Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
I arrived at the office and took a seat, noting that there was no receptionist to check in with.
The door on the other side of the entrance was closed, but there was a sign there that read ‘With a patient. Be done at twelve thirty.’
Taking that to mean I should sit and wait, I did, absently playing Phase 10 on my phone while I did.
I was through three rounds when the door to the office opened, and a crying woman left with her head down.
The man at the mouth of the door smiled at me gently and gestured with his hand. “Come on in. You must be Creole?”
I nodded and stood, suddenly incredibly nervous. “That’s me. Creole Williams.”
He gestured toward a chair across from one that had a coffee cup sitting at its base and said, “Have a seat.”
I did, noting the box of tissues on the table separating the two chairs.
“What brings you in today?” he asked.
Besides being fucked up and scared of anyone and everyone?
“Where do I start?” I asked, laughing humorlessly.
His eyes sharpened, and he tapped his bottom lip with one blunt finger. “Where do you think you need to start?”
That was a loaded question if I ever heard one.
But how did I start to tell a man I barely knew, who I had no loyalties to, my deepest, darkest secrets?
I couldn’t even tell them to Audric when he’d been the one to bring them up because he found it all.
Well, all that he could find.
He still didn’t know everything.
I hadn’t told him what happened after he’d left.
He’d only known what his computer genius had been able to find.
He didn’t know what I’d gone through before he’d found me.
After.
When I’d had Damon.
What I’d had to do when Damon’s grandfather had found out about Damon.
As in, drop all charges against his awful son so I could keep mine free of his son’s disgustingness.
“Uhh…” I hesitated.
“Tell me how your day has been so far,” he suggested.
I eyed the psychiatrist.
He was in his early forties, had graying brown hair at his temples, and laugh lines around his face. He looked like he played golf, because he was so damn tan all over, and my dad usually had the same tan lines.
His hands were white, likely from gloves being worn in the sun.
I relaxed slightly, but only just barely.
His question was easy enough, so I told him about my day.
At least, what I felt like sharing anyway.
It was my day off, and I’d spent time in my garden.
There really wasn’t anything he could extrapolate from my words.
He gently led me into other conversations, and before I knew what hit me, he asked, “Are you afraid of men?”
I blinked at him. “What makes you say that?”
“Your body language, how you scooted your chair away from me twice after originally moving it before sitting down. You eye the exit every few minutes, making sure it’s still where you last saw it and free of debris that might hinder an escape,” he mused, starting a gentle tap-tap with his pen.
I forced myself not to stare at that stupid pen.
I hated when people tapped.
Or shuffled.
I had a lot of hearing issues based mainly around the noises that grated on my nerves the most.
The only man I’d ever been around who hadn’t annoyed me with his endless annoying noises was the one I’d pushed away.
“I am not comfortable around men, no,” I admitted, hating the vulnerability in my voice, especially around a man I didn’t know.
Just because he had M.D. after his name didn’t mean that he was anyone special. Even doctors could harm if they wanted to. Eight years of schooling meant nothing if they were inherently a bad person.
“Would you like me to open the door? Would that help?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered immediately.
He didn’t get up to open the door, and my eyes narrowed.
He looked at his watch.
“The last ten minutes I want you to tell me what happened to make you afraid of men,” he urged.
“That’s a long story, and it’ll take more than ten minutes,” I pointed out.
“I have lunch after this, so no rush,” he offered.
I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling my purse press against my stomach.
The gun that I had concealed in my purse was at easy reach.
I could kill this man before he’d even gotten out of his chair.
I’d practiced withdrawing my gun from my purse so many times, and firing my weapon, that I had full confidence in my abilities.
“I was raped by the captain of the football team in high school,” I said through gritted teeth, calming slightly with the purse and my gun so close.
A shriek from the hallway had us both turning to glance in the direction.
A calming voice, one that I knew very well, could be heard.
Then there was a commotion in the office beyond the psychiatrist’s door.