by Holly Hart
“About a week, I guess,” Harlan says. “It all started about then.”
“What did?” I ask, probing.
“Exactly what you asked,” Harlan replies, with an amused expression on his face.
I stifle a grimace. I was right. Harlan’s sessions are going to go exactly as I imagined they would. Slowly…
“How long do you usually sleep, then?” I ask, switching up my strategy.
“About five hours, give or take.”
“That’s not much.”
“All I’ve needed since the Navy,” Harlan replies.
I nod thoughtfully.
“What about last night? How many hours did you get?”
Harlan shrugs. “Two… maybe three at a stretch. Not enough.”
“Take me through it,” I say. “Step-by-step, as though you were preparing for bed.”
Harlan looks me directly in the eye and raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t need to say a word. My cheeks redden instantly under his examination.
“How detailed do you want me to get?”
“Tell me everything,” I say. My voice sounds choked in my throat. I can’t help it. Harlan is throwing me off my game.
“I try and get to bed around eleven, I guess,” Harlan says without breaking eye contact. “I sleep naked, with the AC set to exactly 66°.”
He says that word – naked – so casually, without so much as blinking an eye. Harlan knows exactly what he’s doing, but so do I. It’s a defense mechanism.
Harlan might not view it precisely that way, but that’s what it is. I’ve seen it before – a thousand times – although I’ll give him one point for being the most attractive man to attempt it with me… But I know Harlan’s game. He’s trying to throw me off the scent of whatever is really the problem.
I know that he would do exactly the same thing in a pitch meeting with an investor, or in front of Wolfe Capital’s executive board. It’s a strategy – one that has allowed him to get to the very peak of the business world.
It is a simple, clear, but extremely powerful strategy – never let anyone in, never admit to failure, never appear vulnerable.
“Do you have nightmares …” I ask, attempting to steer the interview back on track and expose a crack in Harlan’s apparently perfect façade, “… about your time in the SEALs, or anything else.”
“Never,” Harlan replies with such immediate self-assurance that I know he’s telling the truth. “It’s not that I’m waking up all the time, Skye. I’m just not getting to sleep in the first place.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I smile.
Harlan pauses, studying my face once more. “I watched the video, you know,” he says.
I take a second to breathe. Harlan’s throwing out a hook, and I should know better than to lunge for it. But still …
“What video?”
“The video of the speech you gave to the ‘Women in Wall Street’ conference – all about traders and the high occurrence of,” he grins, “sexual dysfunctions. It got me thinking. Is that why you became a therapist, Skye? To try and fix yourself?”
Don’t engage.
Harlan continues without missing a beat. He sits up, and lazily drags his tongue across his bottom lip before speaking. “I can do it, you know Skye. I can make you come.”
I feel like he has punched me in the gut. I can’t believe Harlan can speak about sex like that, so easily. He says it as a statement, unembarrassed.
He offers me my deepest desire without blinking an eye.
“What?” I squeak.
“We made a deal, didn’t we?” Harlan grins. He leans forward, suddenly in his element. “You fix me, and I fix you.”
“I didn’t agree to anything of the sort,” I reply, slowly regaining control over my voice. “I’m here because I have to be.”
“I don’t think so,” Harlan replies in a throaty growl. “I think you want to be here, Skye, even if you won’t admit it to yourself. You could have refused to treat me. Used that conflict of interest shit to throw me off the scent. Off your scent…”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, and turn my face away from Harlan, my boss. A screen of my bright red hair falls in front of my eyes, acting as a shield. I take the time to compose my features as best I can.
“You’re wrong…”
Harlan somehow avoids rolling his eyes. “I’m sure,” he says. “But just in case I’m not, when should I pencil in your first session?” He cocks his head to one side. “And …?”
I go for the hook yet again. “… ‘And’ what?”
He shoots that burning white smile at me. “And at what temperature do you like the bedroom?”
My eyes spring wide open before I master my expression. I have to end this, now. It’s not getting either of us anywhere. This whole session has been a disaster.
“I think we’re done,” I yelp.
I walk over to my desk, doing my best to regain control of my breathing. I crouch down, open the bottom drawer and pull out a small gray notebook.
“You think?” Harlan replies. I can picture his expression: eyebrow kinked, amusement dancing across his lips. “Because I thought we were just getting started…”
“Here,” I say, walking over towards Harlan’s chair, and thrusting the notebook towards him. “Take this.”
Harlan’s eyebrow kinks further. “What is it?”
“I think you know,” I reply, my mind going to the moment I saw him reading my own journal, in this very office.
Harlan eyes the notebook suspiciously. He makes no move to accept it. “Well …what do you want me to do with it?”
I let my frustration with the way this session has gone get the better of me. “What the hell do you think?” I splutter. “Write in it!”
Harlan stands up. He’s in my space. So close he could run his hands up and down my body without stretching out an arm. So close he –
Pull yourself together.
I thrust the notebook at him, trying to duck his attentions. He accepts it easily, batting away my attempt to hide.
“Think about what I said,” Harlan growls, leaning forward and kissing my cheek. “Whenever you decide to break your dry spell, just give me a call. It’s a standing offer.”
5
Skye
After the aborted session, I head straight for Greenwood – the traders’ favorite sports bar cum strip club. It doesn’t take an expert to figure out where the Wolfe Capital boys are hanging out. I just follow the sound of raucous whoops and cheers.
I push my way through a crowd of hangers on – mostly ludicrously attractive girls who barely look over the age of twenty-one – all squeezed into tight little cocktail dresses. Hookers and strippers, I guess.
“Look where you’re going, bitch,” one of them says to me with a judgmental sneer on her face.
I ignore her. I’ve got enough pent-up anger writhing in my belly to not really give a shit about what some jumped up gold-digger thinks about me. She gives me the stink eye as I get to where she wants to be.
“Hey, look who decided to join us,” one of the traders – a Texan named Rex – drawls. “What’re you doin’ here, Little Miss Perfect?”
I shoot Rex a deathly stare. “I need a drink.”
What kind of name is Rex, anyway? It’s a dog’s name in my book.
Rex licks his lips.
Or should I say his chops. Dogs lick their chops, don’t they?
“That feels better now, don’t it,” Rex ostentatiously slurs, slumping down on a red leather couch next to me. His arm flies out, and rests on the top of the couch – just a few inches from my bare shoulders. I turn my attention to him, but the barely-legal girls twirling their toned bodies around gleaming stripper poles are rarely out of sight.
“What does?” I say coolly, turning my gaze on the drunken trader.
“You,” he slurs again. “This,” he gestures happily out at the cavorting strippers. “Them!”
His arm starts to inch closer to
my uncovered shoulders. I shoot him a killer glare, and when that doesn’t work, I double down.
“I hope you’re not doing what you I think you’re doing…”
Rex bites his lip, and turns on his best come-get-me eyes. I’m cold, and hard. He looks away quick, like frozen snow bouncing off a glacier.
“Ah guess not,” he says, shrugging. “But you cain’t blame a guy fer tryin’, can you?”
I smile. I like Rex, for all his latent misogyny and boastful braggadocio, deep down he’s got a heart of gold.
“Can’t I?” I murmur. “Say, Rex, do you ever think that your need to hit on every woman who crosses your path has something to do with your broken relationship with your mother?”
Rex nods seriously, and glances down at the tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “Ah guess so,” he says. “You know, when ya’ put it like that, it sounds kinda serious, don’t it?”
“It sure does, Rex,” I grin, reaching over and stealing the whiskey tumbler from fingers that clutch closed a second too late. “You’re a real piece of work. You should get –”
“– some counselin’?” Rex says hopefully, a delighted smile on his face. “Ya mean…in pri-vate? I could fit ya in, Princess…”
“I was going to say a mail order bride,” I fire back. “Because any woman who’s going to spend any time with you, Rex, is going to need one hell of a paycheck!”
“All I’m sayin’, Skye,” Rex throws his big, meaty hands up in the air and chuckles, “is that girl could be you…”
“Not in your wildest dreams,” I respond, grinning right back at him. “And eww, I better not be in your dreams, Rex. You hear that?”
“Hey – Ah ain’t making no promises,” Rex says. Then he squints, and his head sidles forward as he peers into the darkness on the other side of the strip club. “No shi-it,” he grins, shaking his head.
“What?” I ask, turning slowly, expecting to see some buzzed trader with his pants down his ankles.
“It’s the boss,” Rex says.
My stomach does a backflip – a spinning, Olympic-style, swan dive from the 10 m platform. Surely Rex doesn’t mean THE boss. Not Harlan?
“What –?” I choke, sending a burning surge of whiskey snorting up my nose. Tears sting my eyes.
Rex glances at me. “You okay there, darlin’,” he drawls in that broad Texas accent of his. “Maybe you should stay away from the hard stuff?”
I wipe the tears in my eyes away with the back of my hand. “Do not ‘darlin’ me,” I mutter, distracted.
My eyes trace Harlan’s path through the seedy darkness at the other end of the strip club. He looks like he’s searching for something. Someone.
Me?
“Well don’t take it personal, like,” Rex says, neatly stealing his whiskey back. “Ah’m just sayin’ maybe it would be better if you stick to something a bit weaker: a white wine spritzer, maybe?”
I ignore his patronizing tone. “Does he come out often?” I ask, keeping my eyes glued to Harlan Wolfe’s path across the room. “Drinking with you guys, I mean.”
Rex turns his own gaze on the boss, and shakes his head slowly, thoughtfully. At least, that’s how it seems to me.
“Never,” he says. “Not once in the two years that I been here, anyhow.” His glance flicks back to me.
“You don’t need to worry, dar –, I mean Skye. You work on Wall Street. Ain’t no one gonna fire you for knowin’ how to have a good time.”
“I’m not –!” I choke. “I mean, I’m not worried. Just –”
What, exactly?
My palms are sweaty, and the lie rolls off my tongue with an awkward, jagged rhythm, like a drag race on hubcaps, sparks on asphalt. My face is bright red, burning hot, and in my head it’s an illuminated sign, pointing directly at my embarrassment.
Lucky Rex is oblivious to all that. He strokes the stubble on his chin.
“Say, Skye,” he says, lowering his voice so it’s only us. “You should buy him a drank.”
My head snaps to look at him, panic in my eyes. “What!”
Rex holds his meaty palms up to placate me. “From me, I mean.” He pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “Ah’m this close, Skye, this close to the big one.”
The panic crashing my eardrums like waves on a San Diego beach subsides a little. His bonus. Rex is talking about his bonus.
“So, you buy him a drink,” I say, choking out the words. “Why should I?”
My gaze flickers, and I watch Harlan out of the corner of my eye. He has stopped at the other end of the bar. He’s wearing suit pants and thousand dollar Oxford wingtips, and an open necked white shirt. But as I squint into the darkness, I realize that he’s thrown a messy, faded dark brown leather jacket over his shoulders.
It suits him. It’s classy, without trying to be, yet somehow subtly dangerous. It makes me wonder what happened to him in the Navy. What he did. What combat he saw.
As I turn my attention back, Rex’s eyes are doing the talking. They dart, just for a second, to my chest.
A sense of outrage burns through me like a wildfire, and I latch onto it gratefully. I need something – anything – to distract me from my embarrassment, and my nervousness around Harlan. God, I’m not even ten feet away from him, and yet I’m still as tongue-tied as an awkward teenage girl.
“Oh!” I exclaim, touching my breast and leaning back. “You think it’ll come better from me, will it? Because of my –,” I raise my eyebrows, “– assets.”
Rex shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Well …when you put it like that…” he trails off. “Ferget I said anythang.”
“I need to freshen up,” I mutter.
In truth, I’ve noticed Harlan’s body rotating, his eyes searching the strip club. I know, by instinct, that he’s hunting for me. I can’t bear the thought of him turning his sights upon me right now. I can’t bear the idea that he knows my darkest secret.
I can’t fathom how he plans to fix me.
“Hey!” Rex says in a half-complaining tone of voice. “Where’re you goin’, princess? I didn’ mean it like that, honest…”
I ignore the slurring trader, averting my gaze. I’m hiding from him, but most importantly, from Harlan. I move quickly through the darkened space, suddenly aware of its tawdry, sticky smell. Is it that I don’t want to see Harlan, or that I don’t want him to find me here?
I dart down a darkened hallway, and into the women’s restrooms. Thankfully, they’re clean, and look barely used. I guess this place doesn’t get many visitors from members of the fairer sex. I splash water on my face, and try and get a grip of myself as tinny Euro pop vibrates through the restroom’s door, sounding like the rattling of a cheap drum. My chest heaves, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
The rational side of my brain is fully aware of how ridiculous this is. I’m behaving irrationally. I’m a big girl. I need to grow up and face the fear that’s bothering me.
Except…
Except… facing the fear is just not that easy. I’ve somehow attracted the attention of one of the most powerful men in New York. I can’t just hide from him forever.
Or can I?
My mind jumps on the idea, as if it’s found an opening, or an escape. It will be easier, I reason, this way. I won’t have to face my fears head on. Maybe I can just hide from them.
Forever starts now, tonight. I need to get out of this club without Harlan seeing me, and after that I need to put an end to this – this thing that’s brewing between us. I shouldn’t even have let it get this far.
I could lose my professional license for simply entering into a personal relationship with a client – let alone one who’s my boss! If anyone ever found out …
It’s not worth thinking about.
I know what I need to do now. I brush a few strands of red hair across my face, as if hoping to create a disguise, and study myself critically in the mirror.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Why would a man as devastatingly powerful and attractive
as Harlan Wolfe be interested in a plain, boring girl like me? Whatever his game is, I don’t want to play it.
No. The way forward is clear. I need to get out of this club without anyone – especially Harlan – seeing, and then I need to cut him off.
For good.
I push the restroom door open, and the music slaps me in the face. It takes a second or two for my eyes to readjust to the hallway’s darkness.
“Skye.”
The voice startles me. I twist my neck searching for it. When I see its owner – the very last person I am prepared to encounter after what I just decided – I flinch. My feet are stuck to the floor. I don’t know what to do – whether to run or duck back into the restroom. In the end, I simply stand there like a deer caught in headlights.
Harlan continues as though he hasn’t noticed the storm of emotions raging on my face.
“Not the kind of place I expected to find you,” he says, leaning against the wall with his hands thrust into his pockets.
I cast my eye over his frame without being fully aware of what I’m doing. The leather jacket clings to his body – tight where it needs to be, loose where it doesn’t. His shoulders look like they’ve been chiseled out of stone, his torso thick and powerful. He looks like he could break me, like he could –
Harlan raises an eyebrow. “Skye – are you in there?”
I blink, and search desperately for my voice. When I find it, I blurt out, “what are you doing here?”
God, get a grip, already. Just excuse yourself, and then run…like hell.
“Pleased to see you, too,” Harlan replies, shooting me a funny look. “But seriously, what are you doing here? I didn’t pick you for the kind of girl who’s into the ladies,” he grins hungrily, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips.
“Not,” he pauses to lengthen my awkwardness, “that that thought fills me with anything but interest, you understand…”
“I’m not into anything,” I growl, finding a sliver of backbone. And then my tongue runs away from me. “You know that better than most. Besides… this isn’t … appropriate.”