Page 7 of Unethical

A voice comes across the line, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I clear my throat. “Hey, Frank. It’s Sarah, Sarah Reeves, Maxim Jankowski’s therapist.”

“What’s the matter, Sarah? Is he behaving himself?”

No.

Yes.

He hasn’t done anything...yet. It’s the future actions of Maxim Jankowski I worry about most. But I’d sound crazy if I said that.

“Yes, he’s fine. The problem is, I just don’t think I’m the right fit for him.”

“Ms. Reeves, the other therapists have overburdened caseloads. You’re the only one in our program who has any availability. If you can’t provide the court-ordered course of therapy, we have no choice but to take him back into custody and allow the prison shrinks to take a crack at him. Is that what you think he needs?”

Gaslighting prick. I don’t want to be the reason he’s sent back to prison, but if something happens to me, this is on them.

“No.” I take a breath. “I’ll figure it out.”

Frank tries to release a sigh of relief as quietly as he can, but it still blows like a gale-force wind into the receiver on his end. “Take care of yourself.”

What a fucking ominous farewell. And it doesn’t make me feel any better about my sacrificial decision to keep him out of prison. I sure hope I don’t end up regretting this.

Chapter Seven

Maxim

Sarah’s shoulders drop the moment she locks the office door, as if the weight of her clients’ lives presses her down. Her eyes show that same heaviness. She doesn’t look up from the ground as she walks toward her car.

She’s been working past nine every night since our session four days ago. Like a well-trained dog, she repeats her routine again tonight. She gets inside her fancy little BMW and pulls out of her reserved parking spot. The placard with her name on it made it exceptionally easy to figure out which car belonged to her. Not a good safeguard from people like me who are predisposed to obsession and subsequent stalking.

I turn on the engine and follow her. Not too close, though. I don’t know if she’ll recognize my car or if she’s in too much of a haze to do so, and I don’t want to take any chances. I tail her to her home, though I already know the way and could follow the route in my sleep at this point.

When she nears her driveway, I hang back and park a little ways down the dark suburban street. Then I walk toward herhouse, hiding among the trees that decorate either side of the unlit street as I near my destination.

Her house sits further from the road than the others. Tucked away in the woods at the end of the dead-end street, it’s the perfect setting for what I plan to do. How fortunate for me.

How unfortunate for her.

I take my place behind the drooping oak tree so I can watch her. Sarah does the same thing every night when she comes home. Her quirks are so fucking cute. She waits in her car for one to three minutes as she finishes the song on the radio. When she gets out, she checks her car handle three times, then tucks her purse beneath her right arm before she unlocks her front door. She’s regimented.

But now, so am I. This is what I do every night.

I watch her.

It’s become a necessity. Just as necessary as the stringent rules outlined on my paperwork from prison.

Go to therapy? Check.

Become obsessed with every breath my therapist takes? Check.

Obsessively watch her from the fucking bushes? Check.

Imagine how afraid she’d be if she saw me? How tormented she’d feel? Check and check.

Sarah enters the house and turns on the living room light, illuminating her form as she passes the window. She sheds her suit jacket and hangs it up. It’s the only time I get to see the lacy undershirt that I think about during our sessions. Her breasts draw the fabric down, bunching it beneath their full curves.

Fuck, I want to rip those buttons off with my teeth. I want to take those clothes off her body and devour her. Hopefully, she tells me no. To stop. Because that would be delicious.

I stroke the front of my jeans, anticipating my favorite part of my nightly routine. The heat of excitement courses throughmy veins as it maps its way to my dick. I ache for her. She keeps me hard, even when I’m away from her, but nothing makes me throb like seeing her through the window. Invading her personal space. Pleasing myself to her blissful ignorance.

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