Love at First Sight Series Boxed Set: (Books 1-5)

by Lynn Cooper

  As to Greyson’s lovely wife, I’ve never seen Latasha in anything fancier than a pair of Levis and a cold-shoulder shirt. The woman is completely down to earth and more frugal than my coupon-clipping grandma. His kids, Lucas and Layla—fraternal twins—attend a local private school, and the whole family sits down to supper every evening without fail. I myself have the good fortune of sharing a meal with them once a month. Sitting at their dining-room table is like being a special guest star on any family-oriented television program from the late 1950’s or early 1960’s—Leave it to Beaver, Father Knows Best, Ozzie and Harriet—you name it, and that’s what Greyson’s home life is really like.

  After all these years of being friends and sharing the same vocation, I have no idea why he persistently portrays himself as a workaholic with a highfalutin, frivolous wife and spoiled children he scarcely sees. Like I said before, most mental health professionals have a thread of insanity running right down the middle of them. Greyson and I make up part of those statistics.

  I give him a knowing grunt. One that says Cut the crap. You have an amazing family and a thriving practice, you lucky sonofabitch.

  “Tell Latasha the cube steaks she gave me—the pack she got on sale last week—was divine. I seared them in a skillet with olive oil, a generous smattering of freshly-ground black pepper, diced Vidalia onions and mushrooms then finished it off in the oven with some small, red potatoes.”

  He cuts me a let’s-get-down-to-business look and walks behind his highly-polished, mahogany desk. A monstrosity which leaves no doubt about his monetary worth. Given its size, I’d say he was overcompensating for a tiny penis. But I know different. Accidentally, I caught a glimpse of his package at the gym a few months ago. We were showering after a particularly grueling racquetball game which I won. I mistakenly thought his back was to me when I turned to grab a bottle of shampoo. Being secure in my own masculinity, I can honestly say his dick was impressive. I can also say it is nowhere near as big as mine.

  I’m not a pompous prick by any stretch of the imagination, but when I said I was well-hung, I wasn’t kidding. I figure most women know that all men are obsessed with size. Every man has at one time or another measured his erection. In my case, I needed a yard stick instead of a ruler.

  Once seated in his vulgarly-expensive and luxurious office chair, he props his elbows on his desk and interlaces his fingers. He’s ready to listen, but I’m not sure I’m ready to talk.

  Establishing eye contact, Greyson falls into what I call his therapist voice. He lowers it an octave and softens his inflections. “I thought we made considerable progress last week, Quill. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “If you consider us locking horns and butting heads on how I became what I am, then I would say our session was a splendid success.”

  He lets out a long breath. You don’t have to be Freud to know it’s a sign of irritation driven by impatience. But he quickly reins it in by seamlessly plastering on his most indulgent facial expression. “I was referencing the significant moment when you finally opened up about your father, telling me what really happened in the garage when you were fifteen and your brother Benjamin was twelve.”

  I rake a hand through my hair while simultaneously swinging my legs up onto the couch. The direction of this conversation warrants a prone position. When one speaks of childhood devastation, one should be lying down. Since I have no intention of revisiting the memory, I say, “Boy! You shrinks sure love to lay everything at the parents’ feet. I mean, usually it’s the mother who’s to blame for all of her offspring’s woes. But fathers are plenty damn culpable, too, aren’t they?”

  Greyson and I both know it’s true. Parents screwing up their children isn’t just a cliché, it’s a fucking fact.

  “Nice try, old friend. But you know deflection doesn’t work with me. I still think it’s important for you to understand the origin from which your sociopathic tendencies and behaviors were born.”

  “The origin was my mother’s womb. I’ve told you this many times. Like the lyrics to one of Lady Gaga’s most popular songs, “Don’t hide yourself in regret. Just love yourself and your set. I’m on the right track, baby, I was born this way.”

  “Damn it, Quill! Sociopaths are not born. They are formed,” he says, unclasping his hands and pounding a fist against his gigantic desk calendar. “We’ve identified the point at which you made the switch from a loving, compassionate and empathetic being to—”

  “A heartless monster lacking sympathy. A man who no longer has any emotion or feelings for anyone. Does it really matter how I got here? My mental condition is permanent. It can’t be changed.”

  “I believe it can. But you have to be willing to do the work.”

  “Nobody has a stronger work ethic than I do. However, I will not waste a single second of my time or yours on something so hopeless. I’d much rather focus on someone who can be helped.”

  He drops his head in concession and what any onlooker might view as defeat. But I know better. Greyson isn’t letting this go. He is only letting it rest. We’ll be right back here again in the near future. Back to a place where the monster that turned me into one is still lingering in the dark. Still showing up in the shadows. Still torturing my mind.

  “I can only assume you are referring to Zuri Patton. What did your evaluation reveal?”

  Now it’s my turn to take a deep breath and extend my exhalation. I also need to stand up. I don’t think I can talk about Zuri without pacing. By some crazy impossibility, she has crawled under my skin, and I have to figure out how.

  As the soles of my Salvatore Ferragamos sink into the lush, cream-and-coffee-colored carpet covering Greyson’s floor, I notice the ridiculously-priced, impressionist paintings hanging too close together on the walls. It’s only natural for me to make a mental note of how polar opposite our office décor is.

  My desk is small, giving my six-foot-four frame an even larger and looming presence. I have oak-finished, hardwood floors and a simple, oval, Persian area rug lying in front of comfy, theatre-style seats. I encourage my patients to relax by kicking back and reclining. My receptionist provides them a warm or cold beverage for the built-in cup holders. My walls are lined with bookcases. Each shelf is filled with old, leather-bound books interspersed with lush, healthy houseplants.

  I once dated a botanist. Before we broke up, she took me to her greenhouse and gave me every variety from the philodendron to the pothos. Each plant had heart-shaped leaves. Her attempt at subliminal persuasion was not lost on me. I often thought she was in the wrong line of work. She would have excelled in the field of psychology. Sadly, her methods were ineffective when it came to me. That’s the problem with having no heart. You can’t give away what you don’t possess.

  As my feet make a track between his desk and the door leading to the reception area, I say, “Miss Patton is delusional. Her symptoms are textbook. Even after I showed her physical evidence and visual proof, she refused to believe what was before her very eyes.”

  Greyson takes a few minutes to mull over what I’ve told him regarding the incident on the bus, the video and Zuri’s reasoning for her actions.

  “So you think the patient is presenting with a classic case. One in which she hears voices as well as seeing things or people who aren’t really there.”

  “I’m not sure. I get the feeling this Myrna might be the equivalent of a make-believe friend. It’s quite possible Zuri is using Myrna as the vehicle through which to perpetrate her bizarre behavior.”

  “It’s Zuri now, is it?”

  “Since when is it a crime to use a patient’s first name?”

  “Since never. In all the years I’ve known you, in the entirety of your career, this is the first time you have ever done it.”

  I shrug.

  He pushes the issue. “I think you’ve connected with this woman on an emotional level. She’s sparked some kind of feeling in you.”

  “Yeah, a horny one.”

  “This is more th
an physical, Quill. This could be a breakthrough for you. Proof that I’m right. If you would only let me help you work through your past, you could be a normal, emotionally-functioning man once again. Together, we can fix what got broken fifteen years ago.”

  “I’m thirty now. I spent the first half of my life being a regular person. I’ve spent the second half living as the sociopath I was always destined to be. You think my father made me like this, but he didn’t. The things that happened that night in the garage merely jumpstarted who I really was all along. I wasn’t magically formed in one moment, by one incident.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  For a second, I think I have finally reached Greyson and made him understand.

  “Quill, the root of your psychosis started with a series of pivotal events leading up to that incident—the main event which broke your mind.”

  I rub my hand across my face as if to wipe away his words. Increasing my pacing, I say, “This here conversation is over. For now, we are talking about Miss Patton, not me.”

  “All right, then. What course of treatment do you think will serve her best?”

  “She’ll fair well with one-on-one psychotherapy in conjunction with cognitive-behavioral therapy.”

  “And who will you be referring her to? I can’t take on any more patients at the moment, but Hendricks has an opening. His office is right upstairs.”

  “Hendricks is a pretentious pussy. I’m going to treat Zuri myself.”

  “That would be a huge mistake, and I think you know it. Look at yourself. You can’t stay still. This woman has already crawled so deep into your psyche, you have to pace in an effort to get away from her. This is a case of transference at its ugliest. Exactly what is it about her that has you on razor’s edge?”

  I stop in front of Greyson and stand as still as a statue if for no other reason than to prove his smug ass wrong. As I begin to answer, I know he is one-hundred percent right. “She’s feisty and funny. Fearless and fragile. An undeniable temptress who is oh-so-fuckable.”

  “If you need to get laid, call the botanist up. If she isn’t interested, phone anybody from your little black book. I’m quite certain one of them will be happy to oblige,” he says, grabbing my shoulders. “But for God’s sake, don’t put yourself in a position to get sued or have your license revoked. Your work is everything. I don’t give a shit how hot Miss Patton is or how strongly you’re attracted to her. She isn’t worth ruining your life over.”

  “Nothing will get ruined, except maybe her panties when I rip them off her.”

  “This is utter insanity, Quill. I beg you to reconsider.”

  “Your concerns have been taken under advisement. But you and I both know I’m the person who can help Zuri most. If you hadn’t thought that you wouldn’t have disrupted my morning and asked me to go see her at the hospital. I can handle this. Trust me.”

  Greyson drops his hands to his side. This time his gesture of defeat is genuine. “Okay. What’s your first course of action?”

  I give him a reassuring smile. “I have to get her to admit that Myrna isn’t real. If I can dispel that delusion, I can devise a plan to modify her behavior.”

  Chapter Three

  Zuri Patton

  BETWEEN THE MONEY I have put away in a coffee can and the loose change between my couch cushions, I manage to scrounge up enough to buy a new car battery. According to the backyard mechanic Myrna has recommended, it is all my trashcan on wheels needs to chug on for a few more miles. I am super-relieved to be independently mobile again. Given the pickle I’m in, I plan on avoiding any type of public transportation like the plague.

  When I get to my friend’s second-floor apartment, she answers the door before I even have a chance to knock. It’s as if she has been standing in front of it, staring out the peephole awaiting my arrival. It’s been two days since I last saw or spoke to her. Even after my mandatory mental health assessment proved I was not a threat to myself or anyone else, I had to stay another 48 hours in the Doyle Pleasant Psychiatric Ward for observation.

  When I demanded to be released, the nurse told me she was just following doctor’s orders. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the sexy-as-shit psychotherapist purposely kept me under medical lock-and-key to prove a point. He wanted to show me he was the one in charge. More importantly, he needed to prove that to himself. You don’t have to be clairvoyant to know a man like Dr. Midian has a constant need to be in control. But the way he looked at me, the way he sensuously caressed the underside of my wrist before undoing the restraints showed both of us just how out of control I made him feel. His body—especially his cock—betrayed him in the worst kind of way.

  Don’t get me wrong; I was flattered by his physical reaction, but I’m also pissed. I don’t like the game he’s playing. The one where he throws his weight around under the guise of medical protocol. He isn’t the only one who can pull a power play. The next time he and I meet, I’ll show him exactly who’s holding the cards. He doesn’t know it yet, but I keep the Queen of Hearts up my sleeve and an Ace of Spades in my panties. Before it’s all said and done, I’ll raise the ante, call his bluff and take the entire jackpot before he knows what hit him.

  Myrna gives me a big smile, maybe too big, and waves me in. Her exuberance pulls me out of my revenge fantasy and brings me back into the present moment. “Come on, girly! I just took a pan of pigs-in- a-blanket and a peach cobbler out of the oven. We’ll wash’em down with a nice bottle of Pinot Noir while you tell me all about getting arrested.”

  Normally, I’d be bubbling over with enthusiasm at the prospect of sharing such a scandalous adventure. But Dr. Midian shamed the starch right out of me. Until he showed me how my little stunt on the bus had negatively affected so many people, I had only seen it as fun and games. The fulfilling of a dare that meant nothing to anyone other than me and Myrna.

  Trailing behind her to the living room, I say, “An arrest is an arrest. I got cuffed by a cop. End of story.”

  The look of disappointment on her face cuts me deep. I never want to let her down. Being a recluse, her real-world experiences are nonexistent. She lives vicariously through mine, counting on me to entertain and regale her with all the sordid facts. My downplaying a single second of what happened and all the ramifications that followed devastate her. Like a drug addict needs a fix, Myrna needs me to retell every little detail.

  We sit down on her retro, powder-blue sofa. The fabric is soft and, despite huge buttons bulging from the cushions, it’s quite comfortable. When the furniture was new, the accents were likely tufted into the upholstery foam instead of protruding as they are now. Beside a half-dead, shedding fern in the corner sits a matching Ida arm chair. The plant needs watering badly, and the chair could do with a good dusting. It’s piled high with half-finished cross-stitching projects, tangled pieces of yarn and mismatched remnants of cloth. I imagine it to be a graveyard for crafting projects gone wrong.

  After popping a greasy yet flaky wiener wrapped in perfectly-baked, puff-pastry dough into my mouth, I compliment her new V-neck sweater. “That fuzzy, pink fleece flatters you to no end, Myrna.”

  She sighs in exasperation. I know she isn’t interested in discussing her latest online bargain but, like a good friend would, she humors me. “It was on clearance for three dollars at the Wal-Mart. Did you know those crazy fuckers started putting out Spring-wear in the middle of January?”

  I don’t say it, but I definitely know how weird the world of retail is. The summer I turned eighteen, I was employed by a local clothing store. Right after the Fourth of July holiday, we started stocking Christmas apparel. That was six years ago but feels like a lifetime. Figuring I’ve stalled long enough, I take a big swig of the spicy, burgundy-colored wine and delve into all the dirt of the past two days.

  With as much animation and flare as I can manage, I tell Myrna about my embarrassing arrest. I include everything from my getting tased at the bus stop to the matronly woman who took my mugshot and f
ingerprints during processing to the touchy-feely lesbian who performed the body-cavity search on me before I was transferred to the psychiatric ward for my mental-health evaluation by Dr. Midian.

  Naturally, she hones in on what she refers to as the juiciest part.

  “Zuri, this is wonderful news! Since the sexy shrink’s steely rod already surges for you, seducing him will be easy-peasy.”

  Shaking my head, I switch out my fork for a spoon and dig into the warm, gooey, peach cobbler. The pale-yellow fruit is the perfect taste combination of sweet and tangy while the crust is a decadent mixture of fluffiness and chewiness. “I’m done with the dares, Myrna. So whatever you have in mind, forget it.”

  She empties her goblet with one long guzzle. “Don’t be a spoiled sport. And don’t you damn dare forget that accepting my dares is a job requirement, not a choice.”

  Her hateful, sulky tone nearly causes me to choke on the last bite I put in my mouth. When I met this quirky, high-spirited woman a few months ago, I thought she was a Godsend. That somehow the crossing of our paths was kismet. I digitally stumbled upon her ad on Craig’s List at the lowest and loneliest point in my life. Not only did I need a job where I could be my own boss and make my own schedule, but I also needed a friend.

  As an isolated agoraphobic, Myrna needed an emotional conduit to the outside world. She and I were a perfect fit. Our connection had been instant and deep. But lately I’ve noticed how narcissistic and selfish Myrna has become. Or maybe she has always been this way, and I am only recently registering it. I mean, it’s one thing for her to dare me to dance naked on the rooftop in the moonlight or to flash her neighbor who happens to be a priest or to make a penis out of snow and then post it on social media. But it’s something else entirely when her dares involve me breaking the law and possibly serving jail time.

  Standing, I stare down at her in anger and disbelief. “In case you don’t realize it, my fate and my future are at stake here, Myrna. Your stupid dare has had serious consequences for me. Tomorrow, I have to be in court with a public defender by my side. I’m just hoping and praying he can get me off with probation and a few months of psychotherapy.”