Page 11 of Unethical

The way his breath felt as he blew on my neck.

He’s equally terrifying and intriguing, and something about him makes me want to break through to him even though it’s so fucking stupid to want to get anywhere near him. To even let him get close to me again would be suicidal. For my safety and sanity, I should avoid Maxim at all costs.

There’s only one problem. I can’t.

I get paid to subject myself to him. Sitting across from him pays my fucking bills. And that means I’m stuck in this unrelenting situation for a little while longer.

I look out the window, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.

While nodding and pretending to listen to the woman in front of me, I scan the cars in the parking lot. Even though I don’t see his vehicle, I still can’t seem to break free from the mounting anxiety and the feeling that he’s out there.

Mrs. Birch has moved on in her monologue. As she talks about her dreams—something about being chased by a giant turkey who can speak—I squint through the blinds to see if anyone is in fact watching me. Even if Maxim’s car isn’t out there, he could still be lurking in the shadows.

That’s the most annoying thing about Maxim. He forces his way into my thoughts, no matter where I am. At work. At home. In the grocery store. He’s the boogeyman lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce on me.

He’s not, obviously. Not really. But he continues to infiltrate my mental barriers. He continues to cause a rising tide of anxiety that will drown me if I’m not careful. He’s created a riptide, and I’m standing in the danger zone.

“Dr. Reeves, are you listening to me?” Mrs. Birch asks, her soft voice rising to an annoyed snip.

A bit of heat rushes into my cheeks. This woman pays me good money to listen to her, but I’m too busy working through my own issues to focus on hers. What a great shrink I am.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m just going to close these blinds real quick.”

I stand up and walk toward the big window overlooking the parking lot. Now that I have a clearer view, my eyes scan the entire lot again to see if I see anything or anyone out of place.

My car is a hair’s width from hitting the pole in front of it, but that’s the only thing of note I see. There’s no sign of him.

Maxim is gone. Thank god.

With a silent sigh of relief, I pull down on the string beside the blinds, and the plastic planks slam closed. A renewed darkness hangs over us, so I flip on the overhead light.

“You were telling me about that dream you keep having,” I say before sitting down again. “The one about the turkey?”

At least, I hope that’s what she was talking about. I admit, I did start to space. It’s easy to do with talkative clients. I’m very much grounded when I’m in the sessions with Maxim, fighting and trying to pry every syllable of information out of him until, frankly, I’m exhausted.

Goddamn it, there I go again. I wish he’d stop occupying my thoughts. I wish he’d leave me the fuck alone in my mind. I’ll be glad when we have our last session and I never have to come face to face with that man again.

Chapter Eleven

Maxim

My boots squeak on linoleum floors within the grocery store. I’m not lifting my feet enough. I haven’t had the opportunity to see the doctor in one of my private “sessions” today, so maybe I’m feeling a little fucking lost without her.

As if the devil smiles up at me, I turn the corner at the end of the bread aisle and see her. My shoes squeal more from the abrupt stop, and I leap backward to keep her from spotting me. Peering past the corner, I watch her lift and fondle various cantaloupes. Her dainty fingers squeeze and palpate the textured rind, and my cock hardens at the sight of each movement. I wish she would touch me with half the focus.

I wish she’d touch me at all.

My breathing quickens. I can almost smell her from here—the mild perfume barely overpowering the fruity body wash she would have bathed in.

Sarah puts the large cantaloupe aside, grabs the one beneath it, puts it into the cart, and hurries off. She seems to be in aperpetual rush, as if she doesn’t have time to do anything other than work.

I consider following her, but I can’t stop thinking about her hands on that cantaloupe. She touched it with such focus before she discarded it. My predetermined steps lead me toward the island of fruit before I even realize my compulsion. An older woman waddles over to the same spot, and her hand moves toward the cantaloupe the doc handled.

“If you touch that melon, I will follow you home and kill you,” I say.

She clutches her chest, and I take the opportunity to grab my fruit. She’s too shocked to speak as I put it under my arm and head toward the checkout.

I rush through a purchase that’s become a hyper-focus in my mind. I can’t stop thinking about the way Sarah’s delicate fingers moved over the little pits in the outer skin. I keep my hand on my little prize as I hurry to my car and drive to the halfway house.

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