Page 29 of Torched Spades
Fuck.
This session has gone so far off the rails it’s barreling into oncoming traffic.
“Dr. Brennan,” I correct again. Swallowing hard, I scribble on a notepad.Tolerating prescriptions well.“So, let’s pick up where we left off last week.”
“Let’s not,” he growls, his flirtatious tone souring.
It’s the response I expected. Usually, it takes a few months for me to get a firm read on most of my patients. As I’m quickly learning, everything involving Johnny happens at warp speed, especially his mood swings.
So instead of fighting it, I roll with it.
“Mr. Malone…” I say, ignoring the way his eyes narrow at my continued formality. “How have things been since last week?”
His posture stiffens. “Why do you ask?”
“Because that’s my job. I ask questions, and you answer them. That’s how therapy works.” I can tell he’s waiting for me to continue, but I sit quietly, gauging his reaction.
They say you can’t draw blood from a stone.Maybe.However, I’ve found you can draw truth from silence. Leave a pot simmering long enough and eventually it boils over.
Of course, once again, Johnny contradicts my theory by unclenching his fist, whatever set him on edge slowly subsiding. His whole demeanor is a psychological contradiction. It’s a twisted side road I could spend an entire session skipping down, but something tells me, it’s not a path I want to walk.
Yet.
So I redirect. “Have you experienced any urges?”
“Urges,” he repeats, arching an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I’ve been a good boy and not played with matches? Or is what you really want to know if I’ve set any fires, then jerked off and watched them burn?” His simmering gaze dips from my eyes to my chest, lingering at the two open buttons on my blouse. “Why? Has the thought been onyourmind, Dr. Brennan?”
His lethal gaze draws me in. It whispers tantalizing promises while drowning me in murky secrets. Even as I sink deeper, I recognize the challenge in it.
Truth or dare.
Chapter Nine
BECCA
I’ve knownmen like Johnny Malone all my life.
That’s why they’re no longer in it.
His question is nothing more than an intimidation tactic, and the dark challenge in his eyes isn't just to give in to my desire; it’s to give in tohim. A man atoning for his sins while still craving chaos and destruction.
Still, has the thought been on my mind?
Only every night since I watched him punch a courthouse wall.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve touched myself while imagining my body pressed against the tattoos he smothers behind those black shirts. How many times I’ve gotten off to the dark lines that escape just enough to lick his neck. How many times I’ve awoken to the sound of his name on my lips. The details of the dreams always differ, but the end result is always the same.
Me. Him. Naked in front of a blazing fire.
But I can’t say any of that. What kind of psychiatrist has erotic fantasies about her own patient? Especially ones that revolve around the very impulse she’s supposed to be helping to suppress.
It’s a question I don’t care to answer.
“I’m your psychiatrist, Mr. Malone,” I say, although I’m not sure which one of us needs the reminder more. “It’s my job to provide counseling, but it’s your job to be honest.”
“Ah yes,” He smirks, a black calm settling in his eyes. “The terms of our deal.”
“We’ll never make progress unless you take it seriously.”
