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

by Lynn Cooper

  She cackles, sounding like the Wicked Witch of the East from Wizard of Oz. “I’d say your best bet for getting off is with the all-intriguing and devilishly-handsome Dr. Midian.”

  Preparing to make a hasty exit, I tighten the belt of my navy peacoat. I didn’t remove it earlier because Menopausal Myrna keeps her apartment cold enough to hang meat. My voice is every bit as frigid as the temperature inside her living room. “You have a sick, one-track mind, my friend. I think it might be best if you and I took a little break from each other,” I say, stomping to the door and seeing myself out.

  MORNING COMES WAY TOO soon after a sleepless night. Through bleary-eyed exhaustion, I am barely able to pour myself a glass of milk without spilling it. I don’t even attempt to cook breakfast for fear of starting a fire. There’s a convenience store a few miles from the house I’m renting. Since it is on the way, I pop in for a day-old, Otis Spunkmeyer blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee. I finish both by the time I reach the top of the seemingly never-ending cement steps in front of the courthouse.

  Chunking the clear, plastic wrapper and empty paper cup into an outdoor trash receptacle, I open the door. On weak, shaky legs, I make my way to Court Room Seven while stifling yet another yawn.

  My lawyer, a thin man with square, wire-rimmed glasses, a Porky Pig nose and a weak chin, is sitting behind the defendant table. When he hears me approach, he lifts his head from an open briefcase and greets me. He has a distinct lisp that makes him sound exactly like Sylvester J. Pussycat. Everything about this man is cartoonish. I guess it’s true: you get what you pay for. And since public defenders are free for those who can’t otherwise afford representation, I’m stuck with a character from The Bugs Bunny Show. I’m not sure if this guy will be able to do me any good, but he sure would make Warner Brothers proud.

  He extends his hand, and his fingers feel fragile enough to break as I enclose them in mine. The gesture is over quickly, and I’m grateful for small favors. Having to touch the equivalent of a clammy skeleton gives me the creeps. He clears his throat loudly before saying, “Missth Patton, my name isth Baron. And I’m very pleasthed to meet you. Judge Warren will be presthiding over your caseth,” he says, smiling as if the name should mean something to me.

  “Is he nice?”

  “No, but he isth fair.”

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I nod and take a seat in the simplistic-styled wooden chair next to his. It’s no fancier or any more comfortable than the old, spindled, straight-back chairs at the orphanage. I guess they save the comfortable chairs for higher profile cases like murder or treason, I think as I feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’ve always hated that sensation. The one where you know someone is watching you. That their scrutinizing, judgmental eyes are burning a hole right through you.

  Chapter Four

  Quill Midian

  ZURI DOESN’T SEE ME as she enters the courtroom looking half asleep. I should have grabbed her by the arm, pulled her ample ass over my lap and spanked her for cutting it so close. She is a scant sixty seconds shy of being late. Judge Warren doesn’t tolerate tardiness or much of anything else inside or outside of his courtroom. As my receptionist’s little, five-year-old granddaughter would say, the man is a true grumpalumpalous.

  My soon-to-be patient doesn’t need any more strikes against her. Despite my connections in the district attorney’s office, she still ended up with a hard-hearted judge and a pig-nosed attorney. I don’t disrespect the defender because of his appearance or his speech impediment. Some of the smartest, most likeable people I’ve ever met have been on the plain-looking side with all sorts of anomalies. Never judge a book by its cover is a great motto, one I adhere to. But I have no problem judging a man on his performance. And this Baron—better known as Butthead in the legal world—had to take the bar exam fifteen times before passing. Even then, I’m certain his parents had to pull some pretty tight strings for him to get his license. Just goes to show, wealth does not equal intelligence. It’s quite obvious he and his family have more money than they have brains.

  What I was able to do for Zuri was the most important thing for her overall health. Instead of her being carted off to jail immediately after her psych evaluation, I was able to convince the cop she assaulted to follow doctor’s orders and let her stay at the hospital until the date of her hearing. I finagled the early-morning slot via the solicitor’s office in exchange for a favor. The less anyone knows about that the better. I didn’t want this beautiful enigma to spend a single second behind bars. I still don’t. I want and need the chance to unravel the puzzle wrapped inside a riddle named Zuri Patton. I’m hoping my testimony to her mental condition, along with a solid plan of treatment, will convince Judge Warren to go easy on her.

  The bailiff scratches his belly then loops his thumbs over his wide, black belt before saying, “All rise for the honorable Judge Warren.”

  The scuff of chairs being pushed back and the shuffle of feet fill the courtroom for a few seconds before the command to be seated is given.

  Despite everyone being quiet as a church mouse, Judge Warren bangs his gavel. I’m betting he beats that thing about as often as he does his pencil-thin dick. What can I say? I heard some things at the athletic club. At least he has an authoritative air when he says, “Miss Patton, you’ve been charged with public indecency in the form of lewd behavior aboard a public transportation bus. Additionally, you resisted arrest by blatantly attacking Officer Ruckert. How do you plead?”

  Butthead clears his throat about a kajillion times before answering for his client. “Your honor, my client pleadsth not guilty by reasthson of temporary insthanity. We throw ourselvesth on the mercthy of the court and askth that my client be given probation in combination with intensthive behavioral therapy.”

  “I’ll take the request into consideration after hearing from your expert witness.” Flipping through some papers on his bench, he says, “Dr. Midian, please take the stand.”

  I detect a distasteful tone in the way he speaks my name. Right now, I’m really wishing Greyson and I had gone easier on the judge and his tennis partner during last week’s doubles match.

  After the bailiff swears me in, I take a seat and wait for Butthead to fire off the first question.

  “Dr. Midian, can you desthscribe in your own wordsth the mental condition afflicting Missth Patton?”

  Who else’s words would I use, you stupid fucker?

  “My evaluation revealed that your client suffers from a delusional disorder.”

  “And what exthactly doesth that mean?”

  Let me see if I can dumb it down far enough for even you to understand.

  “In layman’s terms, a person with delusional disorder cannot distinguish between what is real and what is imagined. For example, they might hear voices who dare them to do unladylike things or see people who aren’t really there.”

  Zuri gives me a go-to-hell look that I ignore. I know my testimony to her state of mind is mortifying and embarrassing, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Plus, Judge Warren needs a convincing and believable reason to waive jail time. Cops don’t look kindly on perps getting off with a slap on the wrist. They want the book thrown at anyone who attacks or disrespects them in any way.

  “Doctor, how hasth my clientsth behavior concretely reflected your diagnosthis?”

  I can feel Zuri’s periwinkle-blue eyes searing my skin like the red-hot tip of a blacksmith’s iron. Foolishly, I meet and hold her gaze while I answer Butthead’s question.

  “In front of a busload of passengers, Miss Patton believed she was performing the sexual act of fellatio on a stranger she had just met.”

  “But there wasth no man on the video.”

  “No. Your client was in a deep delusional state where her perception of the situation was not at all accurate.”

  “Can you cure Missth Patton?”

  No more than I can cure your ignorance, asshole.

  “I can effectivel
y treat her delusional disorder with cognitive behavioral therapy. She would likely need at least six months of intense psychotherapy with a minimum of three sessions per week.”

  “And where would you sthee her?”

  “In my office.”

  “I assthume that would be preferable to treating her in jail.”

  Of course it would, fucktard.

  “In my professional opinion, Zuri Patton would make better progress if she were not behind bars. I conducted an extensive psyche-evaluation during her stay at Doyle Pleasant Hospital. And despite her aggressive behavior toward Officer Ruckert, I found her to be of no threat to herself or others.”

  “Then why did she attack him?”

  Are you fucking trying to get your client thrown in the slammer, you damn bumbling twit?

  “Her lashing out was a direct result of a normal flight-or-fight response. Given her state of mind, she was merely defending herself. Miss Patton’s actions should not be viewed as assault but as self-defense.”

  With a smug smile that is totally unwarranted, Butthead says, “On that note, the defensth reststh, your honor.”

  All I can do is shake my head when Judge Warren tells me I can step down. For the next ten minutes, we listen to the prosecution yak on and on about how Zuri deserves to serve at least one year in prison where she should receive treatment from a state-appointed psychiatrist.

  When the prosecuting attorney finishes presenting her case, I catch Judge Warren’s eye before he retires to his chamber to make his decision. My gaze is gritty but full of unspoken promise. Whatever the judge wants from me, he’ll get it if he keeps Zuri out of jail.

  During the brief recess, I make my way to the lobby and grab a cup of mud water from the vending machine. Calling it coffee would be a sin. I halfway expected Zuri to follow me out here, but she is likely too pissed to give me the time of day. However, her anger is irrelevant. When we get the sentencing we want, she’ll be kneeling at my feet, thanking me.

  Judge Warren takes all of five minutes to reconvene.

  “Will the defendant please rise,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. The black, shiny sleeves of his robe dramatically drape over his wrists, giving him the air of some exalted biblical character. Like Moses when he came down from Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments tucked under his arms looking all holier than thou with his flowing beard and glowing face.

  “Miss Patton, for the charge of assault on an officer of the law, I hereby sentence you to two years of probation. For the charge of indecent and lewd public behavior, you will complete six months of intensive psychotherapy. You will make and keep three weekly appointments with Dr. Midian. If you miss a single session, you will be in violation of your parole. One slip-up is all it will take for me to send you to prison for one year. Do you understand your sentence?”

  Zuri takes a deep breath that enticingly lifts her bountiful breasts beneath a light-yellow, cotton sweater. The seams of the Raglan-style sleeves accentuate the outer curve of those perfectly-shaped globes.

  “Yes, sir,” she says softly.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “Just one, your honor.”

  I can see Judge Warren’s eyebrows begin to knit into a deep furrow. He wasn’t expecting her to ask him anything. He operates on intimidation for a reason. He doesn’t want any lip from anyone.

  “Go ahead.” He grinds out the words between clenched teeth.

  “Could you appoint another therapist to treat me? I don’t want Dr. Midian.”

  Now I’m the one frowning. It’s all I can do to squash down my feelings of fury. What in hell is the ungrateful, little wench trying to pull? Can she not see if it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have gotten off so easy? She cannot possibly think her stupid-ass lawyer had anything to do with the lenient ruling.

  It’s obvious Judge Warren is having an even harder time controlling his temper than I am. “It’s Dr. Midian or no one,” he snaps. “And if I ever see you in my courtroom again, I’ll sentence you to a maximum of five years for felony assault on a police officer.”

  Banging his gavel, he promptly retires to his chambers, not giving Zuri or anyone else a chance to respond.

  Taking Judge Warren’s lead, I make a quick departure from the courthouse. I still have patients to see in the afternoon and, honestly, I’m not in the mood for a confrontation with Miss Patton. I figure getting an earful from her during our first session tomorrow morning will be plenty soon enough. I know from treating previous persons on probation that their initial appointment is always scheduled for the day after their hearing. Hopefully, Lawyer Baron will apprise her of that little detail. Even if he doesn’t, my receptionist—Helen—will give Zuri a courtesy call after hours like she does all of my patients.

  WITH ONE OF THE longest workdays of my life over and night closing in, I grab a glass of scotch on the rocks, a medium-rare ribeye steak, baked potato slathered in butter and a side salad drizzled with ranch dressing at a hole-in-the-wall bar-and-grill downtown before heading to Dominic’s Dungeon. After the stress of the last twelve hours, I need to blow off some steam. Or, maybe I can just sit back and watch as others do so. Often times that is every bit as gratifying, and nobody on the face of the earth can beat away a shitty day like a sadist.

  Plus, I’ve been kind of curious to see where Fawn plays. Greyson said she acted out her darkest fantasies in a controlled environment and, since he interrupted our conversation in his office yesterday, she didn’t get the chance to share those naughty desires with me.

  Since many sociopaths dabble in sadism, it will also afford me the chance to be near my own kind. The dungeon and places like it tends to provide an environment in which those with a warped sense of empathy can feel normal. Most people experience empathetic feelings toward someone who is suffering, whereas a sadistic sociopath empathizes with the abuser and not the abused. I told you it was warped. Don’t worry, though; I feel empathy for no one, and I am not sadistic in the least. I’m all about pleasure, not pain.

  I would bet my entire bank account balance that any of the women I have dated would say I am a kind and generous lover. In fact, it’s my prowess in the bedroom which makes them fall so deeply in love with me. Ironically, I end up hurting them more by not reciprocating their affection than I would if I took a cat-o-nine tails across their bare backs. Speaking of floggings, there are several in progress right now.

  It’s a frigid February night. Even with no visible heating system in the dungeon, the room is sweltering amid a sensory overload of strobing lasers, black lights and ambient music. I take off my tweed jacket before sitting down in a hard-plastic, turquois-colored chair. It’s one in a long line, bolted to a wall adorned with classy, vintage 1950’s pinup pictures. The art seems so out of place amidst the kinksters dressed in their fetish outfits.

  Although Dominic’s Dungeon is one large, open space, it’s marked off by independent sections. Each one depicts a different scene. There’s an area equipped with a sex sling, another with a padded bondage table. The one I’m focused intently on features a spanking horse. Holding a leather, braided whip, Dominic stands over a voluptuous young woman who could easily have been a pinup model. Her face is turned away from the audience, but her body screams sex and her ass begs to be spanked.

  My cock turns to solid rock as Dominic rears back with the first crack of his whip. The sharp sound is powerful but impotent as he chooses not to make contact with her flesh. He is working the crowd as well as striking angst in the heart of his sex slave—a woman who is quickly becoming the object of my own dark desires. She begins to tremble with what I can only assume is an adrenaline cocktail of fear and anticipation.

  The second snap of his whip makes full-on contact. My breath catches, constricting my throat. She cries out, twisting her neck around so she can face her master. Tears are already streaming down her beautiful, heart-shaped face. The mesmerizing color of her gorgeous eyes shimmer like precious sapphire gemstones in the moonlight. I loos
en the knot of my tie and pull it out from around my neck.

  Despite the distant thrum of music, the low hum of sexual tension and whispering voices, hers clearly resonates in my ears. “Please stop, Dominic. I said I’m sorry.”

  He slowly, methodically winds the leather around his hand, readying the whip for another lash across her bare, peach-shaped ass. “Not as sorry as you’re going to be.”

  Her butt cheeks quiver in sync with her bottom lip as she whimpers. “I—I told you I couldn’t help it. I tried to get them to release me, but the nurse wouldn’t let me leave. That mean Dr. Midian made me stay.”

  “Yeah well, you don’t work for the damn doctor. You work for me. You do as I say,” he snarls, bringing the whip down across the backs of her thighs.

  I’ve wrapped the tie so tightly around both my fists it’s cutting off the blood supply to my fingers. No matter, I can’t release them. I have to restrain myself from pummeling Dominic to death. But Zuri is squalling uncontrollably now, and I’m about to seriously lose my shit. Each of her tears feels like a stab to my heart.

  Jumping to my feet, I’m almost to her when Greyson’s nutty receptionist magically materializes between Zuri and Dominic. Fawn places her hand on his sweaty forearm. Digging her red, lacquered nails into his skin, she says, “Back off, bastard! How the fuck do you expect her to be able to walk your dog if she can’t stand up?”

  He takes a deep breath before violently shrugging her hand off his arm. “This is none of your fucking business, bitch. I pay Zuri good money to pamper of my darling Doberman. While Miss Patton was taking two spa days for herself, precious Piper was pooping all over my penthouse floor.”

  Fawn shakes her head. “First of all, dickwad, the psychiatric ward is as far away from a spa as you can get. Second, you’re a lowdown, scum-sucking cockroach for beating this poor girl. I’m going to cancel my membership and take everyone I know with me.”