Lance: A Hitman Romance (Santa Espera #2)

by Harley Fox

  I give the clock on the wall a surreptitious glance and it tells me it’s five minutes to two. Almost time for the session to end. Outside in the foyer I hear Amin’s music — Iron & Wine this time — float in softly through the door. Once Gregory’s left I’ll have two hours before my next appointment. Two hours where I can go over some notes, maybe do a little reading. Or maybe I can just lock my door and quietly take care of this little problem down between my legs. Thinking about last night is making me unable to concentrate, and I have a feeling it shouldn’t take long for me to deal with it …

  “… don’t you think?”

  I blink, being brought out of my thoughts and back to the room where I see that Gregory is staring at me. I clear my throat, subconsciously telling myself not to blush.

  “I’m sorry?” I ask.

  “I said, anybody would be scared in a blaze like that, don’t you think?”

  I clear my throat again. It’s gone dry.

  “Of course,” I reply. “Most people would fear for their lives.”

  “Most people,” he repeats, saying the words slowly, as though testing them out. I swallow, trying to moisten my throat. I could really use some water.

  “Yes, most people,” I go on. “And how did you feel? Running into those flames?”

  But just as Gregory opens his mouth to answer, a raised voice in the foyer makes us both turn our heads to look.

  It’s Amin, and he sounds stern. I look at Gregory and find him staring at the door, his eyes wide. When I look back at the door my heart beats faster and I know I just feel nervous, but it’s not a scared sort of nervous. It’s something else.

  Finally Amin breathes a loud sigh and a few seconds later a knock comes at my door. Amin opens it up just enough to poke his head through and look at me. He isn’t smiling.

  “Katie? We have a situation.”

  “Amin,” I say, “I’m in the middle of a session.”

  “I know, but there’s somebody here who wants to see you and he doesn’t have an appointment.”

  “So make one for him.”

  “That’s what I told him, but he said he wants to see you now. He looks,” Amin glances at Gregory, and then pokes his head in a little farther and lowers his voice. “He looks scary.”

  My heart skips a beat. Scary. That’s how I described that man from last night. But I just shake my head again, getting rid of thoughts of him. Instead I furrow my brow. Really, in a business such as mine you tend to get some people who assume you’re available at their beck and call, like a pill they can pop in their mouths at any point. These people usually come in without an appointment, but they’re typically of the frightened and stressed out variety; desperate, and searching for help.

  “Do you want me to call the police?” I ask Amin in an equally low voice. But he shakes his head.

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that. He doesn’t look crazy scary or anything, he just looks … scary.”

  In the chair across from me, Gregory takes in a breath through his nose. I see him push out his chest and bristle himself.

  “Does he need taking care of?” he asks Amin, but I cut in before Amin can respond.

  “Thank you, Gregory, but that won’t be necessary.” To Amin, “Okay. Tell him to wait in the foyer. I’ll see him when I’m done with Gregory.”

  Amin still looks unsure, but he nods and closes the door and a second later I hear him explain the situation over the mellow-sounding music. When I turn back to Gregory, he’s still bristled and is staring at the door.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “This type of thing happens every now and again.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” he asks, turning to me. He has that excited look on his face again, and I remind myself to jot that down. “I’ve dealt with some of these guys. They can be real loonies.”

  I merely smile.

  “I’ve dealt with them too, and it’s nothing I can’t handle. But actually, our session is just about up,” I indicate the clock on the wall. When Gregory looks up at it his excitement drains away and I stand up from my chair. “But come back next week and finish telling me the story of that house.”

  Gregory gets up as well and I show him to the door. When I open it and he steps out, I see Amin at his desk, looking annoyed. He turns to me and I hold up my hand with my fingers splayed, mouthing, “five minutes,” before shutting the door.

  So I have an unscheduled client. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Usually they just want somebody to listen while they let off some steam. Rant a little. Half the time I don’t even charge them. Still, it’s better to be prepared in case this particular person will need some legitimate help.

  I walk over to my chair and pick up the notepad, jotting down my last note before ripping Gregory’s sheet out and taking it to my desk to be filed away. Once that’s done I fish a plastic bottle of water out of my purse and crack it open, downing the cool, refreshing liquid. The water cuts through my parched throat like … well, like a new river through a desert. When half of it is gone, I recap the bottle and place it on my desk.

  I turn around and look over my office. I want to make sure everything’s in order. It’s a beautiful day out but, as usual, my blinds are slanted down at just the right angle. My desk isn’t messy but it looks used. The chairs are positioned just right from one another. Oh, the Kleenex coming out of the box isn’t protruding enough. I walk over and fluff it up, to make it look more appealing. I’ve found that this helps encourage clients to take one if they need it, which in turn encourages more crying, which in turn encourages more talk.

  Once I’m certain that everything looks good, I smooth out the front of my skirt and walk to my door. I open it and Amin looks up. I don a welcoming smile as I peer around the corner to see my unexpected client, ready to call him in.

  Oh my God. There he is.

  It’s the man from last night. He’s standing in my foyer, looking at a picture hanging on the wall. His tall frame fills the room, with his broad chest and large muscles. When he turns to look at me I see him freeze in place for a moment. Our eyes lock and an eternity stretches where neither of us says or does anything.

  And then I realize that Amin is watching us, and I open my mouth, forcing sound to come out.

  “Hi.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but a smile comes up over his lips. I swallow and find my throat dry again.

  “Um, if you’d like to come in, I can see you now.”

  Still smiling, he begins towards me and I pull my head back into the office. As I do I see Amin’s wide eyes, but I turn away before my cheeks get a chance to blush.

  Okay, it’s okay. Don’t freak out. He’s just here because he wants to see a therapist. This is all one gigantic coincidence.

  Opening the door wider for him, I walk back to my chair. I hear him enter the office behind me.

  “You can clo-” I begin to say, but the door shuts and I turn around. “-se … thank you.”

  That smile is still on his face, but now that we’re alone he looks shrewd. He’s looking around my office, his eyes alight, curious.

  “Would you like to take a seat?” I ask, indicating the chair.

  His eyes dart to mine and my heart skips a beat.

  “Sure,” he says, and he walks over to the leather chair, sitting down. I sit down in my own, my throat still dry. I cross my legs, conscious of the fact that his eyes dart down to them as I do.

  “So,” I begin. “This is certainly a strange situation. For both of us. But perhaps it would be best if we just forgot what happened last night and start fresh instead. What’s your name?”

  “Lance,” he says, and despite what I just said the sound of his voice only reminds me of his grunts last night, his hot breath on my neck. I swallow again.

  “Lance,” I repeat, nodding. “Well, it’s very nice to see you again. My name is Doctor Katie-”

  “Simmons, I know,” he interrupts. That smile has broadened over his face and I feel myself
getting nervous under his stare. Is it because he’s caught me off-guard? Or because I can’t stop thinking about last night?

  “Of course,” I say with a forced smile. “My name is on the door-”

  “Doctor Katie Simmons, graduated with a Bachelor of Psychology from Columbia and a PhD in the same field from Yale. Began practicing eleven years ago, was in the field for three years before taking a sabbatical for one. Then you began working again seven years ago.” He levels his gaze, and there’s something more to that smile now. “And in those seven years you became one of the most celebrated psychologists in the city. And also the most humble.”

  I keep my face impassive. Is he trying to intimidate me?

  “You’ve done your homework,” I tell him. “You got that from my website, I presume?”

  “That, and other sources,” he says. He takes his eyes from mine and glances around the office again, casually, almost lazily.

  “And what other sources might those be?”

  “Little birds,” he responds, and my eyes narrow just a bit. He points to the windows. “Diffuse light. To give a sense of security and comfort? That’s pretty clever.”

  “I thought so,” I say, my throat still dry. I would kill for that water, but I need to make sure Lance and I establish just who’s in charge here. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Lance?” I ask. He turns and looks at me again.

  “Why?” he asks. “So you can pretend to listen while I sit in this comfy chair and cry about how my dad used to beat me when I was a child?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, confused, “did I say something to offend you?”

  Lance shakes his head, leaving my gaze again. “I don’t need this.”

  “Need what?”

  “Therapy.”

  “Well then,” I say slowly, “why are you here?”

  He looks at me again and that smile comes over his lips, and for a moment I think — maybe hope — that he’s going to stand up and walk over here and kiss me. But then he looks away.

  “A friend thought I could use it,” he says. “He recommended you. Said you were good.”

  “I’m even better when I know a little more about you,” I reply. He smiles at that.

  “Come on,” he says. “I think you got to know me pretty well last night.”

  The smell and taste of him flood my senses, but I shake it off.

  “Last night was … interesting, to say the least,” I tell him. “But I want to make it clear that I was not in my right state of mind last night, and that what happened will never happen again. Is that understood?”

  He only smiles.

  “Never say never,” he tells me, and inside I feel a twinge. “But I know you’re no stranger to reading people. In fact, I’m willing to bet you’ve already got a few theories running through that pretty head of yours about me. Don’t you?”

  I have to smile.

  “I do,” I say, glad he finally recognizes whose turf he’s on.

  “Well then,” he says. “I’d love to hear them. But before you begin, do you want me to grab you that bottle of water? You seem a little parched.”

  I blink at him. I thought I’d hidden my dry throat well.

  Well, if that’s the way we’re going to play it, then hand me the bat.

  Without speaking, I get up out of my chair and walk to the desk, grabbing the bottle of water and bringing it back with me. Sitting back down, I unscrew the bottle cap and take a swig, feeling the water cut through the dryness in my throat. Lance is watching me, his elbow on one arm of the chair, his chin resting in his hand. He’s got that smile on his face again.

  “Better?” he asks as I place the bottle down on the coffee table. I only glance at him before picking up the pen and notepad again, straightening back up. I cross my legs beneath my skirt and take a relaxing breath. We both look at each other.

  “Okay,” I say. “My theories about you. Well first, it’s obvious that you’re a big guy. You’re strong.”

  “I think you should know that better than anyone,” he japes. Ignoring the comment, I go on.

  “You’re not just bulky, though. You’re a specific type of strong. The type you have to work at. I think it wouldn’t be wrong to assume that this is a large part of your life, your strength, and your dedication to maintaining that.

  “Your clothes suggest a certain sense of coordination too, as though they’re calculated. That’s not something every person who lifts weights does. That means that you’re smart too. Not university smart, but smart in a practical way. If I were to use the nomenclature, I would say that you have street skills.”

  That smile seems frozen on Lance’s face. Inside I score myself a victory and go on.

  “You say your friend recommended me. That must mean that he knows the type of work I do. The types of people I usually see. And I’m sure you saw it mentioned on my website as well: those in the military, police officers, fire fighters … people who have typically experienced great levels of trauma, yet have been conditioned to consider that type of lifestyle as normal.

  “But you don’t strike me as that. You’re too well-dressed and too put-together to really have been in the thick of things. Besides, to be completely frank, you’re cocky. And people who have seen things they can’t un-see tend to lose that part of themselves. All this to mean, while you’re no stranger to violence, you’re certainly more in control of what you do. You didn’t just come back from fighting in the trenches.”

  I give him a moment to respond if he wants, but still he says nothing. Those eyes have never left mine, and I wonder what he’s thinking about all this. What he’s thinking about me.

  “You came here demanding Amin to let me see you today. But you claim not to need therapy. You’re secretive by nature, and you prefer to play by your own rules. You don’t like it when people tell you what to do. Especially when it puts you in an uncomfortable or vulnerable position. So, adding all these things up, and thinking about the type of work that would require these particular qualities, I’d have to say … that you’re a bodyguard.”

  Lance suddenly snorts in laughter, but recovers himself a second later. I watch him, keeping my face expressionless.

  “Oh man,” he says, unable to suppress his smile. “I think I may have fucked the brains out of you last night.”

  I clench my jaw.

  “I’m wrong?” I ask. “Okay. So tell me what I got wrong.”

  Lance recovers and his cocky smile returns. His eyes stay on mine for a long moment before he finally looks away, glancing around the room.

  “You know what I like about this office?” he asks, and I furrow my brow. “I like how calculated everything is.”

  I blink. “Calculated?” I ask him.

  “Calculated,” he repeats, nodding. “The blinds on the window, letting in only a certain amount of light. The things on your desk, making it look like you work hard, but that you’re not messy. The arrangement of the chairs, the color of the walls. Hell, even the books on your bookshelves. It both invites your patients in and lets them know that you mean business. It’s all calculated.”

  I swallow. I need that water again but I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  “And why would I calculate things like that?” I ask.

  “Because you want to make people trust you,” he says, his eyes finally returning to mine. “You want to make people open up. I can see it now. You welcome them to this professional office with open arms and you let them talk about themselves and they tell you everything that’s been going on with them, all the little problems and stresses they’ve had in their life. And you listen. Or at least, you pretend to listen. Because I’m willing to bet that for someone as accomplished as you, you’ve probably heard it all. Hell, I’ll even bet you even stopped writing down in your little notepad what they say, and instead just jot down their body language or how they speak. Am I right?”

  Now it’s my turn not to say anything. Lance’s smile widens.

  “I thou
ght so,” he says, nodding. “I like that. It must be hard. A female psychologist as smart and as hot as you are? It just makes sense you wouldn’t stop until what you do is perfect.”

  I swallow, my cheeks burning slightly. Whether at being read so well or at the strange compliment, I’m not sure. But he’s still looking at me and I need to say something.

  “That’s a fascinating theory, Lance,” I say to him. “But we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about you.”

  Lance’s eyes dance. “We don’t have to talk at all, if you want,” he says, and now I have to look away to stop the blush from rising to my cheeks. I compose myself and look back at him.

  “So … you’re not a bodyguard, that much is established,” I say. “But it’s obvious that you’re no stranger to reading people. That’s not something everyone can do.”

  “Nor nearly as well as I can,” he says. “… Except for you.”

  Focus.

  “What did bring you here today, Lance?”

  “I told you, a friend.”

  “But why?”

  Lance opens his mouth at first, but then he hesitates for a split second before saying, “I don’t know.”

  Interesting.

  “Okay. So one day your friend came up and told you that you should see a therapist and you came?”

  “No,” he admits. “We were talking.”

  “I see,” I say, jotting his reluctance to answer down on my notepad. “And what were you talking about?”

  Lance smiles again.

  “Nothing you want to hear about,” he says.

  I give him a smile. “Try me.”

  Lance’s eyes narrow a moment before he takes in a breath and lets it out.

  “I know this guy,” he finally says. “He’s the kind of guy that does work that a lot of people would never be willing to do.”

  “Oh?” I say, jotting this down. “And what type of work is that?”

  A beat passes. “He kills people for money.”