Page 14 of Physical Therapy

NINE

Boe

“Petrone and Brown. Melinda speaking. How may I assist you?”

“Melinda, it’s Boe.” I scowl at some jackass who thinks it’s a good idea to cut me off.

“Oh. Hey, Boe.” She wants me. I know it. But she’s completely not my type.

If she were, I would have tapped that three years ago when she drank enough at the office Christmas function to let down her guard.

“I’m taking the rest of the day off.” Fucking red light. All I want to do is get the fuck home and out of this suffocating suit.

“I’ll let Alec know. Are you okay?”

“I will be.” I cough for emphasis. “Thanks.”

Fuck knows what she says next; I cut her off with a swift stab of my finger to the End Call icon on my dash.

“Come on!” A green light—finally—and I won’t even make it through thanks to the idiot who wants to reverse his semi into an alleyway.

Edith knows. She took one look at the man I crafted and called bullshit. If she can see through my carefully assembled disguise and deduce that my heart doesn’t lie in the corporate world, then what else can she see?

What else does she know?

I had to get the hell out of there, and somehow I managed to do so without making an idiot of myself. I asserted power by ending the session on my terms when in reality the boy inside of me wanted to sit at her feet and have her pet my head while she told me everything would be okay.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Boe?

Tires squeal on the sidewalk as I barely manage to get my Cadillac into the underground parking entry without taking out a bollard. I’m no the most cautious of drivers at the best of times, but today…. Today I couldn’t give a fuck what I hit as long as I get home before this fucking suit strangles the life out of me.

I careen into the allocated park for my apartment, kill the engine, and bolt from the car as though my goddamn ass is on fire. The lift takes longer than I’d like to arrive, my fist poised to smash a new dent in the stainless door when the ding of the car arriving saves it from imminent destruction.

With the toe of my perfectly polished shoe beating out a rampant rhythm on the lift floor, I retrieve my phone in one hand and Edith’s card in the other. The gold foil lettering caresses my fingertips; lavish and smooth. I bet her goddamn skin feels just the same. Easy now.

I name the time and place. You show up. Refuse, and I promise to drag these bullshit sessions on for as long as I fucking can.

The lift opens on my floor, six identical doors staring back at me. The scrape of my key slotting into the lock echoes around the small lobby. I could have gone for swanky electronic access, but then how the fuck would I get in during one of the city’s many power cuts? Nope. Simple and functional is how I like most things.

Including my women.

Sterile gray on white on black furnishings greet me when I step inside my short-term lease. I opted for fully furnished, not having the slightest interest in shopping for my own shit. What a goddamn mistake. I’m pretty certain I could accidentally step into my neighbor’s place and never know.

Calling this apartment home is a bit of a joke when it feels nothing like it. A home should be warm and inviting, a place you crave to be. This spread? I sleep and shower here, and every now and then when I’m too fucked to deal with waiters and strangers, I eat here.

Home. I wouldn’t know where to start if I was asked to describe one. I just know this isn’t it.

This number is purely for professional use only.

I grin at Edith’s reply, typing out one of my own with my left hand while undressing myself with my right. The natural light fades as I make my way down the hall to my room; the darkness highlights the conversation on my phone.

I requested your services, didn’t I?

She takes her time to respond. Enough that I’ve stripped down to boxers only and stand before the wide windows overlooking the city. If I’m not mistaken, I can almost see her building from here.

Request? I do believe that was a demand. What are the details?

Hooked. I send my address through, of course omitting it’s where I live and give her an hour. Call it an olive branch on my behalf—she can pass it off as a lunch appointment this way.

Thirty-five minutes. That’s what we had remaining.

Challenge accepted.

Deal.

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