Physical Therapy (Red Hot Read Book 4) Read online

  “You hide your pain well,” I remark.

  He smirks, pride restored as he pulls his shoulders back and pushes his chest out. “I guess the old adage holds true: you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

  “Or do you think a more telling explanation would be that we all hide behind a mask, Mr. Johanssen?”

  He rises from the seat, gaze narrowed. “I guess we both have a lot to learn from these sessions if you think I’m hiding who I truly am.”

  “Aren’t you?” I gesture to his state of dress. “You’re clearly corporate, white collar. If you wanted the world to know that you’re naturally over aggressive, then why not pursue a career as a professional boxer? Why not take a blue collar job where you can work your aggression out through manual labor?” I take a second to relish his frustration. “In my professional opinion, Boe, you’re hiding.”

  “Have your receptionist schedule our next appointment.” He snatches the jacket from his seat. “She can send the details to my office.”

  I nod, turning slightly to acknowledge him as he leaves. He thought he had the upper hand with his arrogance. Yet once he realized it wasn’t the pain from his street brawl to which I referred, all pretenses were lost.

  It was the pain from his checkered past, that I referred. Detailed in full on the reverse of the summary between us, yet hidden as well as all shameful secrets are.

  Face down. In broad daylight.

  **

  “He was a lovely surprise,” Molly remarks, a faraway and dreamy look in her eye.

  I wave my hand in before her to snap the girl out of her daze. “And he’s here for a reason. Remember that.”

  She sighs, opening up her scheduling app. “How messed up is he, though? Because you know I don’t mind a little something to work with.”

  I groan, elbows on the front of her reception desk. “You know, sometimes I think you should have got a job at a dog shelter, or the like.”

  She laughs. “All I’m saying is that I don’t mind a little sacrifice for the good of waking up to that kind of masterpiece every morning.” Her lips twist while she stares at the computer monitor. “When would you like his next session booked for?”

  “Four. Weekly. And in the middle of the morning.” Right when it’ll inconvenience the arrogant ass. A vision of Boe stretched out, naked, in bed flashes in my mind’s eye. “Plus, he’s probably the kind of man who wouldn’t still be there in the morning, Moll.” I push off her desk as she taps in the dates one by one. “If nothing else, working here should teach you which men to avoid, not chase.”

  Molly shrugs, her shoulders catching the ends of her perfect blonde bob. “We all have to learn from our own mistakes, E.” She logs out and sends the monitor to sleep. “I’ll catch you tomorrow. Don’t stay too late.”

  “I won’t, Mom.” She chuckles as I head for my office. “Have a good night.”

  “Night.”

  With the door through to reception hitched open, I slide in behind my desk to type out and expand on my notes from the day. I saw eight clients total—Boe being the second to last of those. Yet for reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, I decide to start with his notes first.

  There aren’t many.

  He didn’t give me much information on him, other than proving my assumptions about his character correct: he overcompensates, uses aggression to hide his fear, and distracts from the real issues at play by keeping busy. He’s attractive—very much so, and he damn well knows it. His charm is yet another way to deflect people from the volatile mess that simmers beneath the surface. If people are blinded by his appeal, then they’re more likely to forgive his indiscretions.

  It’s no wonder the man has a career in high-level sales.

  Cases like his are pretty simple. In most instances, all that’s required to satisfy the state is a promise from the offender that they won’t repeat the behavior since they now understand the full impact their actions had on the victim or society. Child’s play. I can pull those kinds of empty words out of anybody, and definitely within the mandated two sessions.

  Except for Boe. Complicated, concrete wall, Boe.

  He shows no intention of admitting remorse. In his mind, he’s clearly done nothing wrong. At least, nothing he feels could have been avoided through an alternate course of action. And the fact he walked out early when I called him out on his charlatan character? Only proves that he’s the type who can’t handle not being the one in control.

  Assurances are his life source, which points to insecurity. He trusts no one but himself.

  The mind geek inside of me wants to pry a little deeper into his psyche, unravel a few more layers and dissect what I find to know if perhaps there’s more to his story than the usual cliché. He seems reluctant to face up to something, but unlike other clients I’ve had who know what they desperately avoid, he doesn’t even seem to know that he runs from anything at all.

  He’s unhappy with himself, but he has no idea why.

  I want to open Boe’s eyes a little wider. Turn his focus inward and see what happens. Implode or explode? Only time will tell.

  And yes, as I tap his name into Facebook, I have to admit Molly is right. With a face like his, a build made for GQ, and that deep husky voice… a girl has to wonder if his vices would be worth the sacrifice.

  FIVE

  Boe

  “Like hell, I’m going back for four sessions, Clara.” Mobile phone clutched to my ear, I pace the small space in front of my office desk. “How fucked up does she think I am?”

  “All I’m saying,” she argues, “is that you might find the sessions useful, if not for your aggression, maybe to iron out some other kinks.”

  “Like what,” I bark. “What things do I need to ‘iron out’?”

  She sighs down the line. “Your tendency to believe everyone is against you, for starters.”

  “It keeps me sharp at work.”

  “It keeps you paranoid.”

  I grunt and stop pacing.

  “Also, your fear of commitment.”

  Oh, now she’s lost it. I burst into laughter, finding my way back to my chair so that I can get my breath back. “Do you even know me, sis?”

  “Of course I do. It’s you who doesn’t know himself,” she retorts. I’ve clearly pissed her off. “I need to go and organize lunch for these monkeys, Boe. Just go. Humor me.”

  The smile slides from my face. “I’ll give her the mandated two. Then I’ll decide.”

  “I guess some is better than none. Behave.” She disconnects with the cry of her twins in the background.

  We’re poles apart, Clara and I, and yet we’re closer than most siblings are. She pursued the traditional role of mother and wife, content with filling in her days with craft projects and housekeeping. Whereas I barely lost the school uniform before I was on the street canvassing for my first job in sales.

  I’m a talker. A manipulator and a greaser. I know how to turn a good person bad, and how to have the most cautious of customers loosen their purse strings.

  I’m good at what I do because I don’t give a fuck. Uh-huh. Use your retirement fund or your kids’ inheritance, I really don’t care. As long as your name is on the bottom of that contract and mine is in the commission section, then we’re peaches and cream.

  My phone creates a gentle swishing sound as I spin it beneath my palm on the leather surface of my desk. The uninviting lines of my latest pitch stare back at me from the screen of my laptop. I should be delving back into the best way to convince a retiree investment club to sink two hundred thousand into a new apartment development on the waterfront. Instead, my gaze drifts across to the gold embossed card that arrived in today’s office mail.

  Four appointments, all a week apart. And all at ten in the goddamn morning.

  It’s as though Doctor Edith couldn’t resist riling me up. Perhaps this is part of her plan? Go out of her way to anger me whenever and wherever she can to prove a point. Little does she know, though, I have a plan of my own.<
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  With one flick of my wrist, I send the phone skidding over the desk until it collides with the side of a thick binder. My chair slides across the floor, fingertips on the laptop keyboard before the wheels have had a chance to dig into the carpet and bring me to a stop. The document containing my pitch shrinks down to the dock, a new browser window soon in its place.

  Edith Potts. Not exactly the most common of names. This should be a breeze.

  “Johanssen!”

  Fuck. I glare out from beneath my brow. “What do you need, Rogers?”

  The cheesy fucker swings into my open doorway. Fuck this place and the open-door policy. Any deal done behind closed doors is a deal not worth doing, or so our goddamn founder says.

  “We’re arranging a few birthday brewskis for Susan, this Friday. Keep an eye out for the memo.”

  “Sure.” Brewskis. Who the fuck still calls them brewskis? I release a sigh and straighten in my seat. “Did you need something else?”

  Most days, I don’t mind Rogers. He’s a nice kid. A little green around the ears, but a few more years fighting for his commission will knock that right out of him. But today isn’t most days, and when I can see the face of the woman I hunt staring back at me from fifth in the search results, I’d rather he cut to the goddamn chase.

  “Here’s the thing.” His hands slap together in front of him as he takes a step into my cramped office. Fuck. This could take a while. “I’m not sure if you’d heard, but Kendra and I have been seeing each other for a few weeks now.”

  I draw a deep breath and recline a little. “No. I hadn’t heard.” But then again, I stopped following who was fucking who in our office when the lines became more tangled than an incestuous family tree.

  “Yeah.” Another step.

  My fist closes on top of the desk. Unless you’ve got deep pockets, I’m not much of a people person.

  “I’d like to take things further with her, but I need to get something straight first.”

  What the fuck does he want? My blessing? Since when did I become the godfather of this goddamn circus? “Go ahead.”

  He reaches the front of my desk; his sinewy hands clasp the front lip as he leans down to level our faces. “I’d heard you and her…” Jackass waves a hand between us. “You know.”

  Fuck me—this is way too much fun now. “We what?”

  “You know. You and her…”

  Give it a second for emphasis… and… “Fucked?”

  I swear the guy shudders. “Had a relationship. Yeah.”

  Hands braced behind my head, I lean back a little further. “No, Rogers. No relationship for us. We only ever fucked.” I abruptly sit forward and send him reeling back. “Actually, no. She blew me a few times too.” I point to where he stands. “Right there.”

  Poor sap nods. “I see.”

  “But you know,” I say dismissively. “You can’t judge the poor girl by her past if you really like her that much.”

  A hand goes to the back of his neck. “No. You’re right. I can’t.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be happy together.” I feign interest in my laptop. “No need to worry about me, pal. Any history Kendra and I share is exactly that—history.”

  He hesitates, seeming to collect himself. “Yeah. Thanks. Thanks for clearing that up for me.”

  I watch him in my periphery, waiting until he steps foot just outside my office door. “I take it you’ve had the same conversation with Daniels and Malarkey then?”

  He freezes, gaze fixed to the floor beside him as he answers. “No. I hadn’t.”

  My breath hisses between my teeth. “Better make sure you see Malarkey at least. Pretty sure he still had an interest in her last month, man.”

  God, I’m an asshole.

  “Thanks for the advice, Johanssen.”

  “Any time.” But damn, do I love it. “Wishing you two only happiness.”

  It was cruel. Most definitely a little low. But hey. What else does Kendra expect after she stole my goddamn Gucci watch?

  Mess with something I like? Then I mess with what you like.

  It’s called getting even.

  Simple.

  SIX

  Edith

  “Please tell me you actually went home last night?”

  I roll my eyes as Molly leans around the office door to flick the overhead lights on. “Of course I did. I came in early this morning instead.”

  She wanders back to her desk in reception, muttering something about there being no difference.

  She’s right. Whether I went home late or came in early, it doesn’t change the reason why I work extra hours. Lack of sleep is the hardest vice to shake of all. Especially when that lack of sleep is from an overactive mind caused by your patients.

  Although, a girl can’t complain when that patient is as captivating as Boe Johanssen. More than once I caught myself lost in his intense gray eyes during our last session.

  The lid of my laptop snaps shut with a flick of my wrist, my toes dipping into the stiff confines of my heels under the desk. I straighten out my charcoal sheath dress, retrieve my phone and purse, and head for Molly.

  “I’m going to nip down to the coffee shop before the first client arrives. Would you like anything?”

  She lifts a tall takeaway cup wordlessly while logging on with the other hand.

  “Back in ten, then.” Cooler air hits me as I push out the glass door to the shared lobby of our floor.

  The frosted glass conceals what goes on in each of the private practices, but eighteen months in this building and I’ve gained a pretty good handle on each of my neighbors.

  To the left is a psychiatrist who deals primarily with people referred by the state as a last resort. People with extreme addictions and ailments. Pyromaniacs. Serial rapists. The kind of patients who are escorted in wearing shackles and standard issue jumpsuits.

  To the right resides a marriage and family therapist. One day in her waiting room is enough to put most off tying the knot for life. I once asked her what her success rate is out of curiosity. I wish I hadn’t.

  The lift arrives, revealing a couple that most definitely belongs to her office. I smile graciously as they move aside to let me catch the door, well aware it might be the only spot of civility they see in the next hour.

  My father asked me when I applied to college what it was I wanted out of a career in the mental health sector. At the time I was young and naïve about how complex thought patterns of the broken and desperate could be. I answered him with the simple vow that most people in my freshman year recited when asked the same thing: I want to help people.

  Advice from my tutors couldn’t sway me. Case studies set down for study couldn’t convince me either. It was after I recognized the name of a former patient in the news that I finally gave into the truth: some people can’t be helped, and worse than that, some don’t want to be.

  The lift arrives at the first floor as I reach inside my purse to retrieve my phone. I pull the device out while navigating the hustle and bustle of a twenty-two-floor office building arriving for work, and manage to unlock it before I reach the street.

  The notes app still sits open, the bullet points I made about Boe glaring back at me from the HD display. Is he destined to be another one of my lost causes? A history of violence that extends back to not only his father but his grandfather too. Three generations of men who have either served time or managed to evade a stretch behind bars through nothing but empty promises and false charm.

  His mother was a fascinating find. A quiet woman who supported her white-collar husband throughout his impressive corporate career—even when he was convicted of racketeering three years before he was due to retire. I’ve seen pairing such as theirs in the past, and what struck me as odd is Boe’s seeming ignorance that he follows in his father’s footsteps. A tendency to bully people into submission, a history of violence when things don’t go as he anticipated; he’s headed for disaster if he continues on this path.

  Ther
e’s so much potential in him. That I can see. But what’s yet to make itself clear is if I’ll be able to turn his destructive attitude toward life around, or not.

  Rain threatens to fall, gray clouds covering the beautiful blue sky that broke the dawn when I arrived at the office this morning. I swing right into the coffee house at the base of our building and join the queue for my twice-daily fix. My thumb flies across the screen as we shuffle forward, questions for my session with Boe tomorrow filling the six-inch screen.

  I started to dig into the man I’ve been assigned out of spite. He strode into my office last week full of arrogance. I was determined to build a plan that would cut him down to size within seconds this week, that would set him firmly in his place as my patient, not purely a paying client.

  But the further I dug, and the more my mind map on the man expanded across the page, the more undeniable it became.

  Fate had delivered Boe Johanssen to me for a reason.

  One I’m not sure I’m ready to uncover.

  SEVEN

  Boe

  “Dr. Potts will see you now.” The pretty blonde receptionist offers a warm smile.

  I don’t miss the way her gaze drags the length of me as I stand, or the unnecessary swivel of her chair while she tracks me across to the ash panel door.

  “Thank you, Molly.” I leave her with the kind of wink that’ll have the girl wondering if I really was hitting on her for the next hour.

  If Edith plans on making things difficult for me, then I intend to do the same for her. Perhaps I could take it one step further? I didn’t see a ring on Molly’s finger. I’m sure she’s not averse to a little after-hours fun. It’s not as though she has to abide by patient-client rules now, is it?

  “Good morning, Boe.”

  I close the door gently behind me, surprised to find Edith in the armchair already. She swivels her hips, tilting her body towards me.

  “Thank you for being on time today.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” If I want to get the most out of fucking with her this session, then I need the whole hour.