Page 4 of Look, Don't Touch

“Arlo Judge.”

“Middle name.” I press to get under his skin and force him to open up.

“Becker,” he spits.

My grin pulls to one side. It’s a win but not a big one and does not warrant such a snappy response. I file it away for later and press on. “Thirty-two, sole owner of The Judge Conglomerate, clean bill of health at your yearly physicals. That has to be a blast for you.”

“Unpleasant. If you look like you’ll rip their head off if they touch you more than necessary, it’s no more than a gloved hand for the blood draw and the cold edge of the stethoscope.”

“How do you manage the proximity?”

His audible exhale is like that of a fire-breathing dragon.

It sends a shiver down my spine to a very inappropriate location. I cross my legs and straighten my shoulders, determined to ignore the pulses.

“I close my eyes and count.”

“It’s not a bad technique. Next time you’re in a situation like that, I want you to try to keep your eyes open. Instead of counting, I want you to say, ‘Your presence has no power over me.’”

“That might be more awkward than my counting.”

My mouth hangs open for a second before I can collect myself. “You count aloud?”

“Yes. I’ve found it makes people uncomfortable and quicker to remove themselves from my space.”

“I’ll bet. It’s quite genius.” I nod. “But you’re here to learn techniques to improve your aversion, not avoid it. So say it quietly to yourself, now.” I give him a minute to say it quietly to himself or, more likely, stare uselessly at the back of my head. “Now, aloud.”

There isn’t a peep from his side of the room.

I clear my throat. “Mr. Judge, I can’t help you if you don’t want me to.”

“I figured showing is better than telling.”

I have no power over him.

That’s settled. I’m charging him triple.

“You’re not dumb. I’ll give you that.” I uncross my legs at the ankle and hoist one thigh over the other. To hell with ladylike. This man is treading on my nerves. At least I’m facing away from him, and I have on my trusty stockings. The opaque material hugs my legs and is clipped securely into my garter belt. “How do you identify?”

“Cisgender man, he/him/his pronouns.”

Even in a city as diverse as New York, sad to say, I’m impressed by the bare minimum from this rich white man.

“What type of people, if any, do you find attractive?”

“I find many people attractive but am not attracted to many.”

Interesting answer. “Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Serious relationship? We’ll start with romantic.”

“No.”

“Friends?”

Again with the fire breathing. Impressively, I maintain my composure.

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