Page 4 of Filthy and Dirty with the Bikers

He leans in, his tone low in my ear as he says, “This isn’t over. I’ll be back at sundown with friends. Pack a small bag and meet me by the birch trees at the furthest end of the property line. The weather will be bad, so dress accordingly.” He leans away but holds his stare with mine. “I’ve been following Tyler, and I know things about him you don’t want to be messed up with. Tell me you understand what I’ve just said.”

“What? Why have you been following Tyler? What is he doing?”

Rhett shakes his head, then turns away as snow starts to fall. “I’ll tell you when you’re safe. Just meet me by the birch trees at sundown, or I’ll make a scene.”

My heart thumps against my chest, and though this sounds like the start of a romance novel I want to know the end of, I know reality doesn’t play out the same way. Even if it did, I wouldn’t have the courage to let it.

Chapter Two

Molly

He’s tall and lean with a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that he holds in his hand as he talks. One leg is bent over the other and he rests his notebook on the crease of his dark gray slacks. I wonder who else he’s talking to, what stories they’re telling, what advice he gives them. I wonder if he takes this much time with each client, and if he’s as attentive to them as he is to me. I wonder if he allows everyone to make emergency Sunday appointments.

Why does my stomach tighten thinking he does? Why do I feel possessive over my therapist? Clearly, I don’t have exclusive rights to him, nor should I. I guess this is what happens when a woman’s emotions have been locked away too long.She becomes a psycho who overthinks everything and contemplates owning her therapist. Maybe I need a second therapist to debunk that with before I start having thoughts of chaining him in my basement.

I drag in a deep breath and let it out slowly, studying the framed paintings on the wall. One in particular catches my eye every time I’m here. It’s a watercolor piece that rises and falls with peaks and valleys. At first, I thought it was the mountains. Now, I’m wondering if it’s a wave.

“You like that piece, don’t you?” Dr. Beck’s voice is deep and commanding, but also naturally reassuring. I readsomewhere that deep tones signal strength and security, which trigger a primal response in our brains that feels safe.

Clearly, it’s true.

“Yeah, is it the mountains or the water?”

“What doyouthink it is?”

I should’ve seen that one coming.

“It’s the mountains, right? It’s just that the color is blue, so I figure it could be waves too. Plus, the rise and fall of the crests…”

“Is there a difference?”

My brows wrinkle like maybe this whole question to a question thing is going too far. “Yeah, there is. One is…mountains. The other is…water.” I say the words as though I’m the one with the PhD.

“Or one is hard, and the other is soft. But at the end of the day, these are just words. You’re perceiving the photo to identify what it is, instead of accepting it without labels. You do that in your relationship, too.” I’m not sure how he does that, but it happens all the time. I get talking about my favorite sushi and Dr. Beck turns my love for soy sauce into an allegory on my need for comfort. I guess that’s what I’m paying him for…I think.

“What are you talking about?”

“Tyler. You had a terrible fight last night and then another awful morning, but instead of seeing things for what they are, you’re here, trying to label him as a narcissist because if you can label him, you can convince yourself that he’s not going to change.” Holden unfolds his leg and leans forward. “You don’t need to label him before you can know he’s not right for you, Molly.”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean… I don’t know. I keep telling myself that eventually he’ll see me, but if he has a label, then chances are this is just who he is, and I can convince myself that I’m not a quitter. Facts help people make good decisions.”

Holden sets the notebook and his dark wood pen down on the table beside him before stretching up from the chair and rounding toward the couch where I’m sitting.

My heart rate increases the closer he gets.

Why? Why am I getting nervous? Why is my stomach in knots? Why are my palms sweaty? Why is my throat so dry? This is the same way I feel when Rhett is around me. Am I really this thirsty for affection?

He sits down, inches from me, and though no part of him is actually touching any part of me, I can feel the heat of his body on every limb as though the rest of the world is a cold blustering storm, and he’s a log burning fireplace. “Why do you stay with him?”

It’s a question I’ve asked myself hundreds of times. I shrug and say, “It’s comfortable.”

He narrows his brows. “The abuse is comfortable?”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. It’s like… sure, he treats me terribly sometimes, but there are these moments where he’s everything I need. He can be kind and compassionate. It’s like he sees the error in his ways, and I see this glimpse of the man I need,” a tear spills onto my cheek, “which is why it’s so hard and jarring when he withdraws again. A part of me always gets stuck wondering if it’s really me. If I’m the problem. If I’m pushing him to these reactions. I don’t want to throw away years of my life, if that’s the case.”

“Would you treat a friend the way he treats you?” The doctor clears his throat and leans in closer. “If your friend asked you questions the same way, would you yell like he yells? Would you cross all their boundaries? Would you shove them? Would you hurt them? Would you bully them?”

Hearing the scenario turned back on me sounds ridiculous. I shake my head and wipe away a slew of tears. “No.”

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