Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  Health care is expensive, taxpayer money and all.

  Old Dog looks up, smoke hanging out of his teeth. He’s cutting lines on a board. He’s showing me his cock—metaphorically. Publicly breaking the rules. His toughs hang close around him as our eyes meet.

  “We gonna have a problem here?” I ask airily.

  “I hear ya got money,” Old Dog takes a drag of his smoke with yellowed fingers. “If ya pay me off, I might put up with ya prancin’ around like a fucking princess in a tower. Whaddaya say, Jack?”

  I feel the pleasant smile bleed off my face, oozing into a cold, toothy one, like ice running through my veins.

  The cunt.

  And I came here to be nice.

  Without warning, I swing the chair up, first left, then right. As predicted, Tough Guy one and two lunge toward me and cop hard steel to the face. They go down as I swing the chair back and slam it at the old fucker, pinning him to the wall with the legs. The other toughs jump in, but Benny and his pals—and would you look at that, Lummox too—jump in and hold them down.

  The old prick looks up, panicking. I know what he sees. Most of the guards have fucked off. The only ones that remain are on my payroll.

  “Do you want to try that again?” I hiss at Old Dog. “Maybe start by calling me ‘sir’?”

  He growls and tries to fight back, gripping my legs. I use my whole body to slam the chair against him again, and he groans as it cuts off his windpipe.

  “You listen up, you old fucker. I don’t plan on being here long. Once I’m gone, you can continue being king of shit if you so desire. Until then, you answer to me every time you fucking move, you got that? Otherwise I might have to take…precautions.”

  I’m enjoying the look of him struggling against the chair too much, and just watching him turn red and blue for a bit.

  “Ah, boss,” Benny speaks up hesitantly. “If you’re plannin’ to kill him, now’s not the best time. You do as you like, though.”

  I sigh, leaning on the chair. Reluctantly, I pull it back, give it a twirl, and sit down on it. I cross my legs and sit comfortably, as the old fucker coughs his guts out on his hands and knees. Someone hands me a smoke and lights it as I wait for Old Dog to recover.

  I take a look around at my companions.

  “Anybody got a chessboard?”

  Alison

  With a lump in my throat and trepidation in my voice, I accept my new assignment.

  “I have utmost faith in you, Alison,” my director says as my hand reaches for the door handle out of his dark, dusty office.

  “Thank you, sir. We’re going to have him evaluated as soon as possible.”

  “Alison?” he says as I start out the door.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t get too worked up. Take an extra thirty minutes today for lunch. Cool off,” he replies.

  “Thank you, sir,” I respond as I clutch my notebook. The walk back to my office seems endless.

  This case, Jaxon Covington, assigned specifically to me.

  I understand why, but why me? Why did Jaxon take to me?

  I lean into the doorway to grab my jacket and purse from my coat rack. I close my office doors and make my way through the halls and out the front, passing so many people staring at me along the way that I’m overwhelmed.

  Days ago, I was just a peon around here.

  Now, everyone who watched the trial saw Jaxon staring at me several times, and knows I’m assigned to his case.

  I even caught someone whisper about me being his next target.

  That fucking gets to me.

  I unlock my car and slide into the driver’s seat, tossing my purse into the passenger side. I take a deep breath as I start the car.

  Alright. Go eat. Get your mind off this for an hour and a half.

  I pull out of the parking lot and start making my way to my go-to spot. It’s just a little hole in the wall diner, but I rarely see anyone else from work here, so it’s my favorite place to decompress.

  I go in and just order coffee and a bagel.

  As the waitress pours my cup of joe, I stare out the window. Watching people is my favorite pastime.

  “There you go! Enjoy!” the waitress says cheerfully as she walks away.

  I pull the mug close to me, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. I slurp a bit off the top as I observe countless individuals making their way around town.

  The waitress returns with my bagel and a couple of individual servings of cream cheese and butter on the side.

  “Thank you,” I say, pulling open a pad of butter.

  I grab my knife and generously spread it around the bagel before taking a bite and turning back to the passersby.

  I do my best to enjoy my meal and my stress-relieving routine, but I can’t shake the thought of him.

  Jaxon Covington is clearly dangerous, and I can’t help but feel like I need to be on my toes at all times working with him.

  While I’m unsettled by him, I can’t prevent the aching sensation I feel between my legs whenever I think about him. The intensity of his personality is overwhelming, and his focus on me is stimulating in a way I’ve never felt before in my life.

  I find myself asking the same question over and over.

  Why me?

  Part of me wonders if my appearance plays a factor. After all, people do say redheads are the crazy ones. He probably expected someone more like my director to be conducting his evaluations.

  But no.

  Instead, he gets a twenty-two year old ginger with pronounced emerald green eyes, a slim frame, and a determination to win in a game between the two of us. He sees me as a challenge as much as I see him as one, but for completely different reasons.

  I take another bite of my bagel and decide I’m finished. I’m not even actually hungry.

  “Do you need anything else?” the waitress asks as she approaches my table. “Maybe a box of some dessert?”

  “No, thank you,” I reply.

  “Alright, hun. Thanks for stopping by, and come back and see us!” she says with a smile. I smile back and she turns to check on her other tables.

  I place some cash on the table and quickly hop in my car, knowing I’ll feel much more at ease back at work.

  I’m safe there. Protected. I can breathe a little easier knowing if anything goes wrong, help is in the same building.

  Once I’m back at work, I breathe a quick sigh of relief. I make my way back through the hall and to my office. I turn the knob, flip on the light, and hang up my jacket and purse.

  As I turn around to walk to my computer and begin compiling data for Jaxon’s file, I’m stopped in my tracks.

  I jump so high I’m surprised I don’t break a ceiling tile.

  On my desk is a large teddy bear with a letter-sized envelope addressed with ‘Alison’ resting against its stomach.

  What the hell?

  I feel the soft, fuzzy teddy bear fur against my knuckles as I lift the letter from its belly.

  I turn it over and see that the letter has been sealed with a calligraphy style ‘J’ stamped in wax.

  I gently lift the top of the envelope, revealing a tri-fold sheet of stationary.

  As I unfold the document and straighten the creases, I begin to read, absolutely puzzled by what this could be.

  I grow more uneasy once I realize what I have in my hands.

  My darling Alison, a glimmer of light in this shit-stained, sorry excuse for a facility.

  I have not taken my mind off you even for one moment since I left. The very thought of you in the same vicinity makes my skin itch like a thousand festering scabs manifesting at once.

  I desire to have you under me, Alison. The idea of feeling your skin against my face, smelling the fragrance of your shampoo from your hair, and licking sweat from your body, both cleansing you and claiming you as mine sends a wave of intense longing that I’m unable to shake.

  I can see it on your face too; you want me. You know I was getting my cock su
cked upon my arrest and you haven’t stopped thinking about what it’d be like to swallow this monster for yourself. You bite your lip as you hear me speak, imagining what better use that mouth could be put to.

  Well baby, you’ve got an open invitation, and the pleasure is all mine.

  I look forward to our next session, doc.

  Xoxo.

  My stomach flutters and my cheeks change to a rosy, reddish color as I glance over the letter a second time.

  Jaxon Covington, you are one crafty man.

  How did he get this in here? There are cameras and guards everywhere. There’s literally no way for him to leave his cell or make it past any of our security.

  Which leads me to wonder: who in this office could he possibly have an in with?

  I can’t even show this to anybody.

  It could put anyone I might show it to at risk, especially with his connection laying low in this office.

  A smile creeps across my face as I fold the letter back up and put it back to my desk.

  I don’t know how to handle being so struck by him, but I do know I can’t let it affect my analysis.

  Jaxon

  Big day today.

  First session with Alison. My contacts in the prison give me everything I need.

  I get up early, running out some aggression on a few push-ups. I then brush my teeth and comb my hair carefully. Take a look in the mirror.

  Not bad. I adjust the jump suit a little on the shoulders and cuffs. Not tailor-made, but it’ll do. I’m fully confident of my ability to rock any set of clothes.

  The guards meet me at the door and start walking me through the place. I feel the eyes of the men on me. Hating.

  Still submitting.

  That’s exactly how I like it.

  We move through a few secure hallways until we come to a private interview room.

  They cuff me to the table, which I don’t like. One of the guards tells me softly, apologetically, that it’s procedure. Only Dr. Hughes can say when—or if they come off. It’s her safety at stake.

  Excellent. I love a challenge.

  I wait quietly, enjoying the silence. Finally, I see her coming.

  The hair…again. Out and flaming around her.

  It’s so different from the calm that she carries with her. The silence of her gaze. Her eyes say ‘quiet and innocent’ but her wild hair says ‘fuck me’.

  She’s wearing a tight, black skirt and a grey jacket with a blue blouse. The violent streak of savage blue showing between the monochrome enchants me.

  She enters the room, sits before me, and speaks. It’s not until she touches my hand that I realize I’ve been literally frozen for the last few minutes.

  “Jaxon? I’m speaking to you! Do you understand what I’ve just told you?”

  The smile spreads dreamily across my face. “We’re on a first name basis now?”

  She gives me a look. “I said ‘Mr. Covington’ a number of times. Are you ill? We can postpone—”

  “No, no.” I reach out to touch her, and the chains clatter on the table.

  She pulls her hands back, and I place mine gently on the table, clasping them, looking contrite. “I’m terribly sorry. I forgot the chains were there.”

  I apologize for the noise, not for reaching out to her.

  It’s her that seems lost in thought now. She’s looking at the shiny chains on my wrists. The loops through the sturdy table. A pink blush spreads slowly across her cheeks, and her red lips part, just slightly.

  Is it me, or is she turned on by seeing me tied up?

  I can’t help but grin. I wait patiently for her eyes to return to my face. When she looks at me and sees my expression, she does blush.

  Oh, gorgeous. Blushes properly red and warm and looks at her papers. I hear the ‘click’ of her heel against the floor, the nervous tick again.

  “So, Mr. Covington, I’m here to begin your official medical treatment. The first thing we do is run some basic personality tests to determine—”

  “That sounds fucking boring.” I’m suddenly wishing for a cigarette.

  I’ve opted against having one in case she doesn’t like smoke. It’s not like I’m addicted.

  Not to cigarettes, not to anything at all—although I have used just about every substance. In my opinion, physical addiction is a weakness I don’t have time for.

  “So, how long have you been afraid of self-discovery, Jaxon?”

  I laugh, feeling real emotion flooding me as she uses my name. She gives the cutest, cheekiest smile. She’s saying the right words to be my doctor.

  But the tone is all off. If she’s being that cheeky, then we could be naked.

  Hmm. There’s a fine idea. I’m so distracted by the thought of that red hair against her pale skin, I forget to answer the question.

  “Jaxon?”

  “I’m sorry? I forgot the question.” I have a laugh, and she does, too.

  “How long have you been afraid of self-discovery?”

  “Oh, I’m not, honey. Not at all. I just don’t think these personality tests are true indicators.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because they’re easily manipulated. It’s perfectly obvious which questions and answers are going to label you ‘coo-coo’ or ‘boringly sane’. I mean, you could give me these tests every day of the week and make a completely different diagnosis each time.”

  “Interesting.” She makes a note on a page. I wait patiently.

  “So, if the standard tests are lacking, I can go for the deep-impact, emotional side of psychotherapy. This is what we use when the subject is smart enough and lucid enough to be able to manipulate the tests.”

  “Sounds awesome.”

  “Although, I must tell you, anyone able to manipulate the tests is automatically classed as a sociopath. Sometimes a psychopath, depending on their level of intent.”

  I put my chin in my hands and gaze at her. “That sounds perfectly reasonable.”

  She frowns. “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously. You won’t be let out of jail at all if we can’t prove some development—”

  “Oh, you think so?” I laugh. She looks at me sternly.

  Oh, fuck. She’s so cute!

  “Your money won’t get you out of here, Mr. Covington.”

  “Is that so.”

  I’m enjoying gazing at her. I don’t even mind being chained up. Just sitting here, smelling her perfume, and watching her emotional reactions is the most fun I’ve had in months.

  Maybe ever.

  “So, you are accepting deep psychotherapy then?”

  “So long as it’s deep and hard.”

  Oh, there’s that blush again. She wants me. She fucking wants me.

  “Why do you react so badly when people call you ‘Jack’?”

  It’s like ice water down my spine. A shock of electricity through my skeleton. I sit up, abruptly.

  She’s watching me evenly.

  I take a deep breath. No one is ever going to understand this question. Maybe not even me.

  Sure, there were those dudes at boarding school, who pissed me off calling me Jack. That’s not why I go into a blind rage, though.

  Over sixteen-year-old puberty games? Please.

  “Okay,” I start slowly, eyes wandering around the room. “But I want our first deal to stand. I answer your question, you answer one of mine.”

  “Deal.” Her eyes are so calm. Taking in all my body language. Good.

  “Okay. Well.” I breathe deeply. “My dad used to call me Jack. My mom called me Jaxon. It’s a common family name.

  “My dad hated it. Always calling me Jack-sprat and making cracks about beanstalks and shit. Said it was a stupid name.” I look her in the eyes. “He was emotionally abusive to me and my mother.”

  She nods sympathetically, marking something in her book.

  “So, a simple childhood trauma is your trigger? It seems pretty tame.”

  I stare her down now, very seriously. “I to
ld you. He was abusive. One night he was getting drunk, calling me Jack. Mom was off in bed trying to forget she married the fucker.

  “Dad started bouncing around the room, ‘What you going to do now, Jack? Huh, Jack? Oh, you don’t like being called Jack?’”

  I look down at my hands. Let them shake a little as my fingers grip each other.

  “Then he said he was going to change my name to Jack on all my papers. Passports, legal documents, everything. He wanted to erase the name ‘Jaxon’ from existence so everywhere I went, everyone would call me Jack and make jokes about it.”

  “Then what happened?”

  I look up into her concerned eyes. I make sure I look just a bit scared. A touch vulnerable.

  “He…died.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Kind of.” I stare off moodily as if I’ve lost interest in the topic now. Like I don’t want to talk about my parents.

  “Okay.” She writes a few things down in her book.

  “That’s some good work today, Jaxon. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “Even if it were all bullshit?”

  She stares me down. Doesn’t miss a beat.

  “Even if it’s bullshit. It’s still progress.”

  “Hey! Wait!” I sit up and grab her wrists, pulling her forward.

  She gasps, looks towards the window. Both guards stand up to the door, but she shakes her head. They relax.

  It’s so funny; she thinks she’s in control here.

  Our faces are so close together, I could kiss her. Hot breath on my lips. Her hair pulls around us, shading our faces.

  “You promised me an answer.”

  “Ask.” Her voice is quiet and strained.

  I lean as close to her as I dare, lips almost touching.

  “What color are your panties?”

  She breaks free of my grip, flinging my hands away.

  She raises her hand but doesn’t ask the guards to buzz her out. She sits there for a second.

  Then she looks up, grinning.

  “Blue,” she whispers, grinning like a school kid.