2. Transaction

Chapter 2

Transaction

I wouldn't say that I'm a particularly angry person. Sure, there are many things that piss me off. Poor internet connection. People who chew with their mouth open. Mansplaining. Traffic. People who don't clean up after their dogs.

And waiting.

That's the worst. Whether it's to cross the damn street or stand in a fucking line, I thoroughly despise waiting.

It's a waste of time.

And time is a precious commodity. It's fleeting. Every second that passes is a second that's lost forever. Time is the one thing money can't buy. I've tried. I wasted thousands trying to buy time. It can't be done.

Time is something to cherish, to hold sacred. And the longer I stand here, waiting for—I glare at the name tag pinned into the peppy receptionist's blouse— Heather to get off the damn phone, the more time I lose.

I'm tempted to remove the switchblade from my purse and slice through the telephone cord—also perhaps her throat—but my father's repetitive warnings float through my mind.

Do not ever make a scene. Do not cause unnecessary trouble. Hold your head up high. You represent a century of influence. We have standards, Camilla.

Meet them...or else.

I dig my nails into my upper thigh, the acrylics imprinting the faux leather fabric of my skirt, the pain soothing my spurting frustration. I dig in harder as the seconds pass and the receptionist continues to hold up a finger indicating she needs more time. Don't we all. I push harder and harder and harder until?—

"Sorry about that! Busy morning!" Heather exclaims, peering up at me as she lowers the receiver. "How can I help you?"

"Hi," I say, gradually pulling my nails away from my thigh, the indents in the fabric evident by touch. Control. I place my clutch on the counter, removing my sunglasses. "My assistant Zoey called earlier about an appointment. Name's Camilla Bianco."

"Ah, yes! Welcome, Miss Bianco!" she says, smiling up at me. No one should be this cheery before noon. Must be drugs. "You're a bit early, though I do have you scheduled for 10 a.m."

"I'm aware, but this is an emergency," I say through my teeth but ensure my tone is warm. Zoey always says you attract more bees with honey than vinegar. Then again, she says a lot of stupid shit. "I need to be seen right away." I force a smile, my fingertips pulsing. "Please? "

"Dr. Malcolm just stepped into the office," she explains, apologetic undertones in her phoney smile. "He usually needs about an hour to settle in." Heather leans down and opens a cabinet door under her desk, a familiar squeak filling the white walls of the minimally decorated practice. She pulls out a stack of paper, attaching the forms to a clipboard. "But you can fill out these documents while you wait. It's standard for new patients. They’re a bit long so you can take a seat."

"Fine." I swallow away the budding impatience as my gaze flicks to the open cabinet, the corner of a shitty chew toy poking out. "You have a dog?" I ask, taking the clipboard from her hands. If I were to stab her right now, there'd be no one to take care of Pinto. Can't have that.

Saved by a canine. Count your blessings, Heather.

"Oh my God!" Heather lights up. "I do! How did you know?"

"I'm psychic," I joke flatly, eliciting an almost frightening expression from poor Heather. I sigh, rolling my eyes as I nod toward the cabinet. "The toy."

"Oh!" She laughs, pulling out a purple alien chew toy. Christ. Another uneducated dog owner. "Isn't it adorable? My little bubs is going to love it!"

"Adorable and toxic ," I state, shaking my head in disgust. "That toy was recently recalled. I would research brands prior to purchase if I were you, Heather. Unless you hate your pet, that is."

Heather blinks, examining the plushy. "Toxic?"

"Mhmm. Look it up." I grab a pen and flip through the intake forms.

Fuck’s sake, so many pages.

Name. Real. Birthday. Real. Address. Lie. Contact information. Lie. Employment history. Lie. Academic history. Real. Reason for your visit. Real.

Psychiatric and medical history. How intense is your emotional distress? Lie. Please list all the mental and physical problems you've been diagnosed with. Lie. Name of family doctor. Lie. Have you ever been hospitalized? Lie.

Current habits.

Smoking. Lie. Gambling. Lie. Drinking. Lie. Drug use. Lie. Caffeine intake. Lie. Exercise. Lie. Eating. Lie. Sleeping. Lie. Fun and relaxation. Lie.

All lies. It's better this way.

"Oh my God," Heather mumbles, clacking away on her keyboard as I reach the bottom of the form. "This is horrible."

Guess she decided to do some research.

"Here." I hand her back the clipboard. "I'm done."

"Thank you," she whispers, still distraught. Yeah, I'd be freaked out too if I were slowly killing my dog. She scans the form, eyebrow perking up. "Oh, you forgot to write down an emergency contact."

"I know," I state, expression hardening. "It says it's optional."

"Are you sure you don't want to jot down a name?" Heather asks innocently. "Maybe a relative? A parent?"

"My parents live abroad," I explain, a bitter taste in my mouth. Deserters. "And everyone else is dead."

"Oh, okay," she hums awkwardly, nodding. "What about, umm...a close friend? Just someone we can call in case anything happens."

My jaw tenses. Enough niceties .

"I'm done," I say, grabbing my clutch off of the counter. Turning on my heel, I head toward the closed office doors. "I don't have time for this."

"Oh! Miss Bian—shoot!" Heather begins to call out but the phone rings. "Thank you for calling Dr. Malcolm's office, how may I help you?"

I tried to do this Zoey's way. I really did. But it's not my style. At all. My way is much more efficient. My way gets shit done. This was supposed to be a simple in and out. No more playing ball. I came here for one thing, and one thing only.

My fingers curl around the handle and I open the door to the office, mind blanking as my eyes land on the scarred sculpted back of Dr. Hayden Malcolm.

Oh, fuck me.

My gaze floats down the curve of his spine as he slides his arms slowly through a white dress shirt, the spring sun casting a glow around his deliciously lean body.

Maybe I came here for two things.

I bite my lip, leaning against the door frame as I watch him pop his collar, the flexing movements of his muscles making me envy the piece of cotton stretching across his arms. My eyes flit down to his firm, round ass. Mmm. What a treat indeed. My pussy clenches in anticipation. But is the front as good as the back? As if reading my mind, his body rotates, my mouth drying as I soak in the outline of his impressive cock.

Well, hello daddy.

"Apologies." His low, gritty voice fills my ears. "I didn't hear anyone come in. "

"I didn't knock." I lift my head up after one more second of viewing pleasure. He'd make a killing at Suffer N' Rage. "Sorry." I smirk when I meet his green eyes, my insides burning as I scan his symmetrical features. Three for three. Triple threat. "Well—" I lick my lips, stealing one more glance at my new potential toy, "—not that sorry."

"Hmm…" He adjusts his cuffs before reaching for the blazer draped over the back of an office chair. He strides toward me, putting on the jacket, a dark glow in his irises as he adds, "Do you often have the need to disregard societal norms, Miss…?" He pauses, cocking his head. "Miss Bianco, I presume?"

"Correct," I say, concealing a grin as I hold out my hand. I wonder if his grip is tight. The tighter the better. "And you must be Dr. Malcolm. A pleasure to meet you." He studies my hand for several long beats but doesn't shake it. Interesting. "Are you upset I didn't knock, Doctor?"

"Upset?" he asks, giving me an attentive once over. "No, I am not."

"Good because I?—"

"However," he continues, rudely cutting me off. "It is incredibly disrespectful to barge into someone's office without knocking. I could have been with a patient."

"But you weren't," I snap back, tilting my head. "Were you?"

"Not the point," he states sternly. "This type of impertinent behavior is not tolerated in this office, understood?"

"Wow, it's only been thirty seconds and you're already lying to me," I note, meeting his clinical eyes. They're so fucking green. Like a forest that has yet to be clear cut. Untapped. Unexplorable. Untainted. "Must be a record."

"I beg your pardon?"

I smirk. "No need to beg, Doctor. I'm more than willing to pardon you."

"Next time, you knock." His tone is demanding, authoritative, and somewhat arousing. "Yes?"

"I could've sworn I knocked, but…" I pause, stepping into the office and closing the door behind me. Privacy is so important these days. "It might have...slipped my mind." My gaze flicks down the length of his tall frame. "I must have been a tad distracted."

"Interesting." He stops a few feet away from me, the scent of cedarwood, lavender, and orange blossom permeating the space between our bodies. "In some cases, distractibility is a common side effect of persistently elevated stress." His brow quirks up as he drags his thumb across his chin, my focus darting to his tempting mouth. "Are you stressed, Miss Bianco?"

"Do I look stressed, Doctor?" I ask in a breathy tone, my chest rising at the thought of all the deranged acts those lips could do to my body. The things he could make me feel. Oh, the things I could make him feel. "Mmm."

"Is it too warm in here for you?" he asks, drawing my attention with an edgy hint of amusement in his tone. "You look somewhat flushed."

I blink, composing myself. He's observant. I'm not sure if I like that. "I've had a chaotic morning." I cross my arms defensively against my chest. "You might have heard."

"Yes, my secretary informed me of your ordeal," he says, glancing at his G-Shock watch. I wouldn't have pegged him for a diver. "Unfortunately, you are quite early for our session, so I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside until I'm ready to see you."

"That won't be necessary," I say, remembering the real reason I'm actually here. Priorities, Camilla. I reach into my purse and pull out the checkbook. "I'm not here for a session."

"Really?" he hums, almost mockingly. "Do you plan on completing your forty-eight hours at another practice then?"

"I don't plan on completing those hours at all," I say. His salty tone is quickly taking away his sexual appeal. Dries me right up. "Name your price, doc." I tap the checkbook. "And don't lowball yourself."

"My price?"

"Yes, your price." I take a step forward and cast him a sly smile. "How much will your cooperation cost me?" I twist my lips in thought. "I think one hundred thousand should be enough, right? I mean, all you need to do is report my hours to the judge. Pretty simple, I'd think."

"You expect me to lie to the state, Miss Bianco?" he asks, crossing his arms. "What kind of establishment do you think this is? Your money's no good here, believe me."

I roll my eyes. "Two hundred thousand then."

"I am not that easily bought, Miss Bianco." A minuscule incredulous chuckle tumbles from his lips. "Perhaps you should seek cooperation from a different doctor. One that has...equally loose morals."

"Let's not bring morals into business, Doctor," I sigh. God, this is getting annoying. "And that's what this is—a business transaction."

"This is not Wall Street, Miss Bianco," Dr. Malcolm states. "And my integrity is not for sale." He gestures to the door. "Please see yourself out."

"Excuse me?" I ask, scoffing. "You can't be serious." I fish a pen out of my purse and open the checkbook. "Okay, fine, three hundred thousand! Final offer."

"Did you not hear me?" Dr. Malcolm asks, his voice rising as he reaches forward, snatching the pen from my hands. "I said leave ."

I blink, glaring up at him. The disrespect. "You shouldn't have done that."

"No?" A devious ghost of a smile spreads across his face. "Why not?" He holds up my gold pen. "Are you angry now?"

I grind my teeth together, ears burning. "Give me back my pen."

"And if I don't?" he asks, holding the pen in the air. "What will you do?"

"I'll kill you," I state, my heart racing. Fucking breathe. "I will kill you."

"For taking your pen?" Dr. Malcolm clicks his tongue as he gives me back my father's pen. "You don't find that reaction somewhat...problematic?"

"Fuck off," I hiss, glowering at him as I shove the pen back in my purse. "Don't psychoanalyze me."

"That's my job, Miss Bianco," he says, skimming my face. "And I believe you are in desperate need of my expertise."

"I don't need your help, Dr. Malcolm," I grunt, digging my nails into my palm. "I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." He turns away from me and heads to his desk. "By the way—" he cranes his neck over his shoulder, "—you're bleeding."

"What?" I look down, opening my hand, a pool of blood sitting in my palm.

"I can help you, Miss Bianco." He sits down in his office chair and slides a pair of thick-framed glasses onto the bridge of his nose. "If you'd let me."

"You don't know me," I say, tears threatening to spill. "You can't help me. No one has been able to help me."

"I disagree." Dr. Malcolm leans back into the chair. He links his fingers together and rests his hands on his chest. His mossy eyes heat my flesh as he adds, "I think you'd be surprised by how... effective my methods can be."

"Save it," I state, heading for the door. "Not interested."

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Bianco," he calls out confidently as I twist the door handle. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon."

"Not fucking likely," I grumble, almost running out of the office.

What the fuck was that? Who does he think he is? I don't need this. I don't need to be fixed. I'm fucking fine. I'm perfect. Everything is fine.

"Cami!" Zoey yells, running behind me as I storm past her. "Cami, stop! What happened?"

"Find a new doctor," I demand, pulling out my cell phone. TJ better be awake and working. I text him. Meet me at the club. Two grams. Ten minutes. "I'm going to S&R."

"It's 9 a.m., Cami," Zoey points out, a frown marring her brows. "A bit early, don't you think?"

"Find a new fucking doctor!" I yell, nodding at Frankie, who's standing beside the SUV. "Take me to my club," I tell him, hopping into the backseat. I slam the door shut and roll down a window. "Go feed Pinto," I tell Zoey, who's lingering outside the car. "I won't be home till late."

"How late?" she asks.

"Late."

Until I can't think anymore.

Or feel.

Until I'm numb.