Page 32 of Taming a Menace
Hearing her refer to me as Mr. Glover made me want to bend her over that desk and remind her of how she screamed at thetop of her lungs as I dug her out all those years ago. I promised to behave, though, so instead I asked my question.
“Why didn’t you give me the boot?” I quizzed.
“Trust me. I tried. Everyone here was booked solid. I even tried to find a different state funded clinic in the city, but no one has any openings for the next thirty days. I saw somewhere in your paperwork that your parole officer wants to be notified immediately if you’re released from therapy before the end date. I couldn’t bring myself to be the reason you went back to prison.”
I smirked. “So you care about me?”
She scoffed. “Whatever. I’m a decent human being. I’m not in love,” she said, sticking her glasses back on her face before turning to walk over to her desk.
“Didn’t say you were. Can I ask one more question? I’m sure it might help with my therapy.”
“What is it, Mr. Glover?” she asked once she was seated behind her desk.
“Why didn’t you give me your number that night?”
“Have you forgotten the rules already?” she questioned, cocking her head to the side.
“I’m just curious. It might be beneficial for my healing.”
She sighed before taking off her glasses and placing them on the desk. Picking up a clipboard, she held it up, extending it to me. I crossed the room and took it from her hand.
“Today isn’t a talking session. Today is a writing session. I want you to fill these forms out as honestly as possible. Remember, you are expected to take these sessions seriously. Feel free to have a seat in either of these chairs or over there on the couch.”
I didn’t respond as I scanned the questions and moved back over to the couch. I dropped my bookbag before settling down next to it. Since I was going to have to answer a bunch ofquestions, I might as well get comfortable. Once I was seated, I went down the list of questions filling them in as I saw fit.
The first few questions were fairly simple. They wanted to know my name, age, and level of education. There were also lines for family history and dynamic. Then the real therapy questions started. Just like Iyla had before, the form asked about a family history of mental health and what I expected from therapy.
I didn’t expect shit other than to not go back to prison. I was pretty sure I had made that abundantly clear. I wrote it down anyway. Seeing that I was about to get to the nitty gritty, I put the clipboard down and unpacked my bag. I placed my wrap and pita chips on the spot next to me, standing as I removed one of the bottles of water. Crossing the room, I walked the other containers over to Iyla. She was typing like a mad woman, so she didn’t even seem to notice me until I put the containers on her desk.
“Decided to move?” she asked, lifting her brows as she raised her eyes to meet mine.
“No. This is for you.”
“It’s not my lunch hour, Mr. Glover, but feel free to eat.”
“Mine is over there. I don’t like eating in front of people. My mom never let us do that, so I still don’t feel comfortable eating while other people aren’t eating. I remember you saying something similar.”
“Well thank you.”
“What time is lunch?” I questioned.
“We close the office for lunch at twelve.”
“Not bad. Still if you go ahead and eat now, you’ll be free to do whatever you feel when your break comes.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she muttered.
Seconds later, her fingers were tapping away at the keys again. I hadn’t even been there ten minutes, so I had plenty oftime to fill out her questionnaire. First I would eat. I sat on the couch watching Iyla as I uncovered my food.
She was fucking fascinating. I didn’t completely understand why I was so taken by her. I had seen thousands of beautiful women, and there was no telling how many of them I had fucked. Iyla though—she stirred something in my chest that made me want to explore her. I wanted to know her.
What made her want to be a therapist? Why did she work here of all places? Did her brows only pinch when she was deep in thought? What made her smile? It was the thing I missed most next to being deep in her guts. Most importantly, I wanted to know what made her feel that she was undesirable, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. I couldn’t speak for anyone else, but I desired her fine ass like a muthafucka.
“What is it?” she asked, looking up from her computer screen.
“What?” I replied, unsure if she wanted to know why I was staring at her or what.
“In the container. What is it?” she clarified.
