Page 8 of Rather: The Therapist

The night was still young. The clock had barely struck ten. With any luck, lust would have me home by one. However, I wasn’t quite certain what the night entailed or what experience I was truly embarking on. Blindly, I would be entering Private Suites. Knowledgeable, I would emerge.

The wheels of my Ghost glided across Clarke’s cemented streets. Silence coated the air. No Hip Hop. No R&B. No Soul. No Jazz. Just thoughts. Obsessive thoughts. Intrusive thoughts. Relentless thoughts.

While Lola’s pregnancy and engagement weren’t the root of my issue, they only intensified my resentment for her existence. She was the donor of my son and a woman, nonetheless. Hadn’t she been either, her brains would be on the pavement for the world to see.

She’d been spared and that was my issue. It was uncharacteristic of me–sparing any fucking body.

Princeton.

He was the exception. And, for him, the woman who’d birthed him was still breathing, against my better judgment. She’d written our son off, found another motherfucker to unleash one of her thirty personalities on, gotten impregnated, and engaged.

“Hmph.”

Scoffing, I shook my head. Life spit you out, lubed you up, and then fucked you over and over. It was pathetic to even consider. She was bringing another life into the world while trying to forget the one she created and abandoned. One who lived in the same state. The same fucking city.

Pathetic.

Disgust consumed me. Confined me to my displeasure. Reminded me of my disdain. Summoned my distaste. There wasn’t a motherfucker in the world I hated the way I hated that motherfucker. In fact, there wasn’t a motherfucker in the world I hated at all besides her. The rest of them were dead.

Me and a motherfucker I despised couldn’t both breathe on the same planet. They were better wherever one transitioned to. The afterlife, I imagine. And, if they knew any better, they wouldn’t be there when I got there, either. History would only repeat itself, no matter when, where, or how many times.

A ping from my cell reeled me back in, removing me from the depths instantly. Keeping my eyes on the road, I managed to unlock my screen with a six digit code. My mother’s face popped up on the screen, casting a calm over my spirit, over my body almost immediately.

A smile pierced my face before I had a chance to open the message. It didn’t matter what her words said or what they meant, their timing was impeccable. Always was, just as she was.

Dear Lady. Her contact was one of the few that brightened everything around me.

In bed and you’re heavy on my heart. You’re a dream, son. Princeton and I are blessed to call you ours.

I don’t belong to you two alone. I teased, imagining her scrunched features.

Gray bubbles appeared. Without a doubt, she was speed typing.

Well, that is true but you’re ours the most. I just gave you a compliment. Should I take it back?

Goodnight Dear Lady.

Goodnight son.

My mother and father had profound respect for one another, however they weren’t and never would be anything more than friends. I’d come to terms with the fact that my conception was accidental and a very pivotal point of both of their lives. Shit wasn’t sweet then, but it is the sweetest now.

My father was with the woman he’d rest beside when their time on earth expired. And, my mother still maintained her singlehood since the love of her life was laid to rest. They were both utterly happy and settled into their roles as my parents and Princeton’s grandparents. They were his glue. They kept him together even when he only felt like falling apart.

Turning my attention, that should’ve never been divided, back onto the road, I made the final turn. As I approached the gates with The Mansion scribed in iron, I readied the code sent hours prior as a result of confirming my attendance for the night.

“Good evening, Sir. Code, please.”

Dressed in black with a white shirt peeking through his suit, security stood beside my car with his arms folded and his chin lowered.

“PS102. Angeles,” I recited the words displayed on my screen.

“Mr. Valentine?”

He wasn’t familiar with me, but he was familiar with the schedule. Seemingly, he studied it religiously so he was well-versed on the comings and goings of the guests. There were designated times for everyone on the list. They were firm and stood ten toes down when it came to their privacy policies and protecting the privacy of the people who trusted them with their fantasies, fetishes, kinks, and secrets.

I respected it. Privacy wasn’t exactly my purpose for joining, though I’d maintain it. Convenience and suppression of my own sexual desires were. I needed my dick wet. It was simple. And, I didn’t want a bird bitch to wet it. I wanted a woman of elegance.

A woman of virtue. A woman with just as much to lose as I did. A woman who could hold her own. A woman who needed nothing more from me than good memories, an occasionally sore frame, and mind-boggling orgasms. She had to be ready and willing to have her back blown to smithereens.

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