Page 141 of The Kiss Of Death
“Get out!” they barked, stating the obvious.
“We were protecting a young woman,” the one with a bleeding lip whined, pointing his inked finger at me. “She claimed this guy was following her around and said he’s her stalker. She asked us to teach this narcissistic prick a lesson if he got too close.”
Their accusing stares bore into me like daggers, but I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. The broken doll had become the puppet master, pulling the strings from behind the scenes. She hated me and wanted to see me suffer.Maybe there is hope for us after all.
“I have to go,” I drawled. “Let’s not make this a habit, shall we?”
I traced the familiar route to Dalia’s hotel in the dead of the night, the silence broken only by the ominous echo of my footsteps. It didn’t take long before I caught sight of her, twirling like some twisted ballerina beneath the sickly glow of the streetlights. So delicate.
The sound of my approach drew her attention, causing her to glance over her shoulder. And when she spotted me, her so-called stalker, she brazenly thrust her middle finger at me.
She had known I was watching her all this time.
I sent her a text.
Me:I got beaten up for you. I hope you enjoyed the show.
Dalia:Not enough for my taste. Stop following me.
Me:Not until you’re back to being yourself.
I skulked through the shadows, trailing her in silence. I had to make sure she arrived safely. She paced faster, fists clenched tightly at her sides, still ignoring me.
Once she vanished into her lobby, I gazed upward for a fleeting moment. The light of her bedroom switched on, and then I turned on my heel, feeling the strain in every muscle.What a shit night.
So being the utterly self-absorbed prick that I was, I decided to grace my old therapist with a little visit since he lived a stone’s throw away. As the countdown to midnight hit its peak, all hell broke loose. People inside their homes screamed while some even spilled out onto the streets in groups. I scowled at the commotion, particularly annoyed by one fool who tried to hug me in a feeble attempt at celebration.
I finally reached that sorry excuse for a fence and shoved it open. Lights spilled out from the windows of the yellow suburban house. Good, he was up. I wouldn’t have to wake him. I pressed Mr. Henry’s doorbell, instantly silencing the music emanating from inside. Look who just crashed the party.Seconds later, the door creaked open to reveal that skinny old man wearing one of his checkered shirts.
“Hello? Who are—” He squinted, adjusting his glasses. “Levi? It’s been what, four years?”
“Surprise,” I sneered, spreading my arms wide.
He scrutinized me from head to toe, not bothering to hide his grimace and deep frown. “What are you doing here? You’re bleeding! How did you get my address?”
“You’ve always been observant, Mr. Henry. Quite the optimist for a therapist,” I said, tilting my head to the side to wave at both his wife and son, who eyed me like I was some serial killer. “I got into a fight set up by my lovely ex-girlfriend, but that’s beside the point. Found your address with a few clicks online, and here I am, in need of a therapy session.”
“Levi.” Mr. Henry sighed, just like he used to do when I was a teenager. At least he was the only shrink in town who didn’t lie about being too booked out to receive me. “It’s New Year’s, and it’s past midnight. Come see me at my office—”
“No, I need it now,” I pressed, a nerve working in my jaw. “Name your price.”
“You know I don’t do this for money.”
“Well, I’m desperate. Look at me.” I gestured to my battered face, knowing Mr. Henry had a soft spot for lost causes.
He glanced over his shoulder at his wife and son, who nodded in agreement. “Fine, you can come in, but no more than an hour.”
I strolled past him, offering a friendly tap on the shoulder. “Always too empathetic for your own good. Should’ve shut the door in my face while you had the chance.”
“And you’re still as self-absorbed as ever. Thought you might’ve learned to love yourself by now,” he deadpanned, motioning for me to take a seat on his tacky floral sofa while tossing me a bag of frozen peas for my throbbing forehead. “So what brings you here? Haven’t seen you since your mother’s funeral.”
I glanced at his son, who stared at me with wide eyes, probably around eight years old, seated in front of his early 2000s gaming PC that was shut down. I never quite understood how someone could be a therapist and still end up poor.
“Mattias, I’m with a patient. Why don’t you go play one of your games in your bedroom?” Mr. Henry’s voice dripped with nauseating kindness as the boy hesitated, his eyes still on the PC. “You know the computer is broken. We’ll get you a new one for your next birthday.”
“Or you could just listen to me, and I’ll give you a thousand for this session,” I offered.
“I won’t take your money, Levi. I’m helping you free of charge because you seem… in need.”
