Page 15 of Torched Spades
Fucking hell, the woman swings from hot to cold like a damn pendulum. Fortunately, I swing harder and faster.
“I’m not someone you can fit in one of your clinical boxes, Doc. Maybe red lipstick seems tame to you, but that’s only because you’re on the outside looking in.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s all about the color,” I continue. “Redlipstick. It’s the color of anger, lust, passion, hate…fire. It’s not about a thing, but a response. When I see a woman wearing it, I feel the same rush as when I set a fire. It stays in my mind, the pressure building until I can find a place to…release it.”
Becca’s fingers clench the armrests, and I smile, thinking I’ve pushed her to the edge. But just as I ready myself for the explosion, she releases her tight grip.
Flashing the barest hint of a smirk, she leans forward, picks up the apple, and tosses it in the air. “You know, there’s a fine line between fiction and truth just like there is between fantasy and reality.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Time’s up,” she says abruptly. Before I can argue, she nods toward the clock on the wall. “Our session is over, Mr. Malone. I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
“I still have five minutes left.”
Closing my folder, she gives me a polite smile before rising to her feet. “Unfortunately, I don’t.”
I’m off that damn couch and in her face before she can find her footing. “So do you screw all your patients, or is it just me?”
The temperature in the room plummets as she tips her head back and glares up at me. “My time doesn’t belong to you, Mr. Malone. In fact,yourtime doesn’t even belong to you. It’s owned by the state of Rhode Island.”
I should be furious at her insolence. Instead, it makes me want to pin her against that chair and show just how much of herfuckingtimebelongs to me. So before I do something I’ll regret, I shove the card back inside my jacket and storm toward the door.
“Anchors…” she calls out behind me.
My hand is already on the doorknob when I glance over my shoulder to find Becca still standing in the same spot, a troubled look on her face.
“The answer to your question about how to change the person you are? You have to remove the anchors holding you to the one you were.”
Chapter Five
JOHNNY
Whoever saidThursdays are the new Tuesdays never had to wait seven days for another verbal spar with his puritanical psychiatrist.
A little more than a week after uncovering Becca’s real identity. I’m operating on autopilot. I shouldn’t be so invested in this woman. I feel nothing for her but a sense of razor-edged caution. At least working the graveyard shift at the docks keeps my mind occupied and my hands off my phone.
Any more search and surveillance and I’ll do something drastic.
The Port of Providence is quiet this time of night. Especially since most of the third shift is at the next cargo berth down jerking their dicks while unloading an early shipment of Bentleys.
Thanks, but no thanks.
Expensive cars don’t mean shit. Any man needing to flash a two hundred thousand dollar set of wheels usually has a bank account bigger than his balls.
“Hey Johnny, you get a look at a few of those?” Henry asks, squinting at the haul while puckering his lips. “Those are some sweet rides.”
“If you’re into pretentious cockmobiles, then sure.”
“Come on,” he says, jabbing his elbow into my ribs. “Don’t tell me you’ve never imagined owning one.”
I pause, one foot already on the forklift. “Don’t ever fucking touch me again.”
Holding both hands up, he steps back. “Okay, man. Take it down a few notches.”
I heave out a tired breath.Knee-jerk reaction.Henry’s not a bad guy. He’s just the unlucky idiot who pulled the short straw and got stuck working with me tonight.
