“This is going to blow up in my face, Alfie, I can feel it.”
“I promise you I won’t let that happen.”
I take her hand in mine, rubbing my thumb along her knuckles.
“Alfie, I’m serious when I say if you ruin my life, I will come for you. I will toilet paper your practice, I will let flying cockroaches into the vents, I’ll tell everyone who will listen that you have terrible breath and body odor.”
Jesus.
“I will make your life a living hell if you fuck up my life.”
“Noted.”
“I mean it. I can be mean if I have to. I’m not scared to be mean.”
“You’re terrifying, Mia,” I say with all sincerity.
And she is. Maybe not in theI’m scared of hersense, but everything about her makes me question how I’ve been living. She makes me question all my rules and promises that I madeto myself. And I’m terrified I’m going to ruin a patient’s life, I’m going to miss something, all because I can’t stop thinking about her.
“What do I get in return?”
I’d been trying to think of something all afternoon that I could offer her, but my own limited imagination has a direct link to my dick right now and all I could think of was a mutually beneficial arrangement that satisfied both our needs.
“You could coach me?” she says, quietly as if she’s embarrassed to even ask.
“Coach you?”
“Yeah, for the dissertation defense. I’ll need all the help I can get. We could do a practice run of questions they’ll ask, how I’m going to argue my case, etc.”
That’s perfect. And doesn’t involve me pulling her hair as I fuck her from behind, which would probably violate my HR policy.
“Deal. And I’ll also cook you dinner every Wednesday, to make sure you eat properly,” I add. It’s not strictly necessary, but it’s an excuse to have her in my home for longer.
She opens her mouth to protest, but I beat her to it. “Non-negotiable. You need to eat properly to be mentally prepared for your defense.”
A small tug at her lips shot fireworks off in my chest. “Fine.”
“Good. Now let’s get to work.”
Chapter Eleven
Alfie
“So we heard you're dating someone, Dr. Angel. Care to share with us?” Dianne Crust says under the heat of the stage lights. She’s one half of the Dianne and Dennis Crust duo that graces the TV screens of a million Seattleites every weekday morning. She’s in her early forties, has perfectly curled blonde hair and a spray tan that gives her a year-round glow, making her stand out compared to her guests. Her husband Dennis is in his late forties, salt-and-pepper hair and a clean-cut face. His teeth might be the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen; they’re almost fluorescent.
Dianne is the shark of the two of them. They’ve been married a few years, and the rumor is, that on her part at least, it was strategic. She wants to move to a national show, striving for fame across the entire nation. She has the typical look the national networks go for, and I have no doubt she’ll do it. She’s determined enough. I’m just not sure she’ll bring Dennis along for the ride. He’s the calmer of the two. He’ll push guests into answering things they don’t want to, but he’s not a bulldog about it. He rarely shows his teeth in that respect. Unlike Dianne.
I’ve been working on the show for just under two years, and I’ve spoken to a lot of people who have called in. It started with good intentions. The only sideshow of the segment was me and my TV nickname, Dr. Angel, something I despised but tolerated as it increased the chances of people seeking out help through therapy.
However, in the last six months, with ratings going down across all networks, people just aren’t tuning into morning TV shows. Who knows why; maybe it’s the economy, maybe it’s the content. But the producers are scrambling, and it’s led to some shock-factor, clickbait-style problems that have viewers tuning in from all over the state. Chyrons such as “My dog loves to lick my privates” and “I fell in love with my sister” or even “My husband can only get an erection with nipple clamps” grace the viewers' TV screens. It was meant to draw in viewers like the old freak shows did at the circus. People love to watch a train wreck after all.
I give Dianne my best smile, pandering to her question. I need the people of Seattle to believe this story. I want Lottie to be happy, and I want Mia to have a private life that remains private. I know that sounds counterintuitive, but if we give off a boring couple vibe, the media will soon lose interest. Best to tackle this head-on and control the narrative.
“I am, as a matter of fact. Her name is Mia.” I give my best smile, which Dennis returns. Dianne focuses in, like a predator locking onto its prey.
“And you work together?” she asks sweetly.
“Yes, we’ve worked together for a few years. She’s my receptionist.”
