Physical Therapy (Red Hot Read Book 4) Read online

  Table of Contents

  FREE NOVELLA

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  MAILING LIST

  ALSO BY MAX

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PHYSICAL THERAPY

  Copyright © 2019 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

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  ONE

  Boe

  Sterile white walls, stiff furniture, and cheap art prints encased in fancy frames to exude an air of sophistication. Medical specialist offices are all the same.

  The woman across from me peeks up from her magazine—again. Her painted fingertips flex against the glossy cover, the slightest parting of her lips an indication of a deeper desire.

  I smile.

  Her lashes dip, as does her chin. A slight shift of the legs to press the thighs together. A subtle tilt of the hips to alleviate pressure on her most intimate area.

  Body language can reveal so much.

  The time on my phone lock screen reads 10:02. Already late. With a sigh, I unlock the device and navigate to the message thread with my sister. Thumb tapping furiously at the small keyboard, I flex my jaw left, and then right. The muscles that run down to my neck ache, the stiffness radiates upward to leave a dull throb in my temples.

  Fucker had a mean swing.

  First impressions aren’t good, I type. The woman can’t keep her schedule.

  Lusty, across the room, heaves a sigh as she checks her own watch. Better not be double booked as well. I have a long list of things I could do instead of entertaining the Crown’s request. Lusty included.

  She flicks her gaze my way once more.

  I contemplate the complications of getting involved with a woman who needs to use a therapist. Then again, perhaps she wonders the same? Why does a man who clearly has his shit together—given the tailored suit and un-scuffed dress shoes—need to see a shrink?

  For crying out loud, Boe. Look at the upside. She clearly cares more about her patients than keeping exact time.

  I chuckle at my sister’s response. I should have known she’d have some positive reasoning for my complaint. One of many ways we’re polar opposites.

  And I care more about how much ground I lose being here and not at the office.

  One hour, plus travel. One hundred minutes was all I scheduled for this diversion. Every extra minute this woman takes out of my day is one less I’ll sleep tonight. Not that I sleep that well, anyway.

  You’ll lose a hell of a lot more if you’re in jail, won’t you?

  Damn, Clara. I send back the hand emoticon with the middle finger raised. I get a prompt kissy face in reply.

  Two court-mandated sessions, minimum. More if decided so by the therapist. I rise from the cheaply upholstered seat and pocket the phone in my breast pocket. Lusty watches from behind her magazine while I shake the steel gray jacket from my broad shoulders and then carefully fold it in half, lengthways, before laying it over the arm of my seat and resuming my position.

  Given the lack of decent air conditioning in this room, I take it Ms. Edith Potts doesn’t make much from her head-shrinking enterprise. Edith. The moment Clara handed me her business card, I had the woman pegged in my mind. Oversized floral blouse, tan slacks or shapeless skirt; a motivational kitten poster on the wall, and probably one or two handmade crafts from the grandkids; plus the stale smell of dusty books in her office, offset by the ratty flowers she brought in from her own garden.

  Oh, yes. I’ve got Edith figured out already.

  Question is can she figure me out?

  TWO

  Edith

  “Thank you, Sarah. I’ll see you next week.”

  Thank God for that. I close the door behind my last client and draw a deep breath. I love what I do. I love what I do. Dammit. I can tell myself that all day long but it doesn’t change the raw truth that sometimes—just sometimes—I wish I had somebody to call in sick to.

  The downside of being your own boss, I guess.

  “Suck it up, Edith.” I cross back to my desk and pull up the notes on my MacBook for the next client. “Two more appointments and then it’s home time.”

  He’s new. Court-appointed. Aggression. Ugh. I slump back into my ergonomic chair and draw yet another deep breath. I teach people how to use these tools for a living, and yet I can’t seem to get a grasp on them myself.

  I want to work with kids. At risk youth. Not an over-cocky testosterone fuelled asshole that thinks a great idea of a night out is leaving some guy at the bar with a permanent scar on his face.

  I blindly reach out and slap my hand on the desk until I locate the phone. Lifting the receiver, I feel my way down to the button on the far right that links me to my receptionist.

  “Molly. Can you send in my next client, please?”

  “Sure thing, Edith.”

  I use the fifteen seconds it takes for people to enter from the waiting room to straighten my blouse and skim over his notes once more.

  Boe Johansson.

  Aggravated assault.

  Third conviction.

  Mandated therapy as a diversion from sentencing.

  My fingers drift to the top button on my blouse, securing it tightly. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so ridiculous to wear a skirt that wraps mid-calf today, after all. The guy is probably rough as hell, tattooed in places that make employment awkward, and with eyes that wander to places I’d rather they didn’t.

  My fingers drum the oak top of my desk, the gentle tick of the clock on the corner echoing in my quiet office.

  A full minute passes and still no client.

  “Molly?”

  “I’m sorry. He’s on a call.”

  “So interrupt him. If he wants this booking, he needs to come in now.”

  She sighs. “I’ve tried. He waves me off.” I open my mouth to reply, yet she continues. “Oh, no. Wait. He’s done now.”

  “Thank you.” I disconnect and wait him out with my hands clasped before me.

  My desk sits opposite the door, giving me perfect positioning to stare him down as he enters. I’m not above asserting authority when I need to.

  The handle turns, the snick of the lock as i
t disengages my cue to straighten my back and draw a final deep breath. I sit a little taller as the door opens, my lips in a firm line and one eyebrow cocked.

  This little jailbird is about to find out what happens when you inconvenience your therapist—especially when she’s already had a rough day.

  The door swings wide and my next client walks in, head down and focused on his phone.

  Oh my. Both eyebrows lift as I take in the fine specimen before me. Oh, wow.

  This session just became way more interesting.

  THREE

  Boe

  “For future appointments, I would appreciate if we could keep the start time as close to scheduled as possible.”

  What the hell? That’s my line. I finish up forwarding an email to the office and look up.

  “Perhaps you could take your own advice?” Damn. I furiously scan her desk for a nameplate—anything—to tell me this is definitely Edith.

  No cat ornaments. No shitty handmade gifts. And definitely no stale book smell.

  Just a raven-haired siren with dark exotic eyes glaring at where I stand.

  “Three minutes I can allow for,” she responds while rising from her chair. “But if you insist on extending it closer to ten, it severely impacts on the rest of my day.”

  She walks her shapely ass around the desk to come to stand before me. I drag my gaze the length of her, taking in the fitted satin blouse, a figure-hugging skirt that restricts her gait, and the plum heels that elongate her calves.

  “Likewise, Edith. I have other things I’d rather do than be here. Therefore feel free to reduce my session to make up for lost time.”

  “You’re scheduled for an hour by the state, Mr. Johansson. We need to make use of the all the time afforded to us.” She extends an arm to gesture toward two matching leather chairs, angled around a simple wooden table. “Please. Take a seat.”

  I choose the one she appears to use herself, slinging my jacket over the back before giving my waistcoat a shrug and lowering myself to the seat. She waits, one hand rested on the arm of the free chair and the other hanging by her side, until I’m comfortable before she takes her position opposite me.

  I lean back and rest one ankle to my knee while she pointedly spins her notepad around and retrieves it from the table between us. Her hair slides forward, falling over a lean shoulder. She gently rearranges it; the half-up and half-down style she wears her hair in only serves to frame such a slender neck.

  I still can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. This woman has a body made for desire, nothing like the knitted jumper and generous waistline I’d imagined. Long legs are wrapped alluringly in a tailored skirt; a slender waist accentuated by a generously proportioned chest. I wet my lips while I take in the delicate line of her collarbone, highlighted by the fall of her satin blouse.

  “Let’s start with why you’re here.” Edith sets the notepad on her lap, pen held between forefinger and middle as she tips it back and forth. “In your own words, why do you think you are in my office today?”

  “Because I was told to be.”

  She frowns and lets out a loaded breath. “Elaborate.”

  “My sister made an appointment and handed me a card.” I smirk, loving this back and forth already.

  She narrows her gaze, long black lashes darkening already heavily shadowed eyes. “Let’s not waste the time we have, Mr. Johansson.”

  “You know,” I taunt. “You can call me by my given name if you’d like.”

  Edith swallows, gaze darting to the few notes scribbled on the pad in her lap.

  “Unless you’re not sure how to pronounce it?” I’ve got so used to correcting people over the years that it’s second nature. But with her, it’s a gift. A perfect chance to unravel her.

  “Boe,” she says, sounding the word as though she names what adorns the present she handed me.

  “Correct.” I tip my head to one side and study her. Most people try to over guess my name, putting extra emphasis on the E so it sounds like Bowie or Boy.

  She’s taken the simple, safe route. Interesting.

  “I really didn’t think there’d be any other way of saying it.”

  “People can have quite a varied perception when it comes to some things. But I guess you’d know that.” My hand instinctually goes to stroke the ache in the hinge of my jaw.

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “Why don’t you tell me why your jaw troubles you, Boe?”

  Makes me wonder, somewhat, if she planned the whole turn around all along? Who unraveled whom, just then? “I’m sure your file told you why I’m here.”

  “As I said at the start, I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

  I set my foot on the floor and lean forward, elbows to knees. “Why? So you can read into the words I choose? Draw assumptions from how I relay the story?”

  Her lips tilt in the softest of smiles. “Not at all. Purely so I can hear what your reasoning is for beating a man so badly he needed an overnight stay in the hospital.”

  I recline slowly, eyes on her the whole time as a smirk grows. “What does your professional opinion tell you was the reason?”

  The pen in her hand slams against the surface of her pad with a slap. “Here’s the thing. I ask you questions, to begin with, and you answer them. Once I have established a profile for you, then you may start questioning me as long as it’s in regards to either your condition or your treatment. Okay?”

  “My condition?” I scoff. “Are you insinuating that I’m unwell?”

  “Not unwell,” she replies curtly. “Simply with a few vices that need to be straightened out.” She sits ramrod straight, one elbow to the arm of the chair as she studies my response.

  I hold her eye with a hard stare of my own and gently slide my hands into the pockets of my suit pants. “I don’t believe honor is a vice, Ms. Potts.”

  “Edith.” Her eyes narrow a fraction. “First name basis works both ways, otherwise it leaves us unequal. Doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Perhaps, if you’re reluctant to discuss the event that gave the courts license to send you here, then you could start by explaining to me how brawling relates to honor?”

  “Because I refuse to show weakness in the face of adversity.”

  She nods in that condescendingly slow way only therapists do. Yet somehow, this fox manages to make it sensual in nature. “Refuse to show weakness? Or admit to it?”

  Goddamn, she’s good. I’m going to need to up my game if I intend to come out the winner here.

  FOUR

  Edith

  His arrogance is typical of the kind of man who prefers to settle disputes with his fists. He wears it well. As well as he wears his three-piece suit.

  I cast my gaze over the sleeves of his shirt, tracking down to where they’re clasped to his wrists by silver cuff links. He has strong hands, which is unusual for a man who works in the corporate field. Strong, tanned hands. A worker’s hands.

  “Why would I admit to something that’s untrue?”

  I return my focus to Boe’s face by way of the impeccably tailored waistcoat that hugs a clearly well-built physique. “Who says it’s untrue? Don’t we all have weaknesses? It’s what makes us human in nature, after all.” Such deep brown eyes.

  “Is it? I happen to think weakness is what’s wrong with our so-called nature these days.”

  Cynical. Most aggressive types are.

  “Perhaps in some cases. But where do you think your survival instinct comes from? Your drive to achieve? If you didn’t perceive weakness within your character, you wouldn’t have anything you wanted to improve upon or change, would you?”

  “Perhaps I don’t need to change?” He leans an elbow on the arm of the seat, side of his forefinger pressed to his lips while he regards me.

  “Then we have a problem if you honestly believe that to be true.” I make a show of bringing his printed summary to the top of my notepad, yet I already know what I want to say. “The court finds
your behavioral pattern to be a problem. It requests a significant improvement from these sessions, otherwise, they have no option but to relinquish all other means of recompense should you be charged again.” I glance up from the paperwork. “Of which they have no doubt you will.”

  “I still don’t see how this is my issue.” His hand drops, revealing a smug smile. “Surely the failure to fix me is a slight on your record, not mine?”

  “Not if I show that you were reluctant to engage in the set tasks and displayed keystones of a patient who is unable to be rehabilitated.” He can say whatever the hell he wants. This king of the urban jungle needs to realize that he’s not the one in charge around here.

  “And how do you intend to do that?”

  Somebody needs to knock him off his throne, and I get the feeling I’ll enjoy being the one to do so.

  I set my pad and papers down on the table between us, right where I know his inquisitive eyes could pick out a few choice words from the summary should he choose to pry. “To understand how I intend to work on your ego, Boe, you would need to be a trained psychologist.”

  “I think you underestimate my level of comprehension, Edith.” He brings his right ankle to his left knee once more.

  A classic power stance if ever there was one.

  “I don’t think I do. Otherwise, you’d understand why you really should stop fighting for once and simply do as you’re told.”

  He drops the leg, all pretense of indifference lost as he leans forward, ass perched on the edge of his seat. “Let us get one thing straight: nobody tells me what the fuck to do. Got it?”

  Control is a touchy subject: noted.

  “As it stands now.” I softly rise from my seat, hands clasped before me while I give him my back. “However that will change.”

  “I’d love to see you try.”

  “You’ll get every chance over our next four sessions.” I turn with perfect timing to see the alarm flash across his eyes.

  “Four? I was told two.”

  “Minimum.” Pausing for effect, I then add. “Will that be an issue, Boe?”

  “Of course not.” The muscle in his jaw flexes. He rubs it before it apparently registers what he does.