Page 15 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

"I need a list of your clients and anyone with access to that building,” he demands, almost like he expects me to produce a computerized document out of thin air.

"Are you out of your mind? I can't give you a list of my clients."

"Why not?"

"Um. HIPA. I could go to jail. Lose my license."

It’s not just that. He’s crazy, it’s not that simple to produce, and even if he could kill me for the list… I took an oath to do no harm. No one on my client list would bring a legion of gun-wielding criminals into my office. They’re normal. Most of them struggle to quit cigarettes, marijuana and prescription pills. They're regular folks who can afford to live in Cambridge and would piss themselves if they were trapped in a room with this... beast.

Then again, I thought he was normal too. A little rough, maybe. But most addicts look a little rough at various points in the cycle of addiction. His gambling must be pretty bad to bring a brute like that into a therapist’s office.

"What about losing your life?" he snarls. "Does that scare you?"

My thighs clench together unconsciously as every part of my body activates a fear response. Much more painful and difficult to manage in real life than when you’re sitting in the chair suggesting “coping mechanisms”. My body isn’t mine and I have to freeze to stop myself initiating a fight with someone so much bigger than me – a fight I’ll definitely lose.

My jaw closes so tightly that my back molars hurt. I stare at him calmly. You have to learn some control in the therapist's office. People lose their shit sometimes. They throw things. They scream and yell once in a while... and I have to stay cool.

"Was that a threat?"

"Did it sound like an invitation?"

This man's attitude pisses me off. I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from calling him a rude, disgusting pig who belongs in jail for putting his hands on me.

I have to think smart.

"I store all my client documents and information on a secure laptop -- at my apartment."

"Fuck."

He keeps scowling at me. "Have you seen anything suspicious the past week or so?"

"Except for you, nothing."

My sass doesn't go unnoticed. His glare seems to tell me, "be careful." He would be so good looking if he wasn’t hovering over me, threatening me, and interrogating me like I’m the one who did something wrong here. He should have let me go. He should have called the police.We’re in over our heads.

"No emails? Phone calls? You work with crazies, don't you?"

Our eyes meet.

"My patients are not crazy."

He grins. "Well rehearsed."

With two big steps, he closes the distance between us suddenly, gazing down at me from an impressive 6'5". Maybe an inch taller than that, even.

"I need you to think."

"I don't see how it'll help," I reply honestly. "My clients have nothing to do with this."

I sigh. "But..."

"But what?"

"You could wait for me to finish."

Ethan grunts impatiently. But he waits.

"I got a few threatening phone calls over the past three months. No clue why. I assumed they were pranks."

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