Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  Without warning, cars come screaming into the lot. The second they hit our floor, the lights and sirens come on.

  Clever cops. They didn’t announce their presence. Interesting.

  I drop the knife and step back, casually putting my hands behind my head. This is really fucking fun now. I can feel myself grinning.

  What a fucking night!

  Cops surround us, yelling “Freeze!” and all the usual stuff. My guys drop Senator Dick and comply. The girls scramble to hide in the limo.

  The man in the suit comes out from the line of uniforms, holding his badge and handcuffs.

  “I’m here to arrest you, Jaxon Covington,” he says gruffly.

  “Not a problem, Officer. I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. These men work for me, but they are…ah…socially challenged? Can’t always control them, you know? They get very protective of me.”

  “Is that right?” The detective smiles as he brings my hands down to cuff me.

  Even with my hands caught behind my back, I’m completely calm.

  Honestly, the cold metal feels pretty good on my wrists. I’ve been running pretty hot-blooded tonight.

  “Get the others. Somebody interview those women.” The detective gestures at my boys, and uniforms come forward to restrain my guys, who comply without a word. “And get a medic.”

  A younger detective comes through out of the spotlights. He walks over to us, looking at a tablet.

  “We gotta haul you in, Mr. ‘Jackson’ Covington. Quite a sheet here we need to go over with you. What were you thinking, huh, Jack?”

  He looks right at me as he says it. There’s ice down my spine. I can feel my face freezing as a grin creeps across my face.

  I roll, landing on my back. I flip my feet through my locked hands and spring up, smacking Young Detective in the jaw with both hands.

  I get three good whacks in before the other cops jump me. Bodies slam me against the concrete. I come down near Young Detective’s wrecked face, pouring blood onto the concrete.

  “Don’t call me Jack,” I whisper at his unconscious form.

  Alison

  Alison

  I’m sitting in the second row, trying to keep my mind on the trial. Jaxon Covington—the most interesting psychiatry case to date—is being sentenced for conspiracy and intent to harm. There are a host of other possible crimes, but I’m not taking that into consideration as I make my observations.

  The prosecutor is droning on with such a dull, monotonous tone I think half the jury is asleep. Jaxon is on the stand, looking perfectly calm. His hands are clasped before him, watching the prosecutor with an easy smile as he makes his case.

  Anyone this calm standing trial with these accusations is either utterly innocent…or a sociopath.

  I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes open with this fucking prosecutor. He’s still rambling. Granted, I didn’t sleep much last night; I stayed up late to process cases and to make my mental checklist for today.

  I fight it, but a small yawn escapes my mouth. As it does, Jaxon looks right at me with a smile on his face—one much different than that of the mask he’s put on for the prosecution.

  A chill runs down my spine as my eyes meet his pale, icy gaze. For a single moment, we’re the only two people in the courtroom. I gulp.

  The skills I’ve learned so far working in my profession have given me a strong sense of confidence in my analysis. But just moments ago, I had been comfortable saying that Jaxon Covington is harmless; however, now, as he leers at me, I decide a one-on-one session never hurt anyone.

  I really need to be sure I’m right on this case. I’ve always worked under a tremendous amount of pressure, and this line of work is no exception.

  It all started with my upbringing; my parents had high expectations. They were thrilled with medical school but less than approving with my decision to move into psychology and psychiatry.

  It doesn’t pay as well as oncology or surgery, and they have their own views of what I should be doing and earning.

  Still, this was where I had to go. I just know it’s my calling. I’ve always been good at reading people.

  My instincts never fail me. I understand people. All my training has only made me more focused, and I can unlock a person’s mind in minutes.

  Even while I’m the shit at analysis, and I mean the shit—I can pick apart their brain and hand it to them on a silver platter—I can’t understand their pain. I don’t feel their anguish.

  It’s that exact lack of understanding that ruled out surgeon on my list of paths for myself.

  How could I treat someone, cut into them, and make changes to their body without empathizing their pain? Not only did this seem to be a contradiction I could not solve, I was also just genuinely disinterested in the ins and outs of the body.

  For me, it’s all in the mind. Once I started learning the skills and tools needed to diagnose and treat mental illness, I knew I had found my passion.

  Though I’m not sure the cold, focused drive I have for unraveling someone’s thoughts could be called passion in a colloquial sense. I’ve never had a lover; no one has ever intruded into my mind the way I enter others. Part of me believes I learned these tricks solely to keep others out.

  It’s not like I haven’t experienced strong emotions in my lifetime, but looking back, it was few and far between. My upbringing was incredibly sheltered. I wasn’t allowed to go outside or really deviate from my studies at all.

  I’m more than certain my family’s strict nature plays a large part in my lack of ability to establish close friendships or any sort of romantic relationship.

  Instead of interaction and engagement, I’ve observed. Always. And now as a result, I read people remarkably quick.

  Within seconds, I know them, solve them…and then, what’s the point?

  I watch Jaxon on the stand as he begins to speak. The prosecutor has finally shut up, letting Jaxon have his say.

  For just a moment, right as he begins to speak, his eyes flick back to me. Those pale-blue irises with a dark, intense ring around them are such a striking feature. I can see them clear as day, even from the second row.

  It’s unnerving—both the color and the intensity of his gaze.

  Unnerving or not, it’s definitely intriguing. I’m sure I’ve seen those eyes before, that focused stare. Like something remembered from a dream.

  I’m not even sure what I remember; there’s just a haunting familiarity that annoys me with its persistence. It refuses to solidify as a true memory, leaving my mind chasing shadows down the rabbit hole.

  Perhaps I’ve been working too hard. To have finished my degree by the time I was eighteen with extra credits was a great achievement. At twenty-two, now working high-profile cases in the busiest mental health facility in the city, I’m admittedly finding myself a little burned out.

  Usually, as a first-year resident, I would be in a basic health care office, helping bored middle-aged women cope with getting old.

  I’m very lucky to be working with the criminally insane. I’m hoping to find something that challenges me. Maybe figure out, finally, what makes me tick.

  Jaxon is now answering the prosecution’s questions in some of the vaguest terms I have ever heard. He does it with such sincerity; the members of the jury haven’t even noticed he’s not really saying anything.

  It’s a talent for sure—one he’s spent years honing. Jaxon is sporting an open, honest, and friendly demeanor, solicitous looks at members of the jury, an open smile, and a soft tone of voice.

  Jurors are nodding and looking at one another. In just a few minutes, he has created significant doubt in their minds. He’s intensely charismatic.

  We want to believe people we think are beautiful all the way through. We can’t help it. If it has any instinctual significance, it’s to create sympathy in us for the gorgeous.

  What purpose nature would have for that, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll figure it out one day.

  As he speaks, h
is hands seem to speak with him. His gestures change, and I can tell he wants to stand. He’s trying to use his body to leave a strong impact on everyone watching.

  Truly intelligent people are very aware of their body language and use it to their advantage. By knowing what signals they want to send, they can move as emotively as they speak. With his quick smiles, warm gazes, and gently gesturing fingers, he’s doing a fine job of keeping a captive audience.

  The women, especially, are all quite taken with him.

  On top of all of my observations comes another interesting instinctive point. If a male is attractive but also potentially dangerous, women usually won’t hold the dangerous part against him; it only makes him more attractive.

  What strange creatures we are, chasing after danger, then crying when we get hurt.

  I give up on my notes for now and look right at him. I allow myself to fully immerse in the spell he weaves.

  “After all, ladies and gentleman…we are all a little mad every now and then, aren’t we?”

  He says this with a smile, looking a little bashful, dark hair falling over his brow. I look at my notes.

  Experienced manipulator.

  Psychic vampire.

  Narcissist.

  Craves power.

  I mentally tick off boxes in my mind, running through the whole list of symptoms and disorders.

  He’s definitely not schizophrenic. He appears fully in control without any sign of multiple personality disorders. Of course, his dominant personality may be in control, and I’ll find out more after repeated interviews.

  Jaxon definitely hits key points of narcissistic personality disorder, though. The way he carries himself and the confidence he exudes is very textbook. His control over an entire room and the way he draws every eye, ear, and heart to him…he’s a dangerous man.

  He could also be a full-blown psychopath or sociopath. If he’s sociopathic, it’s very well hidden. Sociopaths tend to mimic empathy extremely well, enabling them to control and manipulate others.

  I’m just itching to get him alone. I occasionally notice a small frown on his face, especially when they ask questions he doesn’t want to answer.

  He never loses his cool, though. He simply deflects the questions, completely misleading the prosecutor.

  In a one-on-one session where I have the control, he won’t be deflecting anything I throw at him. I’ll just keep tossing it back until he cracks.

  As he addresses the jurors directly, I can’t help noticing his enchanting demeanor. He carries an air of royalty about him, even in the rough prison clothes.

  He conducts himself as if he’s dressed in a fine suit at a dinner table with the highest of society. Most people seem to be taking it as a sign of respect to the court.

  I believe I see it for what it truly is: an insult to everyone in the room. He’s behaving like a king in his court, playing with jesters.

  None of it is real. All of it is a game.

  It’s a very disturbing thought. I make a special point to write every moment of this flagrant display down. I’m even more anxious to get my first interview with him now.

  I want to understand if he has simple narcissistic disorder, which is treatable and quite common in affluent men from his age group or if he’s a full-blown sociopath.

  This case is looking like an incredible challenge. If he’s a sociopath, it’ll take repeated interviews to diagnose him at all.

  I’m excited at the prospect. For once in my life, I feel more than just a light trickle of curiosity.

  He’s a conundrum. A puzzle. A riddle I’ve never seen before.

  How could I resist?

  He’s not bad to look at either. I feel my cheeks getting hot as I think about being alone in a room with him.

  The idea of that intensity focused solely on me is exciting and terrifying. It’s truly a cruel joke to give him such physical beauty as well as the power to manipulate.

  Nevertheless, I’m confident. I’ve given up my young life for exactly this. The chance to potentially unlock the greatest of secrets and to know the inside of a mind so intelligent it bends other people’s will almost without conscious effort has my body heated much more than his looks do.

  My one fear is that he might bend me as well. I must remain unaffected and treat each patient as an illness, not as a potential connection.

  The emotional affliction of this man has me just slightly jarred, especially since my usual method of breaking people down into pieces might not work on this guy.

  He’s an exciting case with many potential diagnoses to consider. It’ll be an excellent opportunity to expand my skills.

  I look up at him as they bring him off the stand. As he steps down, he turns out to the crowd and looks right at me. Again.

  Those icy eyes stare right through me.

  He smiles.

  I feel it in my chest…and between my legs.

  I can’t wait to begin our interviews.

  Jaxon

  I’m sitting in the meeting room, waiting for my appointment with the court-ordered psychologist. Mandatory. Not something my lawyers can get me out of.

  Apparently, if they clear me, I’m free to go. But if they can’t, I get sent to high-security prison. Seems strange to me, but I’m not concerned.

  I’ve manipulated people for so long and with such brutal efficiency I have no doubts I can wrap this geek around my little finger.

  I’m fucking bored. I miss my cigars and my fancy booze. A bit of pussy wouldn’t go unappreciated either.

  As yet, I’ve had no issues with other inmates. I see them sizing me up all the time. Dangerous animals checking out the fresh meat.

  There’s a still purpose to the way I move. A lucid control. It’s essential to manipulating others.

  Simply put, most people don’t know how to monitor and control their body language. I meet their surreptitious glances with easy calm. It’s this uncertainty that has them holding back, at least for now.

  Sooner or later, someone’s going to ask for it. They’ll want to test me. That’s when I’ll fucking bring it.

  By way of good behavior, I’m not chained up. No one is. A few inmates are talking to their wives or kids, eating stuff their families have brought and talking about home.

  Usually, my meeting with a psych would have to be confidential, but it’s just a quick interview, something about it being court-ordered. All geekpants will have to do is check the box marked “sane,” and we’re done.

  I don’t plan on giving them any reason to investigate my mind further.

  I like it just how it is—dark, sharp, and powerful.

  The two guards at the door shift as the buzzer sounds, and I look up to see who’s joining us. Maybe it’s my psych.

  Silence seems to fall all around me, and my ears start ringing as she walks in. This can’t be some jail bird’s wife. She’s incredible—perfect pale skin, clear light-green eyes, and hair…like flame.

  Fuck. Looking at her makes my cock hurt and my mind race. I press my hands to the table as she walks toward me.

  She’s wearing a gray suit, with a tight skirt and her white blouse under a blazer. Very professional.

  But her hair tumbles and flows around her, wild and untamed. I make sure I don’t react, despite my heart hammering against my breast bone. My palms may even be a little sweaty.

  None of that is as important as maintaining a stance of calm.

  She walks toward me, looking at a stack of papers she’s carrying. She’s probably legal aid or something. First-year law student.

  She looks up, and those icy, pale eyes hit my own. She looks right into me, slowing down a little to organize her papers. I feel a grin spreading across my face as she slips into the seat across from me.

  “Mr. Covington?” She looks up as she places her papers down on the table.

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

  “I’m Alison Hughes. I’ll be your doctor, for the most part. I’m here to do your routine ass
essment for psychology and possible referral to psychiatry. If you object to my service or to the process, I am legally bound to offer you alternatives.”

  “No, doll,” I whisper, forcing her to lean toward me. “No objections here.”

  “Excellent! Let’s begin then. Do you have any violent or masochistic tendencies?”

  I run my fingers across the table—not too close, not yet, but just to put the idea in her mind that I might touch her.

  “What’s your favorite food?” I turn my head to the side a little, appraising her. “I don’t mean your favorite meal but your favorite thing to eat when you’re laying on the couch.”

  Those gorgeous red lips curve up at the edges. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s smiling.

  “I believe I asked you a question, Mr. Covington.”

  “And I also asked one. Talking about me here is so…clinical. Too boring. Why don’t we just get to know each other like real people? Maybe over dinner?”

  Her smile dies down, and the look she gives me is stern but somehow blank, like she’s not feeling anything. Fuck, it turns me on!

  “Someone who feels the need to control and manipulate the interview to that extent may be higher up into the more dangerous disorders than I first thought. I’ve written an initial assessment, you see. This interview is a formality for legal reasons. You don’t seem upset or frightened to be in jail?”

  “No. I’m not upset.”

  “But why not? If you’re innocent, you would have anxiety over being here for not doing anything. If you’re guilty, then you would be upset over being caught. You truly feel nothing?”

  My instincts warn me to step very carefully. Smarter than I thought, this one.

  I lean forward and run a hand through my hair, smiling at her.

  “Honey, the best thing I can tell you is, I’m not concerned. Things like this work themselves out. I know I haven’t done anything wrong—not by my own standards—therefore, I don’t have any guilt. It’s only a matter of waiting for the law and the evidence to catch up with me. Then I’ll be a free man.”

  She stares deep into me, expression unchanged.