I think it’s the erratic ups and downs that are really getting to me. When Alec is around, he’s “on.” But when he’s not, it’s like he just disappears altogether. Radio silence. Like we never met. Like I don’t exist.
“I thought I left you back in the south?” I say in lieu of a more traditional greeting.
“Um, you did, whore. I’m calling because you’re such a paranoid crackpot you wouldn’t even give your therapist your phone number.”
“That’s called plausible deniability. If I don’t like how things go, I can always swear on a stack of Bibles that I never attended one therapy session with Dr. B. No one would be able to prove a thing.”
“You really take this whole thing to an unhealthy level, you know that, right?”
“Yes, I know. But are you surprised?”
Chris sighs. “I guess not. It’s par for the course, I suppose.”
“Right. Now, what do you want?”
“God, you’re so cranky! You really need to get laid, Sam. I think it’s getting to the point of being an imperative.”
I ignore her comment.
“Spill it. Why are you calling me?”
“Because Dr. B’s office called to see if an eleven o’clock office visit on Tuesday would be acceptable.”
“I haven’t decided I’m going in yet.”
“Well, you are now.”
“Chris, what did you do?”
“I confirmed your appointment. You would’ve had that time blocked off for your online session anyway. A short trip downtown won’t hurt you one little bit.”
“I hate you. Have I ever told you that?”
“Yes. You hate me just as much as I hate you.”
It’s my turn to sigh. “If only I didn’t love you so much.”
“Pain in the ass, isn’t it?”
“More than you know.”
I hear a giggle and then a click. Just like that, she drops a bomb and disappears.
Typical.
Now I know I won’t get any sleep.
********
Sunday melts into Monday, and Monday into Tuesday. With every day that passes without so much as a single word from Alec, my mood darkens into something eerily similar to despair. Before I know it, I’m on my way to keep an appointment with a therapist that I neither wanted nor (technically) agreed to meet. This reminds me of how desperately I need to be more assertive.
Maybe if I write a book about an assertive woman in complete control of every aspect of her life, I could experience some of that in real life instead of…this.
On the up side, if she can get me to loosen up and talk, she’s liable to regret it. I am loaded with issues today!
My sigh is swallowed up by the blues music coming from the stereo in the cab. It doesn’t seem nearly long enough before he’s dropping me off at the curb in front of my destination.
The building is sleek and glass-fronted. It looks posh, which comforts me from a confidentiality standpoint. Usually the more things cost, the less likely you are to have to worry about blabbermouths. Rich people certainly don’t want to bite the hands that feed them, so discretion is a must.
I leave my sunglasses in place until I get into the elevator and hit the button for the fourteenth floor. According to the signage in the lobby, Buraquinho and Associates occupies that entire floor.
A muted ding followed by the whoosh of the doors opening signals my arrival. I step out into an elegant reception area.
Gone is the coldly formal marble-and-chrome décor of the lobby, replaced by a calming cream, beige and sage palette. I have no doubt the colors were specifically chosen for their soothing effect, an effect that is lost on me in my current state of anxiety.
I walk to the half-moon shaped desk and stop. The girl behind it, a gorgeous, wafer-thin female with wheat-colored hair and enormous blue eyes, looks up and smiles. I feel immediately inferior, like a drab buffoon.
“I’m here for an eleven o’clock with Dr. Buraquinho.”
The girl clicks her mouse button a few times. She looks back up at me and smiles, a bland smile that says either she’s never heard of me or she’s good at pretending she knows nothing. It’s not like I’m famous or anything. Just paranoid, I guess. Either way, her ambivalence comforts me.
She clears her throat. “Yes, Ms. Drake. Please have a seat. I’ll be back in a moment.” She waits until I’ve made myself comfortable and then asks as she passes me on her way to…wherever, “Would you like some coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you,” I decline with a smile.
She nods and walks away. In her absence, I try to convince myself that this wasn’t a colossal mistake.
I’m just settling in to wait when she returns.
“This way, Ms. Drake.”
I get up to follow her. She leads me down a long hallway to a set of double doors that dominate the end. I’m not surprised that Dr. B would have this portion of the floor. Such prestige comes with having your name before the “Associates” part.
The girl knocks once and opens the door, holding it as I pass then shutting it quietly behind me. I stop just inside to look around and get my bearings.
The black, leather chair behind the enormous mahogany desk that’s centered in front of the wall of windows is empty. The lamp on one corner is on. That, coupled with the soft light being filtered through the partially opaque window shades, gives the room a safe, intimate feel that I can really appreciate at this point. The effect is accentuated by the cozy sand colored furniture arranged on a thick rug in front of a lit fireplace. I can see myself spilling my guts right on that sofa.
I hear the click of the door opening behind me. I don’t turn, but wait for Dr. Buraquinho to make her way to her desk. I’m startled when I hear a deep rumble break the silence.
“Ms. Drake.” I turn toward the voice, expecting to express my surprise that Dr. B is not a woman. The words die on my tongue and in my head, however, when my eyes collide with bottomless jade ones that I can’t quit thinking about. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Standing at my side, with his hand extended in introduction, is Alec Brand.
“I’m Dr. Buraquinho.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Alec
If she had looked away one second sooner, I might not have recognized her. But she didn’t. She hesitated one breath too long, just enough for me to place the soft, heather-gray eyes I’ve been fantasizing about.
Despite her hesitation, I’m stunned into speechlessness, which doesn’t happen very often. I scramble to mask my surprise at this interesting turn of events.
Laura Drake is Samantha Jansen. Samantha Jansen is Laura Drake.
“Well, well, well. The sweet and innocent isn’t so sweet and innocent after all,” I mumble finally, crossing my arms over my chest. This puts an unusual spin on things. It adds a degree of complication that I’ve never before encountered, much less prepared for.
Socially, I stay away from women like Laura Drake. They’re too much like Alyssa. Too many things can go wrong. That’s the one thing I’ve learned, the one thing that has stuck when nothing else would. I make an exception for no one. Ever.
Yet here I am, faced with an exception I didn’t even know I was making.
She speaks slowly and deliberately as she moves away from me like a spooked deer. “What the hell is going on?”
Although I’m every bit as shocked as she is, I slip effortlessly into the calm of my training. It’s been my safe haven for years.
“I could ask you the same thing. I think we both have some explaining to do.”
“I don’t have any explaining to do! You know all there is to know. I didn’t lie,” she snaps.
She’s magnificent in her anger. Laura Drake, I’m sure, is too cool to get angry, Samantha Jansen too sweet and mousy. Yet this girl, this amalgamation…she’s a fiery collision of the two. I’m intrigued. Tempted beyond what I’ve ever been tempted before. To know her, to open her up. To break her.
That’s what makes her dangerous to me. But it’s what makes me most dangerous to her. I’ve been here before. And I swore never to come here again.
I should tell her to go. To leave and never look back. But first, I want answers. I want to know. I need to know…
“I didn’t lie either.”
“You told me your name was Alec Brand. Unless I’m really off on the spelling, I think that’s quite different from Buraquinho.”
“Buraquinho is my family name. It’s very difficult to pronounce.” She eyes me skeptically. “Also I had…reasons for wanting to separate myself from it. Not unlike the way you live your life, keeping some areas isolated from others.”
“You told me you were a consultant.”
“I am. I own a mental health consulting business that services the Southeast. ABC Consulting. It’s perfectly legitimate. I didn’t lie about that either. Unlike you. I seriously doubt that you keep the books for your sister’s business.”
Her cheeks, already rosy with anger, turn a brighter red. I struck a nerve. But, more importantly, I’m right.
“There are security reasons for me to keep Laura Drake separate.”
“And I have my reasons. I’m not angry and you shouldn’t be either. We both have secrets. Everyone does. I wasn’t trying to mislead you or hurt you. I just didn’t tell you everything. Just like you didn’t tell me everything.” I keep my silence as she processes my logic. I watch her closely, so closely that I see when her anger begins to fade. I know it’s being replaced by fear and uncertainty when a frown wrinkles her brow and she starts to chew her lip. “If it makes you feel any better, at least your secret is bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. I could lose everything if I ever told who you are and what I know about you. You, on the other hand…”
Her eyes search mine. I hold her gaze steadily, letting the truth of my words sink in, letting them wrap around her like a cocoon of safety. She really is in a far better position than I am. But I have no fear of what she might do or say. While we both have a lot to lose, her fall would be a very public one, while mine would barely make the local news. That is my security. That’s how I’ll use her fear to keep this from getting ugly.
She says nothing, just continues to watch me, nibbling her lip anxiously.
I clear my throat and step further away from her, giving her a buffer, both physical and emotional.
“Since you’re already here,” I say, making my way to the cleverly-concealed bar against one wall, “you might as well have a drink.”
There’s a pause before I hear her sharp, judgmental reply.
“It’s eleven a.m.”
“Yes, it is. But my body is still on Eastern Standard Time.”
“It’s only two o’clock there.”
I shrug as I pour a finger of perfectly aged scotch into each of two snifters. “Right you are, but I think we’ve both earned a little liquid relaxation, don’t you?” I ask, turning with a glass in each hand.
She’s still standing near the door, looking like she’ll bolt if it so much as cracks open. It’s incongruous—seeing her react this way while dressed as the confident Laura Drake. It’s just a testament to how dramatically I underestimated Samantha Jansen. She’s so much more than meets the eye!
I walk to the sofa, situated directly across from the fireplace, and I hold one glass out to her. I see her eyes dart from my face to the glass and back again. When, after a few seconds, she has neither moved nor spoken, I try to reason with her.
“You were all set to explore a very sexual relationship with me and now you won’t sit in a professional office and have a drink?”
“I was not going—”
“Don’t lie, Samantha,” I interrupt sharply. “It doesn’t become you.”
I set her snifter on a coaster on one end of the coffee table and I take a seat on the couch at the opposite end. I cross my legs and throw my arm over the back of the cushion in a non-threatening manner as I sip my drink. The alcohol burns all the way down, not unlike this whole situation.
I know it’s for the best. I shouldn’t have been…dabbling again anyway. I should see this unfortunate turn of events as fortunate. Now, we are both safe from me.
“This doesn’t have to end uncomfortably. We can be civil, have a drink before you go your way and I go mine. Our goodbye doesn’t have to be ugly.”
But, judging by the expression on her face, it very much will be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Samantha
I was all right until he added that last part. The word “goodbye” shakes me. I don’t know why. It’s not like this—whatever “this” is—has really had a chance to become anything yet. In fact, a large part of it has blossomed inside my head, where Alec and Mason have become inextricably entwined.
The part that stings is the loss of hope. The loss of the hope of more. The lure of it. I would never have admitted it to Chris or myself, but, deep down, I had begun to agree with her in thinking that Alec might be the one to help me move beyond the past. Despite the flip-flopping and indecision, ultimately I was hoping Alec was my Mason—the destructive force that can be extremely caring in the right hands. In my hands.
Pain at the thought of this being over before it started, however, is only part of what has me pausing in my retreat. The other motivator is the idea of getting some answers. I don’t particularly like the thought of me answering Alec’s questions, but I do like the thought of him being agreeable to answering some of mine.
I’m not sure which is the more powerful incentive, but something urges me across the room toward Alec and has me sitting cautiously on the end of the couch, opposite him. He already knows my secret. Answering a few more questions surely won’t be the end of the world. In fact, some small part of me almost looks forward to finally being able to bare my soul to someone, even if I have to use the excuse of quid pro quo to do it.