Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  This is going to be fun.

  Alison

  “Ahem,” I say in the guise of a cough, mostly to break the silence that’s fallen over us.

  I know that giving in to his little game isn’t the professional thing to do.

  But he fucking got to me.

  Even if it was just for a second, I feel like I’ve slipped up and lost my advantage. For the rest of this session, I need to stay as removed as possible and just complete my psychoanalysis.

  “So, Jaxon,” I start. “What were some of your interests as a child? Did you play sports, play any instruments, or anything like that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay,” I reply. “So, what did you do?”

  “I spent a large majority of the time either getting harassed in school or harassed at home. I didn’t have the energy for sports or music like the other little fucks around me.”

  “Did that ever bother you?” I ask, staring intently into those icy eyes.

  “Not in the slightest. While everyone was off playing with one another, I sat. I watched. I learned.”

  “And what did you learn, Jaxon?”

  “How to break them. Each and every one.”

  I try to remain neutral, but I know my eyes and my hand creeping over my mouth are starting to give me away. I shift positions and adjust myself.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, slowly sliding to the edge of my seat.

  “By the time middle school rolled in, twelve of my classmates had transferred out of public school, begging their parents to homeschool them or send them to private schools. I would like to think I helped them realize they weren’t really cut out for interacting with me on a daily basis.”

  “Jaxon, how did you help them?” I find myself asking in a more captivated tone than I’d ever want to admit to a patient.

  He just smiles back at me, leaving me right there on the edge with that cliffhanger.

  What a shit.

  In all of my time so far in this field, I haven’t once encountered a living, breathing textbook psychopath. I never really expected to.

  And here I am, legitimately interested in hearing the anecdotes of one.

  What am I becoming?

  I really can’t risk the integrity of this case by feeding into him, and the better part of me knows that. But the dumb part, the naive part, really wants to. That part wants it so badly, she can feel it between her legs, pooling up in her panties.

  This incredible fascination with someone so off limits isn’t only new territory; it’s absolutely irresistible.

  I have to know more. I jot down a few notes about Jaxon on my clipboard in regards to his ‘influenced’ classmates before moving on.

  “Jaxon, outside of being called your nickname, have you ever physically harmed another person?” I ask.

  “Oh, shit. Of course I have.”

  A shiver travels down my spine. My face is beet red. I don’t even truly know how I’m supposed to react.

  “What have you done, Mr. Covington?”

  “Oh, you know, I’ve knocked people out, pistol-whipped them, run them over. Basic shit. It shows people who the fuck the boss is.”

  His carefree deliverance is so unique but so sexy at the same time. I just find myself getting off task, digging deeper and deeper into the mind of Jaxon Covington. To help myself, I keep running down the list of what I’ve already covered.

  “So your classmates in school…how many of them left public school at your hand?” I ask.

  “Oh, probably about twenty, maybe twenty-four,” he responds.

  Interesting.

  I write it down.

  “And how did you influence them?” I ask again.

  “Well, with most, all I had to do was change their grades on their report cards. Suddenly, they’re not getting the attention they need and boom, they’re out,” he explains.

  “Ah,” I respond.

  This guy is seriously loony. Does he understand I’m taking notes?

  “If you’re going to lie, at least remember the story you’re telling,” I say, meaning to only think it.

  Shit.

  “I’m lying, huh?” he says. “What makes you so sure I’m not telling you the truth the whole time?”

  “Well, I have it in my notes. I wrote down what you told me the first time I asked,” I explain.

  “And?”

  “And...your answers are different this time,” I say.

  “Maybe I went to several schools. Maybe it was different in different places, Doc,” he returns, as matter-of-factly and condescendingly as he possibly can, his eyes gleaming and locking with mine.

  His stare has me under a spell. I find myself becoming more lenient with him, entertaining the possibility that he might be telling the truth.

  The intense gaze we share has me swaying my hips around in my seat, feeling just how wet I am sitting across from him. That charisma paired with those looks is such a dangerous combination.

  “Are those panties still the same shade of blue as they were earlier, Doc?”

  “I think we’re done for today, Mr. Covington,” I say, pointing the end of my pen up to the clock. “I’ll be reviewing my notes, and someone will get back to you.”

  Using as much restraint as one can, I refuse to look at him at all as I stand from my seat and while I wait to be buzzed out by the guards.

  “Alison,” he says as I exit.

  The hair on the back of my neck raises, and I shuffle out as quickly as possible and make my way to my office, catching the quickest glimpse of him as I turn the corner.

  He’s watching me, a charming grin on his face.

  My heart pounds as loud in my head as my footsteps along the tile.

  I throw myself into my office and land in my chair, breathing hard and trying to process what the fuck just happened in there. I decide that after I compile what little notes I have, I’ll take the rest of the day off.

  I need to get out of here for a minute and get my mind off of this. Tomorrow, I’ll be back in, and I’ll be on my game. Especially now that I know what to expect.

  Jaxon

  It should’ve been another boring day in the joint for me. I was planning on making my own fun when I get a message—head doc wants to speak to me.

  I remember him from my initial visit. He briefed me before the court hearing. The first day I saw Alison.

  Who would have thought the cute, shy redhead in the second row would end up as my doctor?

  Sometimes, it seems a proven fact that there is, indeed, order to the universe.

  I don’t mind a visit with the old professor.

  Well, I have no evidence he is a professor, but I like to give people nicknames. Like Lummox for instance. Helps me keep things straight.

  The guards take me to the communal meeting room.

  Not an official psych visit then. Something unofficial. That’s exciting.

  They sit me down at the metal table in front of the professor and a skinny med student with pimples on his chin.

  Oh, this is a learning experience for the young chap.

  My smile is stretching my cheeks.

  “Hello, Mr. Covington. Are you enjoying your stay here?” Prof gives me a hearty smile. I give him a look and a grin.

  “It’s not up to my usual standards, but it’ll do.”

  “It’s nice to see you are more open to talking with me today. Have you been making progress?”

  I lean forward eagerly, my body language all loose and simpering.

  “Yes, Doc! I gotta tell you, my eyes are open. That new doctor you sent to me—she’s a genius. I hope you know what you’ve got there. She really got my head right. My mind is clear as a bell. I see everything now… Really see, you know what I mean?”

  He nods earnestly, writing in the book and showing the young pup.

  “That’s excellent news, Mr. Covington. Really fantastic. We may even be able to get you moved to a better facility.”

  “Oh…sure.”

&
nbsp; It would look strange to protest.

  “Dr. Hughes has mentioned that you’re a challenging patient. But from what you’re telling me, you’re finding the sessions most enlightening?”

  I nod firmly.

  “Absolutely. I have had a few psychs over the years—I’m sure you know that. The thing is, none of them ever managed to explain it quite like Dr. Hughes. There’s just a simplicity in the way she works. She’s gifted.”

  “I see, I see, Mr. Covington. It’s interesting. How have you found getting along with the other inmates?”

  As I sit back and smile, there seems to be an icy calm in the room.

  I feel like half the others in there want to shriek in protest.

  “No trouble at all, Doc. I’m even making friends. You know, some of these guys don’t know how to play chess? I got that sorted. Even have a few of them reading books.”

  “Wonderful. This is the great hope of the legal system.”

  He wants to go on, but a guard calls out to him. He walks over, exchanges a few words, then looks back over.

  “Continue the interview please, Charlie…and please keep accurate notes. I have a call. I’ll be back shortly.”

  As the prof leaves the room, my grin spreads over my face. Charlie looks uncomfortable but tries to smile back.

  “First day on the job Charles?”

  “I—ah…I’m on work experience.”

  “Cool! So, you like shrinking heads then?”

  He chuckles. Can’t resist my charm. Who can?

  “Yeah. It seemed more interesting than toes or butts.”

  I have a good chuckle at that, and Charlie laughs, too. Loosening up.

  “So, what questions are you supposed to be asking me?”

  “Oh, I think Doc just about covered it. It’s more for my experience. There’s a procedure to check on the patient to ensure the leading doctor is sympathetic to the patient, but obviously, you’re doing fine with Dr. Hughes.”

  “Yes, I am.” I lean forward, conspirator-like. “Hey, Charles, do you smoke?”

  He blushes furiously. “No, I mean, I’m not—”

  I snap my fingers at a nearby inmate.

  “Hey! You! Smoke!”

  Trash-Face gets up from his blubbering old lady and quickly drops a smoke and lighter on the table.

  “One for the kid, too”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Do I look like I give a fuck?”

  I stare Trash-Face down.

  Maybe he wants me to show his old lady how he got the name.

  Trash-Face silently places another cigarette on the table and lurches back to his seat. I light up and so does Charlie, hesitantly.

  He coughs like a barfing dragon and stamps out the smoke quickly.

  “It’s alright, Charles. It’ll make a man out of you.”

  He coughs a few more times, waving smoke away from his face.

  “All good, Mr. Covington. Thank you for the offer anyhow.”

  “No trouble Charlie, no trouble at all.”

  I lean back on my chair, leaning one arm casually across the table.

  “Say…Charlie.”

  “Yes, sir—I mean, yes, Mr. Covington?”

  I have to laugh. Nice save, kiddo. But you almost just called me ‘sir’.

  I swear, I can make people submit just by thinking it.

  “You work with Dr. Hughes, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Some. Not as much as with the big doc, though. We have had a few training sessions together.”

  “Yeah, look, I’m not interested in her work. I know she’s good at that. Hell, she’s fixing me! Old Mad Covington.”

  I grin as I take a long drag of the smoke, red embers flashing at the end of the length as I squint through the smoke.

  “I want to know the little things…the stuff only friends know.”

  I actually have a lot of info on her already. My boys work fast. I really just want to bend the little brown nose to my will.

  I need the entertainment. Everyone in here is already worshipping me.

  Besides, he may know a few tasty pieces no one else knows.

  “Well, we aren’t actually friends. She doesn’t talk much to me. Or to anyone, really.”

  “You don’t say. Anti-social then?”

  “No, not classically. Well, by mental illness definition. She just keeps to herself.”

  “Come on, man! You gotta know something!” I lean in, giving Charlie my best Trust me face. “Is she late to work? Does she sometimes forget to put on makeup? Does she wear a different perfume every day? What does she eat for lunch? How does she like her coffee?”

  “Oh, I know that one!”

  He’s excited to have something to share. Bless him.

  “She likes it black with only a little sugar. I’ve been making everyone’s coffees all week.”

  “You know,” I say, putting my smoke out, almost touching Charlie on the shoulder as I lean in further. “I also like my coffee black. Some people say only psychos drink black coffee.”

  I give him a nod as if affirming the truth.

  “No way!” He’s breathless, entranced by my presence. “Is that true?”

  “Google it, my good man. Don’t take my word for it. All the world’s knowledge, right there at your fingertips. You young people, you don’t know how good you have it. In my day, you had to wait for the library to open if you wanted to know something. Now, you just swipe up…or left if you have a cheap phone.”

  Charlie laughs, perfectly at ease. Little dickhead.

  He’s never going to make it as a psych. I’ve got him eating out of the palm of my hand.

  “There is something…” Charlie starts then stops, looking up and around, as if he wants to take the words back. I pounce on them.

  “Something about…?”

  “Dr. Hughes. I came into her office with coffee the other day. She jumped and made this big effort to hide stuff on her desk. First time she was ever rude to me.”

  “Go on.” I could shake the little fuck.

  “Well…the stuff on her desk that she tried to hide. I saw it.”

  “Yes?” Get the fuck on with it!

  “It was pictures of you.”

  He looks at me, eyes searching my face, begging for approval.

  Typical underdog. Needs the validation of the alpha.

  I breathe out slowly, looking right through Charlie. This is something.

  “Thank you, Charles. I mean it.”

  I look him right in the eye and punctuate my words by pointing at him.

  “This is very valuable to me. I look after my people. You need anything, anything at all, you just let me know.”

  The buzzer sounds at the door, and the prof appears.

  “Come now, Charlie. Grab those papers like a good lad.”

  “I gotta run, mister…but thanks for the talk and—ah—everything.”

  “Not a problem, Charles. Remember what I said.”

  He nods as he bolts for the door.

  Prof gives me a look, which I return with a grin and a wave.

  This is good. This is very, very good indeed.

  I feel my smile breaking out, and I have to hold in a self-satisfied chuckle.

  Looking at pictures of me. Hiding them. Poring over them.

  Panting over them?

  Oh, god. Yes please.

  Alison

  It takes me three tries to open my apartment door. Three. And that’s not including the fact that I pushed the wrong floor in the elevator twice, much to the chagrin of the other passengers—an elderly couple who live three doors down from me.

  However, once in my home, amid my familiar and perfectly ordered world, I still find myself flustered, unable to focus.

  Locking the door behind me, I hang my purse on the hook by the door and drop my keys into the bowl on the small table beneath it. Then, I remove my kitten heels and place them neatly by the door.

  I wonder what Jaxon’s face would look like if I wore my bl
ack stilettos to our next session. I can picture him in an instant, those piercing eyes watching my every move, his tongue licking those cruel lips as he takes me in from toe to top. For the hundredth time today, I feel a wave of heat flare through my body.

  Would I be able to see how hard…?

  Stop it.

  Stop it this instant.

  He. Is. Your. Patient.

  Flustered and irritated, I bring my files and today’s case notes and drop them on the kitchen table. But I make no move to look at them. I need distance.

  And I need to order my mind before I try to make sense of today’s session. I need to figure myself out first before I start trying to decipher the delicious enigma that is Jaxon Covington.

  But as soon as the thought of him pops into my head, my mouth waters.

  I have to shake myself to clear it.

  I grit my teeth. Enough, Alison.

  I take a deep, shuddering breath to steady myself, and I feel a bit better.

  I’ve been obsessing. That’s all. I just have to do something to break the cycle.

  I continue into my kitchen and begin pulling out the implements to make tea. I find the familiarity of the task soothing.

  First, I take out the polished copper kettle and fill it with water then set it on the stove to heat. Then I open the cabinet where I keep the rest of my tea things and remove the heavy ceramic teapot, my favorite loose green tea, and a strainer. Finally, I grab my favorite mug—a diagram of the brain, created with all the words associated with it: the different parts, chemicals, and psychological disorders to be found within the mind.

  By the time the water has boiled and I’ve left the tea to steep, my mind feels more settled. I feel centered and once more in control.

  I take my cup and, pointedly ignoring the files on the kitchen table, move to the living room couch and pick up the Times crossword puzzle. With a contented sigh, I begin.

  I normally give in to my obsessions. I’ve performed enough self-diagnosis to know they aren’t clinical, just a byproduct of a high functioning mind and an ability to hyper-focus. I’ve even found them incredibly useful when puzzling out a diagnosis.

  People are a sum of their problems, and problems are puzzles, nothing more.