Shameless (The Therapist #2) Page 2

  “Wow. Well, there it is,” Brandon barks, still in his feelings. “You just said it, didn't you, Tessa? You're unsure about us. You’ve been unsure about us. That’s it right there. Is that why you didn't answer when he asked if you still like me?”

  “You didn't answer either, Brandon!” I bellow, as the tears pouring from my eyes multiply.

  “Oh geez. Fine, I don't fucking know if I like you or not, Tessa. I don't know. There, does that make you happy? All I know is that I’m on the verge of greatness, and I don't want to feel like I’m being dragged down by some neurotic, confused, unpleasable woman who’s going through some sort of crisis. We used to be good together, but now I think I’ve changed. You’ve changed, too, and I just don't know anymore. I don't know if I like you or not. I love who you used to be when we first started going out. At least you were fun back then.”

  Dr. Colson lets out another sigh, and I know he’s frustrated with how ugly this session has become. We’re not supposed to insult each other, but it seems that’s all Brandon can do right now.

  “Do you still love me?” I ask with a trembling voice.

  Brandon looks at me with a deep furrow in his brow. “You're doing that on purpose,” he says.

  “Doing what?”

  “Trying to make me look bad,” he answers. “You're sitting over here talking about how you're not sure about this and that, but you ask me if I still love you as if I’m not allowed to be confused, too. If I say I don't love you, I look like an asshole. I’m the asshole in the room if I say no.”

  “This isn't about looking good or bad, Brandon,” I try to explain the best I can with tears and emotion overtaking my face and voice. “I just want the answers we both need.”

  “Bullshit, you’re trying to embarrass me, Tessa. I won’t have it. Honestly, I’m sick of this bullshit. I think that’s enough therapy for one day. I’m done. Fuck this.”

  “Brandon, please don't leave,” Dr. Colson pleads, but Brandon is already up and walking toward the door. “This isn't healthy, Brandon. You can't make progress if you give up.”

  “Fuck your progress,” Brandon says behind a scoff, and he doesn't slow down a single step as he walks out of the door.

  Dr. Colson and I sit there for a moment, neither of us saying a word. This hasn't been easy for any of us, but today is the first time it feels like we’re putting a Band-Aid over a gunshot wound. I’ve been with Brandon for two years, and the idea that we might not make it sends shockwaves rippling through me, and I’m shaken into heavy sobs. Dr. Colson pushes a box of tissues over to my side of the table, and I take one, bringing it to my face only to cry into it.

  “It’s unfortunate that he left,” Dr. Colson says. I can hear both the sympathy and annoyance in his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt through ragged breathing, as I stand up to follow Brandon out. We drove here together, so I have to go, but my embarrassment is also ushering me out of the room. “I don't know when he became so angry. I’m just really sorry, Dr. Colson, on behalf of both of us.”

  Dr. Colson stands up and walks over to me. He lowers his head so we’re face to face and making direct eye contact.

  “You should never have to apologize on behalf of someone else,” he says. “Brandon is the one who should apologize for his behavior, not you. You can't control what he does or how he acts. You’ve been a great patient, Tessa. You're strong, and you care. You're just struggling through something a lot of people have difficulty with, and that’s knowing and accepting who you are, without considering outside opinions. That can be very hard to do when you feel the weight of people’s judgement putting pressure on you. But, no matter what happens next for you two, I’m here to talk if you need me. All you have to do is call. I hope to see you back here next week.”

  I don't know how to respond. The tears are too thick and my emotions are running too wild. As Dr. Colson escorts me to the door to his office, I simply nod at him, and step over the threshold into a world of uncertainty.

  Chapter Three

  ~ Tessa ~

  The ride home was quiet—just the sound of the engine and breathing. We didn't even look at each other, and once we made it back to my place, Brandon only stopped in the driveway long enough for me to climb out, then he drove away without as much as a peek in my direction. We don't live together, so he decided to go back to his place, which was probably for the best. Over the next two days, not a single text was sent to my phone from him, nor did he receive one from me.

  In our two days apart, I took time off from work and sat in my apartment alone. It was all I wanted to do, and the words of Dr. Colson kept playing in my head like a sad song on repeat. You're struggling with knowing and accepting who you are without considering outside opinions. He’s never been more right, but in my time alone, the only thing I could focus on was my own confusion.

  I still don't know how we got here, or where I’m supposed to go next. Nothing has changed for me since we left Dr. Colson’s office, so when Brandon called and asked if he could come over, I didn't do anything different from what I’d normally do. I told him he could come.

  When I open the door, Brandon stands there in a white T-shirt and blue jeans. He’s comfortable, but he doesn't look happy to see me. He looks miserable, actually. Has he been stressing about how we got to this point the same way I have? I smile when I see him, but he doesn't return the gesture.

  “Hi,” he says with a blank face.

  “Hey. How have you been?” I ask.

  “Can I come in? I feel like we should talk,” he replies, which is out of the norm. Usually, Brandon doesn't ask to come inside, he just does. He’s stayed over for a whole week without leaving before. He’s usually over so often, I feel like my apartment is our apartment. The change lets me know our discussion will be a serious one that involves just as much change as Brandon asking to come in.

  I open the door and let Brandon glide past me. I can’t remember the last time I opened this door and we didn't greet each other with a kiss and a hug, but the changes keep coming as I follow him into my living room, where he sits on the loveseat across from my couch. I take a seat and grab a pillow for me to hold in anticipation of where this conversation will go.

  “Listen,” Brandon begins. “I don't want this to take a long time. I don't want to drag it out, because I think we’ve done enough talking in that therapist’s office. We’ve done enough arguing and finger-pointing, and quite honestly, Tessa, I’m over it. Aren't you?”

  In the back of my mind, I feel a tinge of relief. Maybe this conversation won't be as bad as I expected. Is he here to tell me he just wants to go back to how we used to be? Would I be happy about that? Is that what I want, or am I ready to conform to whatever he wants, and what everybody around me expects?

  “Yes, I am,” I reply. “I’m tired of all the arguing and blaming each other. I know my mother is tired of me crying to her. She’s told me as much. It’s all been very exhausting.”

  “Yeah, it has. That's a great word for it. Exhausting.” Brandon sighs and lowers his eyes to the floor, and the relief I felt vanishes, replaced by a heavy feeling in my gut. “Yes. I’m exhausted, Tessa. In fact, I’m completely drained. I’ve reached the end of my rope, and it’s your fault. You've been like a concrete block attached to my ankles while I try to swim to happiness and success. You're pulling me down with all your insecurities and self-doubt, and I don't want to be anchored to you any longer. I can't sit back and allow myself to drown because of you, Tessa.”

  My heart plunges. My breathing stops. My head spins, and my mouth pinches shut. This is it. He’s about to deliver the final blow—the ultimate change.

  “American Armpits just booked another show,” Brandon presses forward, his eyes finally rising to meet mine. His eyes are filled with confidence, mine with tears that haven't had the decency to fall, blurring my vision instead. “This show is in New York, and it’s all because of the song I produced for them. It’s going to be the first song on the demo
they're about to record. Plus, they want me to produce another track on the demo. It’s all about to happen for them, and they want me to be their full-time manager and producer. It’s all happening with this group. The more exposure they get with the songs I’m working on, the more in demand I’ll be. I’m going to make it, and I don't have time to slow down and wait for you.”

  “Wow,” I whisper, finally finding my voice. “So, you're dumping me.” It’s a statement, not a question, but Brandon answers anyway.

  “Yes, I am,” he says with a head nod. “I think it’s for the best, Tessa. You're in a weird spot internally right now, and the last thing I need is to have to deal with your resentment as I make my dreams come true, and you struggle to please your mother. So, I think we should go our separate ways.”

  I feel torn inside. I’m being dumped by the guy I’ve been dating for two years, and not just that, I’m being insulted as well. I’m shocked that Brandon’s trash ass friends are actually booking shows here on the east coast. I’m in disbelief that the song Brandon played for me by American fucking Armpits is actually gaining traction. That song sucked! The band sucks! I feel like this is supposed to be a nightmare, but it’s more like a scary movie parody where I want to laugh when I’m supposed to be screaming. However, even with all of that coursing through my veins, I can’t stop myself from crying.

  The tears in my eyes finally start to fall, and Brandon lets out his signature sigh—the one he goes to when he feels uncomfortable in the presence of a woman’s emotions. I stare at him, unsure of what to say, and he stares back. I can't find any words, so I just look at him and watch as Brandon’s face shifts into something more angry.

  “You don't have anything to say?” he asks, and I know if I try to talk, I’ll just cry more. So, I give him nothing more than a shrug. “Wow. After two years, you've got nothing to say. I see how it is. Well, that tells me all I need to know, Tessa. Seriously, you've got nothing?”

  I wrack my brain searching for the right thing to say. I know my mother would want me to plead with him, and my friends would expect me to. But how do I feel? What do I want? I’m not sure I've ever asked myself that question. The words I choose to settle on are the ones I want to say most. My words.

  “I’m not going to fight to hang on to someone who doesn't want me, Brandon,” I tell him, just as I reach up and wipe my tears away. “I’m tired of feeling confused about what I want, and I think it’s time I embrace my own desires for a change. And the truth of the matter is, I think I have an answer to Dr. Colson’s question. It’s no. I don't like you anymore. I feel like I’ve been wearing a mask my entire life, only showing the world what I think it wants to see. I’m so tired of wearing that mask. So tired of trying to find the right thing to say. I’m done with it, so it’s fine. Do what you want. Good luck with your band.”

  Brandon stares at me like I’m a stranger. He blinks five or six times before bringing himself to his feet and hovering above me while I look up at him. I don't even want to escort him to the door, so I’m not going to.

  “Fine,” he says with a careless shrug. “Yeah, good luck to you too, Tessa, with… whatever the hell you're going to do. Good luck finding a guy with more promise than me. I’ll be on the road with my band, the same band you said was trash, and you'll be here, struggling with the trash barrel of men from Dover while you let your mother fail at playing matchmaker for the rest of your life.”

  “Eat shit, Brandon,” I snip.

  “Whatever. Goodbye, Tessa.”

  Brandon turns on his heel and walks out the door, and I don't do anything to stop him, because for the first time in my life, I made a decision for myself. I did what I wanted. I hope it’s a trend I can continue. However, when this gets back to my mother, the thing I’ll want to do next is hide under a rock. For now, I think I’ll just enjoy crying my final tears for my dead relationship, and think about how to be stronger once they’re dry.

  Cruise Control

  Chapter Four

  ~ Malcolm ~

  What gives a relationship a solid bond? If you ask that question to a random group of people, the answers you'd get would be common: attraction, sense of humor, and similarities in interests and hobbies would top the list. But there's another thing that can bond people just as much, if not more than all of those things. Sex.

  Sex can be a bond as well, and when it gets its hooks in you, it can bond like the strongest super glue. It can fuse like welded metal, and once that happens, the only way to tear it apart is to grind it down to nothing and pry at it. Sex is an addictive drug, and it has me locked within its cages. I’m unable to free myself, but right now, I don't want my freedom. I hunger for imprisonment.

  It’s not common for me to say things like this, but Ava Pierson is my girlfriend. Girlfriend. Technically, we’ve been seeing each other for four months now, but it really just became official two months ago, when I removed her from my list of patients. I’m a relationship therapist, and yes, my girlfriend used to be my patient.

  Now, I know what you're thinking. Dr. Colson, how could you? That woman was your patient? Wow. You're a relationship therapist and you slept with a patient seeking therapy regarding a relationship? You're a pig, Dr. Colson.

  Maybe I am. I've never been one to care about the opinions of perfect strangers, so I’m unbothered by social stigmas or so-called taboo tropes that pull judgement from the lips of people who don't even know me. With Ava, the situation was different from my normal patient who’s trying to maintain something she already has. Ava was an anomaly.

  Ava came to me after a break-up with a man she’d been dating for a year. His name was Lucas Bay, and although I'd never met him, I took Ava on as a patient because the relationship had ended so recently, and she described the breakup more as an intermission. She led me to believe there was a good chance they would get back together, and that Lucas was still showing interest in her. It turned out that wasn't true. Ava only wished it was.

  I’d be lying if I said my attraction to Ava didn't factor into my decision to take her on. If she’d come in with Lucas, I never would've thought to act on my attraction to her, but since she was by herself, my cock was like a devil on my shoulder, telling me to go for it. I tried to fight it throughout each session, but it only took four appointments with Ava before my barricades had been broken down and my cock was as deep in her as her pussy could handle.

  The bond of sex has been locked in place ever since, and even after four months of seeing each other, I still crave her with every sight of her. My cock still twitches when she looks at me with her deep brown eyes, and licks her lips. I still fantasize about her when she texts me, telling me she wants me, and when we fuck, it’s still the darkest, kinkiest version of heaven I can imagine.

  My name is Dr. Malcom Colson, and I’m starting to think I might need my own therapist. I’ve been a relationship therapist for over five years, and while I give advice to my patients with confidence and a deep understanding of what makes people tick, I’m not the best at taking my own advice. My girlfriend is my girlfriend for a very specific reason, and I’ve never been ashamed of my sex life. When it comes to sex, it’s only good for me if I do it a specific way.

  I’m a dom. If you don't know what a dom is, I assume you haven't read a book, been on the internet, or been to the movies recently. I crave dominance in sex. I ache for being the mastermind of pleasure and orgasmic bliss. I need to feel her quiver beneath my touch. I need to watch her body and her face change as I roam about her flesh. I need to learn what makes her tick, what gets her wet, and what makes her come. I need it this way, and Ava facilitates these desires better than anybody I’ve met in my thirty years of living.

  It could be that growing up in Dover, Delaware made it to where my access to the world’s kinkiest people was very limited. Dover is a small town, although it’s surrounded by large cities that are all within three hours of my home. It’s a quiet place, so maybe that’s why finding women who are openly into BDSM and being
submissive is hard to do. Or, it could be that Ava is just a special kind of woman whose desire to lose control happens to be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. She’s sexy without even trying to be, lustful with no effort. She knows what I want and what I like, and she gives it to me without me having to ask for it. It’s the perfect setup.

  Our relationship is give and take. She gives me what I want, and I take that pussy the way she needs it taken. Both parties get what they want, and there’s no confusion about who or what we are. As long as we’re both satisfied, nobody has a reason to complain. Nothing can go wrong. Everything is perfect.

  Chapter Five

  ~ Malcolm ~

  “Happy birthday, dear Ava. Happy birthday to you.”

  The small gathering of waiters and waitresses finish up their song and begin to clap, as do a few tables next to us as Ava blows out a candle on her little cupcake and smiles for the audience. Once the staff of Outback Steakhouse disperses, Ava’s smile fades in an instant.

  “Ugh, I hate when they do that. It’s so embarrassing, Malcolm,” she says to me with both annoyance and delight in her voice. “Why'd you have to do that?”

  “To embarrass you,” I answer with a shrug. “I like seeing the look on your face when you're surprised.”

  “I bet you do,” Ava shoots back with a sly grin, just before taking the candle out of the chocolate cupcake. She picks up the cake and takes a bite. I watch the chocolate frosting smear on her lips, and I have a quick flashback about the last time she had my cock in her mouth and cum smeared on her lips the same way. I feel a shiver run through me as I remember how she licked it away like it was the most delicious frosting. The woman sitting in front of me is a sexual force to be reckoned with.