An hour passed and before I knew it, I was seated in Rodgers’s office with Dr. Morgan Stanley and Dr. Jacob Lewis, the other two psychiatrists on staff. Morgan winked at me. The woman had no shame. At times, I wondered if she was like me—cold and heartless. My marriage wasn’t a secret. I may not have worn a wedding ring, but Natasha had visited Meadowbrook often in the early days. Once I even had security cut the feed to my office for a few hours and fucked her on my father’s desk. To that end, Morgan’s attention was wholly unreciprocated, and honestly, blondes weren’t my thing. Plus, Natasha kept the monster satiated. I didn’t have time to cheat on my wife, not because of some false sense of loyalty, but because I liked to fuck hard. I liked to do weird shit, and vetting new pussy was something I had only ever done out of necessity.
“Good morning, team,” Rodgers said, rolling around in his high-back chair. We mumbled out our greetings, then bullshitted about our weekends before getting down to brass tax. “What’s your caseload look like this week, Dr. Cooper?”
“Pretty light. I’m losing three and only gaining two, a Peter Lynch—depression and anxiety, and an S. Boudreaux—sex addiction and bipolar disorder.”
“S?” Rodgers lifted a brow.
I checked the file again. S. Boudreaux. “It’s all it says here. Nurse Jones did the intake paperwork. I’ll follow up with her.”
“Good, and you feel comfortable with the three you discharged?”
“Yeah.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes and proceeded to give him a rundown on how I believe my patients were ready. I may have been a lot of things and my morals might have been questionable, but I was good at my job. I had graduated from Duke. I’d worked with the best in our field. I had sold a lucrative private practice in New York City to join a team of doctors in Bum Fuck Egypt. How dare he question me? I’m the most qualified doctor on staff. If I had a propensity for paper pushing, I’d be the one sitting in his chair.
“Good job.”
‘No shit’ was on the tip of my tongue. I counted to five in my head, then smiled. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Rodgers moved on to Lewis, and I tuned out the remainder of the meeting. A tree blew just outside his window, and watching it was more interesting than listening to my peers.
After the meeting, I marched back to my office and took a swig of gin from the water bottle I kept in my desk drawer. Ten in the morning and I already had the urge to kill someone. One-on-one sessions didn’t start until one, and my caseload really was the lightest it had been in months, so I did what any functioning sociopath would have done: I stayed tucked away in my office, drinking gin and reading the morning paper.
At noon, I popped into the cafeteria and had lunch with my colleagues. We ate in the same place as our patients to foster a sense of camaraderie between the staff and our guests, another one of Rodgers’ ideas. Morgan made eyes at me over her tomato soup and Lewis talked about the Broncos game.
I sent Natasha a text.
She didn’t respond.
After lunch I took a walk along the grounds with a patient. He talked about his fears and about his triggers. I did my best to pretend to be a normal, compassionate person. In the mornings, while shaving, I often practiced appropriate emotional responses. My timing was impeccable. I could have been an actor. I had the face for it. My brow furrowed with concern when he mentioned suicide. My dark eyes narrowed in anger when the conversation steered to his mother, the moron who shipped him off to one of those behavioral modification camps when he was sixteen. Blah. Blah. Blah. He was sad. He told me the same fucking story at least once a week. Yes, enduring abuse at such a critical developmental age interfered with his ability to adapt to new social environments—but get the fuck over it.
After our walk, I headed back to my office to get ready to meet my new patients. Lynch was an ex-politician from Nevada. Despite his chosen profession, he was a man of few words, a man of quiet reflection. Our first session was standard, which I appreciated. We set goals, then I sent him on his way.
The latch barely clicked behind him when Harper’s voice buzzed over the intercom. “Dr. Cooper, a Ms. Boudreaux is here for you.”
“Send her in,” I sighed, reaching for the now half-empty bottle of gin.
The door swung open and in walked a demon from my past. My lungs constricted, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room with a vacuum. A steady thud reverberated in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Her presence was a force of nature. Each of my senses intensified. How long had it been since I’d seen those legs? How long had it been since I’d stared into those ice blue eyes? How long since I’d felt her cunt dripping on my cock? I was…excited. Blood and warmth and life pumped through my veins, all because of one person.
One woman.
One She Devil.
Simone.
Aspen Simone.
‘Best lay of my life Simone’ was standing in my office. S. Boudreaux: sex addiction and bipolar disorder. After spending a weekend fucking every available hole on her body, I hadn’t bothered to learn her last name. I really was an asshole. Boudreaux. Simone Boudreaux. It fit her like a glove. It oozed sex and mystery. The sight of her, the memory of that weekend, had me oozing sex. My dick reacted before my brain had a chance. The dragon reared his ugly head. I was instantly turned on, so much that I had to hide the bulge tenting my slacks with the Times sports section as I stood to greet her.
Our eyes met, her hungry gaze swept over my body, and a slow smile crept across her face. Her pupils dilated, turning her pale-blue eyes into black saucers, as she no doubt replayed the sins we’d committed in that hotel room in her head.
“Dr. Cooper,” she purred, eyeing the conspicuous placement of the newspaper. I could taste her arousal in the air, vanilla and sex, her signature scent. She’d come to Meadowbrook for help, and I don’t know what higher power she had pissed off in a past life or what cursed spirit sent her into my facility and straight into my office, but I knew—I fucking knew—by the way she looked at me, that this would end in ashes.
I should have turned her around and march her ass to Rodgers’ office. I should have explained the situation and handed her off to one of the other doctors. I should have…I could have…but I didn’t. I didn’t do any of the sane and rational things, because what I lacked in sanity and rationality, I made up for in ego. I was a damn good psychiatrist. I thought I could fix her. No one needed to know about Aspen.
I offered Simone my free hand. “Ms. Boudreaux, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m not sure how much they told you at intake, but sessions are recorded,” I explained, angling my head towards the camera mounted in the corner of my office.
The skin around her mouth tightened as she nodded her understanding. Simone was a curious creature indeed. I hadn’t seen her in five years and yet, it was as if no time had passed at all. She smelled the same. She looked the same. I bet she even tasted the same.
We stood, shaking hands for what felt like an eternity. I didn’t care how awkward it would look on camera. My brain checked out the moment her palm grazed mine, too busy reliving those three glorious days in Aspen to form a cognitive thought. I’d locked away every detail of that weekend in a neat little compartment in my mind. Two minutes in her presence and Simone Boudreaux had ripped the lid off that box allowing it all to come rushing back to me in crystal clear HD quality. Visions of my cock sliding in and out of her wet slit and the sound her pussy made when I fucked her rendered me mute.
Dropping my hand, Simone walked deeper into my office, scrutinizing every inch of the space. “I half expected to see a chaise.” She smiled, letting her fingers float just above the arm of the brown leather sofa.
“Not really my style, but if it would make you more comfortable to lie down, then by all means.”
She bobbed her head up and down, but instead of sitting, she continued her journey around my office, stopping in front of the framed degrees on the wall, a masters from Cornell and a doctorate from
Duke. “Your credentials are very impressive—but your office…” Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Is it not to your standards?” I questioned, raising a brow. It was a typical office. Desk. Sofa. Chairs. Window. Hell, I even had greenery.
“It isn’t bad or good. Impersonal, more than anything. Sears catalog chic. Not what I’d expect from a man wearing four hundred-dollar loafers.”
“And what did you expect?” I asked, walking around my desk. My dick decided to play nice, so I lost the Times and slipped my hands into my pockets.
“I don’t know,” she sighed wistfully. “Maybe something a little more personal?” She moved on from the degrees mounted on the wall, and stood near the bonsai tree sitting on the table in the corner. Natasha’s mother had given me the plant as a thank you for uprooting our lives and moving to Colorado. I had let the damn thing die three times, but Natasha insisted on replacing it each time.
“That’s by design. This isn’t about me, or my life. It’s about you, your mental health and well-being.”
“That’s rich. You expect me to sit on your boring leather sofa and pour my heart out without reciprocity? My therapist back home has pictures of her children in their soccer uniforms all over her office.”
“Would it make you feel better to see pictures of my children?”
Something, surprise, maybe shock, flashed in her eyes, but it left just as quickly as it came. “Yes,” she swallowed. “Yes, it would.”
“Sorry,” I shrugged, “I don’t have kids.”
She laughed that throaty laugh of hers as she moved towards the window. Her steps seemed calculated, like she was dancing around my office—dancing around our past. “That wasn’t very nice, Dr. Cooper. I thought we were building trust.”
“We are. I’ve already made you laugh. What can I do to make you sit?” I asked tilting my head to the side, studying her. Curiosity brimmed in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid or unsure of her future, or even angry for being at Meadowbrook. The grin on her face was positively devilish. She flitted around my office with glee. Her manic joy didn’t strike me as odd—it should have—but it didn’t. Though our little reunion was unexpected, for the first time in a very long time, heat and life seeped from my pores. Fire raged in my blood.
Simone came to a stop directly in front of me, a respectable distance, though the air between us felt anything but respectable. Lust lived there. Delusion too. It didn’t matter where she stood, or where I stood, our mistakes, both the ones we’d made in Aspen and the ones we would make at Meadowbrook, were stained on the walls in blood. Mine. Hers. Ours.
“Tell me about yourself. You don’t have any children, what about a wife? A girlfriend? A boyfriend?”
“It’s my turn,” I said, shaking my head. “Why are you here?”
She cast one last curious glance at me, then moved to sit on my boring sofa. With legs tucked neatly under her body, and eyes trained on mine, she said, “Because I’m crazy.”
“Crazy is an ableist term.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those PC social justice warriors?”
“Not PC. I just don’t like the word. Correction, I hate the word. Crazy? What does it even mean? It’s a blanket statement made up by other, slightly less crazy people, to make themselves feel better. I’m crazy, you’re crazy, we’re all a little mad here.” I felt particularly benevolent. My god complex had gone unchecked for far too long, and I enjoyed the view from my soapbox.
“Careful, Dr. Cooper, your altruism is showing,” she said tucking a dark strand of hair behind her pale ear. Her cheeks were pink, a natural glow that seemed ever present. “My name isn’t Alice, and you aren’t a sly cat.”
“That’s true—not the altruism thing—the cat thing.”
“Of course.” She blushed, batting her lashes. Simone was an enigma, both hard and soft, strong and weak, sane and insane. I wanted to soak in her presence, bask in the utter Simoneness of it all. Yes, I knew Simoneness wasn’t an actual word, but it was a state of being. People like me spend their entire lives pretending, but Simone, she was one hundred percent Simone, one hundred percent of the time. I admired that. The dragon did too.
Shaking off my admiration, I continued, “The endgame is the same though; find your way through the looking glass, and get back to your life.”
“There’s no one waiting for me at home.”
“No husband? Children?”
“No,” she laughed again. I couldn’t get enough of the sound. It radiated sex and regret, two of my very favorite things. “No children. No husband. Up until recently, I was too busy to cultivate anything more than random hookups in Aspen Hotels.”
“Aspen? That’s oddly specific.”
“Not really. I’m from Aspen. I’ve spent many a weekend in old hotels on my back, on my stomach, on my knees.” She grinned.
Her words were meant to wound. She was trying to throw me off my game, but her attempts fell flat. I was unmoved. “According to your file, that’s one of the reasons why you’re here.”
“I’m a slut.”
“Those are your words, not mine.” Mentally, I added, although you did let me come on your face.
“It’s okay. I am. I own it. It’s made me very rich, pussy power and all that jazz.”
“Are you saying you’re a prostitute?”
“No. Well, kind of. I write, self-help mostly. I encourage women to embrace their sexuality, to wear it like a second skin. Why do men get to have all the fun? When men sleep around, it’s boys being boys, but when women do it, they’re unfit partners.”
“It’s a double standard,” I agreed. I guessed it was her turn to soapbox and I let her. She was right, men created this patriarchy, then acted offended if women chose to ignore it, or worse, indignant if they abided by it and saved themselves for the one. We wanted it both ways. We wanted them pure, but we also wanted access to their vaginas. We were assholes.
“Exactly. Fuck society and their expectations. I say, do what feels good, and apparently millions of women agree.”
“So, you’ve sold a lot of books?”
“I’ve sold a lot of books.” She nodded smugly.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because too much of a good thing can ruin anyone.”
—2—
Discord
Aspen—Five years ago.
“Crawl.” My voice was unrecognizable, thick, garbled, like someone had their hands around my neck. Like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t. Not oxygen anyway. The dragon didn’t need air. He survived on a more noxious fume, a vanilla scented poison. He existed on Simone.
The conference had ended two days prior, but I had extended my stay in Aspen. One night with Simone wasn’t enough to satiate me. I was addicted. A darkness existed inside her, a monster of her own. Her pussy shined like a fucking beacon, only I didn’t know if it was warning me to stay away, or guiding me home.
I didn’t care.
I was untouchable.
“You’re a kinky son of a bitch,” she chuckled.
“After all the things I’ve done to you, crawling is where you draw the line?” I asked, leaning against the window. I wore a smile. Simone wore lace. This time it was black, and more in line with her personality. The sheer bra barely contained her tits, C’s as I’d come to discover. Her ass swallowed the bottom half of her thong. Her pussy, swollen and puffy from abuse, peeked at me from underneath the fabric.
She laughed, but dropped to her knees with a grace I had yet to see from her. With her back concave, she pushed one long arm forward, followed by the opposite knee. Her movements were seductive. Slowly, ever so fucking slow, she advanced, coming to a stop at my feet. “Now what?” Simone whispered, looking up at me with those big blue glaciers.
“Now, you put this on.” I offered her my hand, palm side up, a tube of blood red lipstick positioned in the center. I’d stolen it from her purse while she was in the bathroom. Simone cocked her brow, but played along, spreading color along her top
and bottom lips. When she was done she handed me back the tube and waited for me to speak.
I did not speak.
I wrapped my hands around her long neck and pulled her to her feet. She didn’t resist as I hauled her to the bed. She giggled when I pushed her onto it. Her milky breasts spilled out the top of her bra and I pounced, sucking the half-exposed nipple. She moaned, arching under my assault. Pressing my thumb against her painted pout, I smeared the lipstick down her chin, her neck, her collarbone. Down. Down. Down, until there was nothing but a faint pink thumbprint above her nipple. I’d made a mess. A beautiful chaos on her skin.
“Dr. Cooper,” she sighed, content, as I explored her body with my teeth. I bit my way down, dipping my tongue into her navel. Goosebumps erupted on her flesh.
“Two fingers or three?”
“Three,” she answered, fisting her fingers into my hair. Her nails scraped my scalp, fueling me, spurring me on.
I grinned against her lace covered lips. “Dirty girl.” I’d fucked her three times that day, but desperation and vanilla and lust clawed its way from her body to mine. Our chemistry exploded all over The Standard. We were casualties of insatiable demons. Sex-crazed zombies.
Rising on my knees, I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the tinted glass vial and unscrewed the top. I held it to Simone’s nose and she snorted, then fell back against the pillow. “Turn over,” I growled. She did as she was told, presenting her ass to me. I smacked it three quick times, warming her flesh before pushing the string aside, dragging a thin line of cocaine on her pink skin. “Don’t move. Don’t spill a fucking drop or I’ll drown you in cum.”
“I promise not to move if you promise to drown me anyway.”
“Fucking filthy,” I smiled, inhaling the powder. My nose burned, my throat burned, every nerve in my body burned. Up. Up. Up, I went, flying above the scene on the bed. I watched as a Damien shaped apparition devoured Simone’s pussy from behind. I watched his tongue—my tongue—lick her from core to crack, then back again. I watched the She Devil writhe in pleasure, pushing her ass into my face.
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