Page 21 of Look, Don't Touch

“Since when did they start making Pastor Barbie,” Astor whispers. “My God! No offense big guy, but damn good job.” She drops my hand and smooths it down her perfectly primped dress, then shifts her Coach purse to her left forearm. “If pastors looked like that when I was little, maybe I’d still go to church.”

“Shush.” I guess I hadn’t registered it on our call. I hadn’t registered a lot this week, and I feel bad for my patients. Still, not as bad as I feel for all my appointments today or, better yet, the lack thereof.

Thoughts of my last interaction with Mr. Judge fill my head. Ignoring his trauma. Crying in front of him. He’s my newest patient. He needs my undivided attention the most. Now, I’m canceling on him.

“You’re quite punctual.” Pastor Pam, cheerleader for God, Barbie of the church stands and hurries over to Astor and me with her petite hand extended.

“I’m obnoxiously early, and you’re kind.” We shake hands, and she introduces herself to Astor.

“It’s one of the things I love about you,” my therapist admits. “I’m never left waiting.”

“It’s a wonderful trait.” Pam beams like a tiny sunshine. I have a sudden urge to flash her my tatted body to bring her down a notch. “The cemetery’s liaison should be here any minute to help set up. We’ll be right on time to start at ten. I’ll just go meet him out front. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

She takes the beaming rays with her as she goes, and the room cools several degrees.

“For fuck’s sake, we’re at a service for a man who died by suicide. Why does she have to smile like Miss America?” I stomp to the pew two from the front on the left and sit in a huff.

“My professional opinion?” Astor sits in the front row and leaves me room to sit next to her, front and center. “Repressed emotions.” She hooks an elbow on the back of the pew and turns toward me. “Good to see you’re not repressing.”

“Nope.” I roll my eyes and cross my arms like a petulant child.

“So how was your session at Crave last week?”

I purse my lips. “This is hardly the time or place to talk about that.”

Yet my skin tingles with the memory of the strap around my hips and a thick cock in my pussy. My panties heat ten degrees, and my nipples pucker against the heavy fabric of my dress.

Definitely inappropriate.

She shrugs noncommittally. “Fine, tell me why Matt’s service is here at Woodlawn and not on Hart Island.”

Welp, there go the happy thoughts. No tingles now.

My fingers toy with the seam of my dress. I bite my lips together and stare at Astor.

“I know he doesn’t have any family, and he couldn't have afforded this.” She gestures to the opulent space with its columns and gold-arched sanctuary. “You weren’t charging him.”

If I had, he wouldn’t have darkened my office’s doorway.

“You don’t charge me,” I remind her.

“That’s different. He was living at that shelter on good days and was on the streets during the rest.”

Because he refused to live in one of my rental properties.

“He didn’t trust people.” I shrug.

Not even me. Not after what I did. Or, better yet, what I didn’t do.

“He wasn’t taking his medication. He couldn’t even afford them after his discharge.”

Because I couldn’t help him.

I jump to my feet and grab the pew in front of me for balance and to have something to strangle.

“He should have a family who supported him. He should have a government that honored his service and sacrifice and acknowledged his disorder instead of punishing him for it. He should have taps played at his funeral and a flag given to his wife. He should have a tombstone next to soldiers where every Memorial Day volunteers shove tiny flags into the ground in front of it.”

My hands shake with rage. The thought of him being dumped into a mass grave broke my fucking dead heart.

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