you were married.”
The words escape my mouth before I could stop them.
Oh for Fuck’s sake.
She suddenly bursts into tears, her notebook sliding to the floor as she gets up from her chair. I sit there for a few seconds and watch her cry her eyes out. I know that mentioning her dead husband was the reason behind her tears. The fucker did not deserve such an elegant doll.
I walk over to where she’s standing and hand her a tissue paper. “Now I can finally cross make my shrink cry off my bucket list,” I say jokingly. She sneezes into the tissue and keeps staring out the window. It starts raining again, and this time thunder and lightning join the party.
“Very funny.” She sobs. “You know, my husband used to love making jokes like that, but he was an asshole.” She adds. “He was a bully a
nd a liar. He rubbed his infidelity in my face and treated me like shit. So no, I never really was married. If by marriage you mean love, loyalty, and trust, then all three were missing from my life for quite some time before Andrew died.”
“If your husband was such a dick, then why didn’t you divorce him?”
“Believe me, I tried. It was going to be the divorce of the century, but then he fell to his death and now I’m a widow.” She sighs.