UNLUCKY
Copyright © 2014 Cynthia St. Aubin
All Rights Reserved
The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Ryan Pace
Illustration by Stephen Richards
Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
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Dedication
For my mother, whose definition of an age-appropriate book was one I could read at the time. I’m sure that Sunday school teacher has mostly forgotten my riveting description (I believe the word “squirming” was used) of why men and women get married. Thank you for making me a reader.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my friends and fellow authors: Kerrigan Byrne, Tiffinie Helmer, and Cindy Stark, whose AWESOME can only be measured in unicornfuls.
To the Writers of Imminent Death—long may we make every innocent phrase into an innuendo. I’d like to turn those pages, if you know what I mean.
Thanks to Stephen Richards, for giving life to the people who live in my head. For the record, I think singing your own theme music is completely acceptable.
Lastly, special thanks to you, the reader. Your laughter is my lifeblood. Thank you for honoring me with your precious time.
A death threat via valentine still had the power to steal my breath, even in a week full of firsts. I stared down at butchered newspaper letters staggering across the lacey heart in my hands.
You have five days
To find the gold
Or you die.
Good luck
“What gold?” I asked the silence.
My office was empty save for one other semi-sentient life form—Sigmund Freud, my goldfish. He wove a figure eight through the plastic kelp outside his little castle, blissfully unaware of my plight.
Talking to myself proved to be one of the more disturbing side effects of my perpetual bachelorette-hood. That, and taking my mostly vegan dinners in bed with the company of a romance novel. Mostly vegan, referring to my occasional foray into the illicit world of dairy. And did it get more illicit than butter? Watching a creamy pat melt over bright green broccoli or anoint a sultry mound of Yukon gold smashed potatoes was as close to pornography as I had ever strayed. In my thirty years on the planet, butter was the only substance that had coaxed the appellation orgasmic from my lips.
That was, until two days ago when I had come to grips with the experience first-hand. Three more had followed within twelve hours, an embarrassment of riches for one as naïve and inexperienced as I.
Two had found me at the hands—and other talented appendages—of a Las Vegas hit man. The second and third came courtesy of a demigod.
A decent reward, I supposed, for reuniting Cupid with an old flame and saving the world from a slow and loveless death.
Gentle taps sounded on my office door, and I was forced to lay the troubling valentine aside. Being abducted at gunpoint by the aforementioned hit man and talking my way out of a million dollar debt to a mob kingpin named Stefano the Fathead had somewhat mellowed my panic response.
I glanced at the clock behind the couch where my clients yielded up their woes in tidy forty-five minute sessions. Untangling the complex mental and emotional snarls in their entirety required much longer, often months or years of such sessions, to fully unpack.
That’s where I come in.
That’s why my assistant, Julie, was pecking politely on my office door. My death threat stupor had lingered there three minutes past the hour, and my first client would be waiting. I rose from the leather chair behind my desk, smoothed my skirt, and checked the buttons on my blouse. Having inherited my mother’s generous chest—though thankfully, not her schizophrenia—I had to guard against wardrobe malfunctions that caused my clients’ attention to stray from the cognitive behavioral process in favor of ogling a sliver of visible bra. This morning, at least, I was safe.
I crossed the distance between my desk and the door in the time it took me to tuck a few stray chestnut hairs back into their low chignon and slide my black cat-eye glasses up my nose.
Julie Harrison’s heart-shaped face and golden curls appeared in small increments as I opened the door. The apologetic expression in her wide brown eyes set my teeth on edge.
I had learned when Julie Harrison was sorry, it was only a matter of time before I would be too.
“Dr. Schmidt,” she said, playing with a curl near her jawline. “Did you happen to check your case files for the day?” Her delicate throat contracted beneath the column of a hot pink turtleneck as she swallowed. She shifted on her feet and considered the carpet. Though my height could only be described as average at best, Julie’s petite gymnast’s frame left me feeling like a linebacker.
“No, Julie. I didn’t have a chance.” The red envelope beckoned from behind me, the weight of its words creating a depression in the room, my attention rolling toward it like a marble.
“Well, about your first client—”
“Dr. Schmidt!” The familiar voice rang through my head, a dissonant chord whose notes I remembered only too well: eagerness, excitement, desire and the worst of all—hope.
Julie stepped aside and Roland “Rolly” Boggs, former security guard for my office building and owner of a perpetual crush of which I was the epicenter, came into sight.
He had traded his tan uniform for stained khakis and a t-shirt bearing the words Viva Las Vegas. The letters seemed to run away from each other as they stretched across the expanse of his bloated belly. Watery blue eyes looked over me from a face round as a pie plate and coated with a layer of moisture like sweat on ceramic. His thinning blond hair was longer than I remembered, or maybe he had just stopped combing it after he was fired.
Because of me.
Or rather, because of the Vegas hit man who had abducted me on Rolly’s watch.
“Good morning, Rolly,” I said, hoping I came across positive, but firm. “Are you here to see me?”
“Yes, Dr. Schmidt, I sure am. I made an appointment and everything.”
Julie’s gaze fell to her sparkly silver ballet flats.
“I see. Well then, why don’t you have a seat and I’ll be right in.” I moved out of the way to grant him access.
His eyes widened in the kind of awe common to pilgrims reaching the holy land. “Wow,” he sighed. “This is your office?”
“It would appear so.”
“And I can sit here?” he asked, gazing upon the leather couch with reverence.
“Yes, of course. I’ll just be a minute.” I flicked a glance at Julie, who was now inching backward toward the reception area. The heavy wood door eased closed behind him and I pivoted on one stiletto heel and planted my hands on Julie’s desk. “What. The hell. Were you thinking?” I asked in a forced whisper.
“I’m sorry, okay?” she whispered back. “I scheduled the appointment right after he was fired. When I wasn’t sure if you w
ere…” Her voice broke and her eyes took on a luminous sheen. In them I saw written something I had overlooked on my way past her desk only half an hour earlier.
Guilt. Regret. Shame.
Roadblocks I had often encountered in the clients who made their way to my couch.
The cause of Julie’s was easier for me to surmise. She had neglected her post at the reception desk when I was kidnapped, being otherwise occupied in a storage closet with a demigod at the time.
Not that I could blame her.
Crixus, the demigod in question, had certain…talents. Such as bestowing spontaneous orgasms. I’d only recently learned how such physical impulses could compromise one’s ability to think clearly.
Or breathe. Or stand.
Anyway, if she had been at her desk, there was no guarantee Liam Whatshisface wouldn’t have found a less pleasant way to occupy her time.
If his unfortunate last name produced a burst of levity, his first sent heat surging down my spine. Liam. Brilliant and brutal, he wasn’t above using whatever weapon served his purposes best. Skin or steel. Seduction or sedition. He wrought both with equal virtuosity.
“Doctor?” Julie’s voice poked through the sensory memories rushing over the surface of my brain.
“What? Yes. As I was saying—”
“Are you…blushing?” she asked, her bee-stung lips twisting in a secret smirk.
“Of course I’m not blushing. I’m just upset. About Rolly. You know how he feels about me. There’s absolutely no way he’s capable of the distance required to focus on his own emotional issues when I’m involved.”
“So just see him this one time and refer him to someone else. We’ve done that before, haven’t we? When you feel there’s someone else better equipped at dealing with a client’s specific issues? It’s only an hour. What could happen?”
She realized her error almost as soon as the words had left her lips. “Sorry,” she amended, “except for the whole being abducted at gunpoint thing. But I promise. I’m not going anywhere. And you saw the new security guard downstairs.”
Indeed I had. If someone had taken about twenty Marines and put them in a car crusher, you would have the silent, threatening presence occupying Rolly’s place at the security desk.
That might solve for Liam, but not for Crixus, whose abilities included reading thoughts in addition to materializing beyond pesky obstacles like walls, doors and gigantic security officers.
I wasn’t sure what Julie remembered of their encounter, and not certain I wanted to know either. Now wasn’t the time for that conversation.
“Okay,” I said. “But if anything strange happens, anything at all, call security, bust through my door, whatever you have to do.”
“Absolutely, Dr. Schmidt.” Her vigorous nod set her curls bouncing.
“Good.” I turned toward my office but paused and looked back. “Julie, it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right? There is nothing you could have done.”
A small, sad smile creased her face. “Thanks for saying so.”
“I mean it. If you insist on carrying around the burden of this guilt, I’ll have to force you to spend your lunch hour on my couch. We have ways of dealing with this kind of thing, you know.”
Julie’s laugh sounded like the tinkling of bells. “Okay, Dr. Schmidt.”
“For God’s sake, Julie,” I sighed exaggeratedly. “Call me Matilda.”
Her doe-eyed gazed brightened. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “Really.”
Dimples pressed into her cheeks as I was treated to the full force of her grin. “Thank you…Matilda.”
I nodded my acknowledgement and took a deep breath, readying myself to meet what lay in wait for me on the other side of the door.
*****
The small army of accent pillows—chosen by Julie—advanced on Rolly as if he were one of the beaches of Normandy. His nervous gaze slid to either side like he expected to be smothered at any moment.
“You can move those,” I offered, breezing over to my desk to collect Rolly’s folder, a pad of paper and pen.
The valentine leered at me from atop the files, demanding acknowledgement. Sweat bloomed on my palms as I reached for it, the message already burned into the backs of my eyelids.
You have five days. To find the gold. Or you die. Good luck.
One hour, and then I would figure out how to deal with this. I flipped the note face down on the desk and took up Rolly’s file before settling myself in the leather chair opposite him. The valentine having stolen the time I would have usually spent reviewing the forms Julie had Rolly fill out in advance, this would have to be verbal exploration.
Rolly’s gaze traveled up the length of my leg as smoothly as a three-wheeled go-cart. He caught me watching and trained his eyes on the expanse of carpet leading up to the coffee table between us. Experience had taught me the value of this, when the occasional amorous impulse prompted a client to make a passionate gesture by diving across the space between us.
Hell on shins, that coffee table.
“So, Rolly. Why don’t you tell me a little about what brings you here today?” This customary greeting for new clients rolled off my tongue without much effort. I had the feeling not much else would today.
Rolly picked at a spot on his pants and didn’t meet my eyes. “Well, ever since I got fired, I’ve been thinking about things.”
“Which was two days ago?” I asked.
“What?” He looked up, snagged my gaze, and looked back down.
“You were fired two days ago, correct?”
“Oh, yeah. When your…when that guy came and took you to lunch.”
I peered at him over the rims of my glasses. “He didn’t take me to lunch, Rolly. He abducted me. At gunpoint.”
“Sorry,” he said. “You just didn’t seem too unhappy about it. He was a pretty good-looking guy, I guess.”
I guess, would be an understatement of epic proportions. Clearing six feet and then some, muscled like an underwear model, dark and broad in all black, Liam had shoved into my office like something the second circle of hell might cough up. Lust with a gun in his pocket and motives to match.
“About you being fired,” I said, trying to steer the conversation away from me. “What is it that you’ve been thinking?”
“Well, it got me thinking about this girlfriend I used to have.”
“Oh? What do you suppose your getting fired and your ex-girlfriend—what was her name?” I paused with my pen hovering above the paper.
“Uh…Beth. Her name was Beth.” He swallowed, his eyes searching the room for a comfortable place to anchor themselves. Physical symptom characteristic of deception.
“What do you think your getting fired and Beth have in common?”
Rolly paused for minute, working around to something. “See, Mr. Ross, he owns this building, and Beth, they both treated me like crap.”
“When you say ‘treated you like crap,’ what exactly do you mean by that?”
“They were always ordering me around, asking me to do things, never listening to me.”
“With Mr. Ross, at least, wouldn’t it be reasonable that he asked you to do things?” Like not let gunmen into a secure building.
“It’s more how he asked me.” He brought a finger up to his mouth and bit the cuticle.
Habitual behavior to relieve tension from stressful stimulant. In this case: me. “How did he ask you?”
“Like I was stupid,” he said, meeting my eyes at last. “Like I was just some fat slob who didn’t have feelings.”
Guilt pricked at the back of my neck. “And Beth? Did she react to you in a similar way?”
“No,” Rolly said, returning his eyes the carpet. “She was worse.”
“How did that make you feel, when they treated you that way?” I asked.
“Hurt,” Rolly replied. “And angry.”
“I can understand why that would upset you,” I said.
“Can y
ou? Someone like you, who’s always been beautiful? I bet you can have any guy you want. Anything you want at all. Not someone like me.”
“Rolly—”
“It’s true,” he continued. “I did everything she asked, gave her everything I had. I loved her unconditionally. I was so nice to her. So why did she treat me so bad? Why couldn’t I make her happy?”
“It’s not that simple, Rolly. In any relationship, there are a number of factors that contribute to the outcome of—”
“And what about you?” he interrupted.
His words hit my face like a splash of ice water. “Me? What about me?”
“How come you wouldn’t go out with me? What did I do wrong? Was it because I was too nice?”
“I think we’ve covered this subject at length, Rolly.”
“But we haven’t. Not really, Dr. Schmidt. You only told me that you didn’t date men you worked with. That wasn’t the only reason, was it?” Tears brimmed in his blue eyes, driven by a pain I found too intense to confront for long.
“I also told you I wasn’t comfortable answering personal questions, Rolly.”
Wet tracks shone on his pink cheeks. “I paid in advance for this session. I paid for your time. Can’t you at least answer that one question? I’m just asking for the truth.”
“Rolly, in reference to your long-term relationships, I think looking at your own patterns would be far more helpful than examining mine.”
“What? It’s because you like assholes, like that guy who took you to lunch? I could be like him. I could—”
“I’m not attracted to you!” I looked around to find my pad and pen thrown to the floor by the sudden force of my outburst. I had come out of my chair and was standing, my face burning, my breath coming in aggravated puffs.
Rolly stared at me, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Silence stretched between us for the space of several moments before he nodded, pushed himself up from the couch and held out his hand for a shake.
He was leaving. So the man might have a backbone after all. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, Rolly,” I said, clasping his fingers.
Unlucky: The Case Files of Dr. Matilda Schmidt, Paranormal Psychologist Page 1