Page 8 of Queen Of WildCards

Tonight'sevening of therapy callers had been profitable, andIeyed my balance with the hosting website with glee.Finally,I'dbe able to pay off the arrears on my storage unit, whereIkept all my things from the last house downgrade.Icouldn't bear to part with some of the antiques my mother had carefully amassed during her time alive, because they were the only thingsIhad left of her.Andsince my new apartment was tinier thanI'dhave liked,Ihad to opt for a long-term storage facility with climate control, to preserve the pastIwas determined to drag along with me.

Iwas three months behind, thanks to an influx of extra jail phone calls and higher bills.Thisone evening of work would more than pay for the outstanding debt.

JustasImoved to log off for the night, a notification popped up in the corner of my screen.

Newpatient request.VideoChat—Urgent.

Theclient's color was red, which meant he was at risk of suicidal thoughts and actions—possibly a danger to himself and others.Intakeflagged him, and they took that shit seriously.Butthere was nothing sayingIcouldn't just close the laptop and pretendIhadn't seen it.Thecall would bounce to the next person in the queue, andIcould end my night.

Atthe last second,Ileaned forward and hitanswer,straightening my posture in anticipation of a standard talk-down call.

Ishould have known last-minute calls were a bad idea.

Insteadof a typical client,Iwas greeted with a full-screen image of what appeared to be a very drunk woman leaning against the wall of a dimly lit alley.Icleared my throat and pasted a soft smile on my lips, prepared to introduce myself.

"Hellothere,I'mMallory, yourTherAnontherapist.CanIask whoI'mspeaking with?"

Therewas no intelligible answer.Instead,Igot a pain-filled groan, and then they disappeared from the screen as the sound of horrid retching filled my living room.

Drunk.Great.Lastpatient for the night is a suicidal drunk.

Isquared my shoulders and tried again. "Areyou okay?Doyou need medical attention?Ican send an ambulance to your location—"

Thefigure returned on screen, pulling their hair back from their face as a hand swiped across pale lips. "No, no ambulance.I'vebeen worse off before."

Dearheavens, it's a man.Agorgeous man.

Iblinked stupidly at the screen as he fought back tears and gagged again.Awildly drunk, semi-suicidal, totally gorgeous man.Anda client.

Iforced myself to wait patiently as he composed himself and was rewarded with a megawatt smile when he finally glanced back up.

Hiseyes sparkled like the ocean at night, andInearly forgot how to breathe. "Well, hello there, gorgeous.Ididn't expect my therapist to be so young and alluring."

Hislips curled in a smile as mine twitched absently.Itwasn't the first time a client flirted with me, but something about how he did it made me feel cheap, like he talked that way to all the girls.Iopened my mouth to diffuse the conversation, to steer it to what he needed help with.

WhatImeant to say was,"Whatbrings you to my video channel this late?"

WhatIactuallysaid was, "You'renot too bad, yourself, buddy."

Whatthe fuck was wrong with me?

Ihad never in all my days acted so unprofessionally.

Hisanswering chuckle sent shivers down my spine thatIstaunchly ignored. "Feisty.Ilike that in a woman."Hepaused for a second, glancing over the top of the phone as his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Isuppose this is whereItell you whyI'mcalling, and you help talk me off the ledge, or whatever."

Inodded slowly, careful not to edge the conversation in any specific direction for fearI'dupset the precarious balance he seemed to have on himself. "Ifthat's what you want to do, thenI'mall ears.Sometimes, patients ask me things, like hypotheticals, which gives them a way to disconnect from the whole process.Sometimesit's easier to pretend it's not happening to us."

Hisdull laugh filled my ears with a melancholy sadness.Somethingabout the jaded lilt behind his smooth, seductive voice left me wondering how broken the man behind this obvious mask truly was.Sometimes, it was the ones most put together on the outside that were most scarred underneath.

"Okay, doc,I'llbite," he slurred, listing slightly to the side. "Let'ssay, hypothetically, thatIknew a guy who did bad things for a living."

Ifolded my hands in front of me and steepled my index fingers against my chin. "Whatkind of bad things does your friend do for hire?"

Hehiccuped drunkenly and picked up the phone from wherever it'd been sitting this whole time, stumbling down the alleyway. "Allsorts of bad things.Sometimeshe's a thief.Sometimeshe's just the informant.Onoccasion, he hurts people.Butmostly a thief,Isuppose."Hefrowned as he peered into the screen from chest height, his long locks of hair framing his image like a curtain of light gold silk. "Healready sounds like a shitty person."

Ishrugged, knowing it was very likely he was talking about himself. "Hesounds complex."

"Haha, funny, doc; complex?"Hepanned his camera, andIgot a glimpse of his body from tip to toe before he refocused the camera lens on his face. "Doesthis look like the body of acomplexman to you?"

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