by Amy Brent
“Okay,” Robert said, once the initial questions were over. “I just need to ask a few questions to clarify everything we've already been told by Mr. Stone. Just to confirm that your story matches his.”
Chanise started to feel nervous again. She hoped that Jake had kept his story to the simple truth. He certainly hadn't told her she needed to say anything other than exactly what happened.
“Dr. Johnson,” Robert said. “Can you tell me when exactly you learned of the relationship between your daughter and Mr. Stone.”
“It was a week ago Sunday,” Dr. Johnson said. “My granddaughter told me about it, and I confronted my daughter about it right away. I told her right then that I wouldn't be able to be Jake's counselor anymore.”
“And you had no idea that anything was going on before that.”
“None. I wouldn't have approved of it if I had known.”
“And when did you terminate your professional relationship with Mr. Stone?”
“The very next day,” Dr. Johnson said. “I called him up and explained that I wouldn't be able to be his counselor anymore, and I referred him to a colleague of mine, Dr. Nguyen.”
“And do you have copies of all of your records of the time Mr. Stone was your patient?”
Dr. Johnson pulled out a folder and handed it to Robert. “That's everything. Appointments, sign-in sheets, receipts for his insurance company, all the standard paperwork.”
Chanise let out a small sigh of relief that she had forced Jake to keep signing in. It seemed like such a small thing, but it was possible that it would make all the difference.
Robert flipped through the pages in the folder and then tucked it into his briefcase. “All right. And Ms. Johnson. Can you tell me, in your own words, how your relationship with Mr. Stone started?”
“All right.” She took a deep breath to steady herself. “We first met when he started coming in for his appointments. At first, we just talked. And he flirted with me a lot.”
“It was Mr. Stone who initiated romantic contact with you?”
“If that's what you want to call it,” Chanise said. “I just call it being hit on.”
“Were his advances unwanted?”
Chanise frowned. “That's not what I said.”
“I just want to make sure we have the details right.”
“Look, he flirted with me, and at first, I didn't think I should get involved with him because he was a patient. But then we decided to go out for coffee.”
“How long had he been coming here by that point?” Robert asked.
“A few weeks.”
“At any point, did Mr. Stone try to use his relationship with you to compromise your integrity?”
“What?” Chanise asked, a shocked look on his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, did he try to get you to alter any records, anything like that?”
“Don't be ridiculous!” Chanise crossed her arms. “Our relationship had nothing to do with his counseling sessions. Nothing at all. He just liked me. We liked each other. So we had coffee. Then dinner. Then things started to get serious.”
“And were you aware of the conflict of interest?”
“Yes,” Chanise said. “He and I talked about it, and we knew he was going to need to switch counselors. We were planning on telling my father anyway, if he hadn't found out.”
“All right.” Robert typed a few notes into his tablet, and then skimmed through his list of questions. “I just have one last question. And thank you for your patience with this. I understand this is a difficult situation, and you must not like having your personal life probed in this way.”
“No, I really don't,” Chanise said, frowning at him.
“I'm really sorry about that,” Robert said. “I hope you understand I'm just doing my job.”
“She understands,” Dr. Johnson said. “What was your question?”
“In your personal opinion,” he asked, “do you believe that Mr. Stone had any other motivations in initiating a relationship with you, beyond romance?”
“What does that mean?” Chanise asked.
“It means. Do you think he was considering his career or his suspension, or thinking that getting close to you would help him cheat his way past the mandatory counseling sessions? That he might be able to use you to alter the paperwork, or to say that he had attended sessions when he hadn't?”
“No,” Chanise said. “No, absolutely not. The only thing on his mind was me. Was us. He was attracted to me, and that was it. He didn't want to use me. I'm certain of that.”
“Thank you, Ms. Johnson.” Robert typed in a few more notes, and then he folded the keyboard, closing his tablet. “I appreciate your help and your directness. I'm sorry again if these questions were in any way upsetting to you. But we had to investigate this fully.”
He got up to leave. Chanise rose to her feet as well. “So, is that it? Is Jake going to be allowed to play again?”
“I can't say,” Robert said. “My job is only to investigate the situation and file a report. Mr. Stone will be informed if and when the suspension is lifted.”
“Thank you, Mr. Phillips,” Dr. Johnson said. “I'll see you out.”
Chanise sat back down while her father led the investigator out of the office. When her father returned, he sat across from Chanise. “I don't think there's anything to worry about,” he said. “Though I certainly hope that next time, you think things through more before you do something like this.”
Chanise shrugged, giving her father a bashful smile. “I know, Dad. But I couldn't help it.”
“You feel that strongly for him?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
He reached over and patted her on the knee. “Well, then. You make sure to keep a hold of him then. No use getting into such a mess over a man if you let him get away.”
* * *
A few weeks passed without any word about Jake's suspension. Jake and Chanise continued seeing each other each week, and they even had dinner one night with Chanise's father, making Chanise feel like maybe her dad actually approved of the relationship. Some nights, Jake came over to Chanise's apartment and spent time with her and Deena. He even brought some Pixar videos with him when he visited so that they could all do a movie night together with something Deena would enjoy. Other nights, Deena spent the night with her Grandpa so that Jake and Chanise could get some much-needed alone time together.
One night, when Chanise arrived at Jake's place for a private dinner date, he greeted her at the door with a bottle of champagne in his hand. “Great news, babe,” he said, popping the cork. Foam poured out of the tip of the bottle, spilling all over the hardwood floors.
Chanise stepped back to avoid getting any champagne on her dress. “Careful with that, sweetie,” she said.
“Oops.” Jake set the champagne bottle down on the coffee table, then ran into the kitchen to get some towels. He came back and knelt down, sopping up the champagne. “But like I was saying, great news.”
“Is it about your suspension?”
Jake looked up at her and grinned. “I just got the official notice today. I'm off suspension. I'll be able to start playing again by mid-season.”
“Oh, that's wonderful.”
Jake rose to his feet and she gave him a hug, squeezing him tight. “I'm sorry about almost getting you into more trouble,” Chanise said.
“Nah, it's okay,” Jake said. He tossed the towel into the kitchen, barely getting it to land on the kitchen table. “I was the one who went after you, even when I knew it could get me into trouble. I knew what I was doing.”
He poured the champagne and they sat on the couch together, sharing a toast. “So, what now?” Chanise asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you've got your career back,” Chanise said. “But what about the rest of it? What about us?”
“What about us?” Jake asked. “I mean, I thought everythi
ng was going great.”
“Is that enough for you?” She frowned at him, toying with the stem of her champagne glass. “Just to be dating, and having things going great?”
“Do you want something more?” Jake set down his champagne glass, giving her a serious look.
“Eventually, yes. I'm not asking you for a proposal. But I want to know where this relationship is heading. I've got my daughter to consider.”
“And Deena's great,” Jake said. “I love her. She's an awesome kid.”
“She's a kid who needs stability in her life. I need to make sure I can provide that for her.”
“Well, I've been thinking about that,” Jake said.
“You have?” Chanise's eyebrows rose.
“Yeah, sort of. I mean, about us, and all. I've been thinking that maybe I should look into getting a place outside the city. I mean, living in the city is great and all. It's an amazing view.” He gestured to the floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the city. “But it's not really the best place for settling down or anything. Not that I'm ready to settle down yet, exactly. Just, you know, I want to get myself into that place. Where I'm ready to.”
“So you want to move?” Chanise frowned, not sure where he was going with this.
“Yeah. And I was thinking.” He took her hands in his, looking deep into her eyes. “I was thinking, maybe if I move, maybe you could move, too. With me, I mean. Move in with me.”
Chanise froze, her hands trembling. “Are you serious? Is that what you want?”
“Yeah. And then down the line, who knows.” He smirked, giving a little shrug. “It's the first step, though. I mean, I've never lived with a woman before. Hell, I've never had a relationship last this long before. So I want to do it right.”
Chanise was stunned. She stared at him, not sure what to say.
“So,” Jake asked, a hesitant look on his face. “What do you think?”
Chanise smiled. “I think yes. Definitely yes.”
A TASTE OF LOVE
"Please?"
Nicole Peart hated begging. She especially hated begging from Mark Tremain, and the smug satisfaction across his face when she did. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and all that: she needed a job, and his restaurant was hiring. Line cooks—hardly the glamorous chef positions she’d been hoping to snag when she went to culinary school and spent two years learning to fillet a fish with one smooth sweep and how to julienne a carrot into perfect matchsticks. She’d spent hours studying the chemistry of sugar and there were things that she could do with food that had her instructors drooling, and they promised to write her glowing recommendations to whatever restaurant she wanted to work in.
There was just one thing that had gone wrong with her plans to move to New York and find a job as some kind of chef—her mother had gotten sick, and it had always been just the two of them. So she stayed, and moved back to their house, learned to prepare medications and treatments with the same efficacy that she deboned a steak with. But money had always been short between them, and the last round of treatments had wiped out the last of her mother’s savings—Nicole was now the one in charge of paying the mortgage and keeping the lights on. It was now week three, and the problem with small-town America was that there were only so many jobs to be had.
"I don't know," Mark said now, the smirk crossing his face again. She fought back the urge to smack him. She wondered what she'd been smoking when she'd agreed to date him in the first place. He was good-looking, with that rugged brooding look that Marlon Brando had perfected, but his features were finer, more delicate. His accent was some kind of African accent that had the ability to shoot itself straight into the primitive reptilian brain, and even now she had to suppress the little urge to make googly eyes at him. It was why she’d consented to a second date with him, even after the first date had ended with her in tears because he’d insulted the wait staff and servers at the restaurant to the point where it embarrassed her, until she agreed to let him loosen her strapless dress to the point where it was this close to falling off of her—she knew the waiter got an eyeful of her tits, at any rate. That was the name of the game with him. He'd taken immense pleasure at nearly-exposing her in public, teasing strangers with the never-fulfilled promise of a glimpse of pussy or her breasts. The second time it happened she dropped him right then and there, but that didn't mean that he'd forgotten--or forgiven. "Are you wearing anything underneath that skirt?" he asked.
She felt her face go red. She was pretty when she blushed, everybody said that—she had large brown eyes and a small nose that could only be described as “cute”—but with Mark it was a liability, because he would take advantage of her. Her dark brown hair, which she’d straightened and pulled back into a bun, felt as if it was curling out of it its hold. “Is this part of the interview?” she asked. She stared at him from the opposite side of the desk, her legs crossed, wondering what her own price was. Fingers? Actual sex with him? She wasn’t wearing anything underneath, because she knew he’d make her show him before he’d even consider bringing her into the kitchen—the line had been crossed the moment she’d applied for the job at his restaurant-and-hotel. It was just a matter of limiting the damage.
“Just making conversation.”
"If you want to fuck me, just say so and get it over with," she said. He’d always had something for her body, petite but fierce, curvy but strong.
It was Bad Feminism 101, agreeing to sleep with a man in exchange for a job. And she knew that if the cooking staff ever found out about it she might be fired anyway, though the fact that she was still “just” a line cook would probably go a long way to mollify them. Other students could afford to travel to cities like New York to find jobs, but she was stuck in the suburban nightmare of small-town America, where there was only one restaurant big enough to need multiple chefs.
He came around the desk and planted his feet in front of her. She gulped, but she knew what he wanted her to do: she pulled her shoulders back, bringing her chest forward. He coughed. She began to unbutton her blouse. When that was finished she let him brush the silky fabric off her shoulders.
"No bra," he said, cupping her breast as if he were gauging an orange. "You know how to get me."
"What can I say?" she asked, gasping as he pushed his finger into her nipple. "I need the job."
"You liked it, don't lie to me."
"I need the job," she said, gritting her teeth. Both nipples, now--and it hurt, pure pain, no pleasure. He’d always had a thing for her breasts—they were on the large side, her nipples darker and contrasting more with her olive skin than most people expected.
"I'm hurt," he said, pouting. "After everything I did for you."
She kept her mouth shut, wondering if the job was really worth this. But his was literally the only place in town hiring at a wage that she and her mother could live on. "Suck my cock," he said. "On your knees," he added, pointing at the floor.
She felt her face burning, but she got on her hands and knees. He pulled her skirt up over her ass, and beckoned her to follow him over to the full-length window. It wasn't a high rise but it was four stories above the street, and it was the middle of the workday, and as she took him in his mouth she tried to tell herself that nobody would be looking, and if they did look her hair was down, at least--they wouldn't recognize her.
His cock was out already, meeting her when she pulled herself up. It was disappointingly normal—she couldn’t help but feel that a man with a personality as ugly as his ought to be a little deformed. He pulled her jaw open with his hands, and she felt the soft, fleshy tip tickle her gag reflex, and smelled the musky animal scent of him—and it took everything she had not to throw up right then and there—to stay there, her eyes watering at least as much from shame as from the difficulty she had in breathing.
"You're so pretty when you're crying," Mark said, as he wiped away her tears with his thumb. "There we go. Yes, just like that, with your tongue—go round, ye
s—God—yes—you have the job--"
***
As a child Nicole was convinced that her mother had some kind of ability to see into her mind and read her thoughts. The fact that she had always been a terrible liar had somehow never crossed her mind until she was seventeen. So when she came home that evening—having secured the job, at the very least—she still felt as if her mother somehow knew what she’d done, even though she knew it was inconceivable that her mother, housebound with the crippling pain of bone cancer, could have any idea about what she’d done to get the job.
She’d signed the contract with the Aviary and that was that. She started the next day. There was nothing more to be said, nothing more to be done. After she pulled her clothes back on they’d signed the papers, and he shook her hand and dismissed her as if she was just a delivery person. She cried all the way home to her mother’s house, and realized that the worst part had only just begun: there was no way she could tell her mother about this.
It was some kind of bone cancer, slow-growing but definitely metastatic. There was nothing the doctors could do except “keep her comfortable”, and even before Nicole opened the door she could smell the heavy, musky scent of the pot clinging to the air: Jordan, their weed dealer, was here. He was tall and lanky, with brown hair that stuck out at all angles, who dressed like a scarecrow, which made it hard for her to figure out how old he was. Her friend Leslie had been the one to put him in touch with them—pot was still illegal in their state, and in the three months that had elapsed since her mother’s diagnosis he’d proven himself to be friendly, kind, and trustworthy. He was sitting at the dining room table with her mother, a series of baggies laid out in on the table in front of them, with a stack of bills at one end of the line.