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Cherise
Los Angeles, California
In the midst of jotting down notes in a patient's record, one of my two office lines rang. Glancing at the phone, an unknown number flashed on the caller ID. I jabbed the blinking button just to stop the incessant ringing. It was killing the peaceful atmosphere. "Dr. Johnston speaking. How can I help you?"
"Hey, Cherise. It's Eva. I'm on my personal phone. Hold on." What sounded like Dr. Eva Laurent taking a huge bite out of food then chewing loudly resounded from the phone's speaker on my mahogany desk. "I'm bothering you on your lunch break because..."
You're quite rude and ill-mannered when not seeing clients flitted through my mind as a finisher and was about to leap off the tip of my tongue when she finally continued. "I was wondering did Chad Lowell make an appointment with you last week like I advised him to."
It was three p.m. and almost definite that she was on a lunch date with a pastrami sandwich downstairs. She rarely ordered anything else from the restaurant on the first floor of our building in downtown Los Angeles. Many, including me, didn't eat down there anymore because of her inability to shut up while eating complete with smacking while chewing.
With one of the most peaceful parts of my workday over far too soon, I made a mental note of her cell number and to not answer any of her calls at break times of any day anymore. "Hey, yourself, Eva. I'll have to check if he made an appointment. Being solidly booked for the month is all I can confirm without looking at my schedule."
"I'll wait," she announced happily around a mouthful.
Sliding over the pen and file deserted on my desk, I leaned forward in my chair to harass the black mouse lying quietly on its pad next to my computer. The monitor lit up with the month's schedule already opened. With a quick scan of the screen, Chad Lowell's name jumped out at me from a block highlighted in yellow, indicating a new patient was coming in today.
Sinking back into the leather backrest, I rubbed wearily at my eyes with both hands. "Yes, my last appointment for today is with him. He's supposed to come in, in an hour for an introduction session as a matter of fact. Since I got you on the line, is there anything you can tell me about him before he gets here?"
The more I knew about my patients, the sooner I could find a way to help them, even if it was just to refer them to someone with expertise tailored to their problems. Not every doctor or by-the-book coping methods worked for everyone. It would've made my job a lot easier if they did. If I thought I couldn't assist Chad Lowell, some other psychiatrists and psychologists worked with me in the three-story building for Wellcare Counseling Services who could.
As a psychologist, Eva had apparently used her ‘pass the patient to someone that could write prescriptions’ option. I could almost guarantee it happened after billing him for an unnecessary introduction session with her. Those were two-hundred and fifty bucks alone, a way to milk insurance companies plus the potential client's wallets legally. Most doctors here justified that robbery by claiming they didn't know if they could continue seeing a patient unless a full evaluation was performed. A short conversation on the phone took care of that for me. Eva wasn't that noble.
Inclined to take on marital issues and darn good at getting couples to see the error of their ways, she slurped the last of her preferred lemonade through a straw, which was just as annoying on the phone as it was in person. "He’s fifty-one, a hot ex-soldier who has obsessive, compulsive tendencies documented on his heavily redacted military record. He’s not a germaphobe, he has a fear of losing and not having the things he needs. It cost him his career when he wouldn’t seek continual therapy after being diagnosed by the military.”
“Did you say hot? You’re only thirty-one. That’d be like him robbing the cradle, wouldn’t it?” I joked.
“You haven’t seen him yet. A civilian judge ordered him to seek counseling or do five years without the possibility of parole for night-stalking his ex... the ex before her… and a waitress that worked in a restaurant near his home on Farrow Drive not that far from here. Obviously, he has a problem with sleeping. Sleep-deprivation leads to a lot of bad decisions. I heard how well you worked with that celebrity that was about to become infamous for hounding his baby mama last month. I thought you could work a miracle with this guy too. When you see how good looking he is while over the hill, you might thank me for the opportunity."
I wouldn't.
"Another stalker. Shit," I groused under my breath.
They were not the easiest or safest people to work with. Often, a stalker's obsession transferred to their doctor out of gratitude or just because of proximity. I was going to have to be very careful with Mr. Lowell. Finding the middle ground between minimizing our time together so he didn't develop an attachment and still counsel him wouldn’t be easy but doable. Thank God for phones and the emergency button doubling as an emerald pendant on a silver chain around my neck.
"You’ve got this, Cherise,” Eva motivated. “And like I said, he's gorgeous, so fix him." The order in her tone irritated me more than her eating habits if that was even feasible.
"If he's so good looking, why didn't you keep him as a patient?" I sniped, over this conversation already.
"I’m not qualified to write prescriptions like you are. He needs some Ambien stat. Send him back to me after you fix his issues, and I just might keep him," she fired back, seemingly developing the Florence Nightingale syndrome after one visit with the man.
I rolled my eyes heavenward. "You’re expecting miracles from me and Ambien, and I don’t have to tell you that dating a client is unethical and could cost you your—"
"License," Eva butted in. "I know, but..." She paused to take a bite of her sandwich, chomping on it noisily and making me grind my teeth out of annoyance. "I repeat, you haven’t seen this guy yet. Intense should be his middle name. What our boss doesn't know won't hurt him, right?"
"Until your breaking guidelines for professional conduct goes sideways, Eva. I doubt if Dr. Teran feels the same as you about what will hurt him. I really hope you're joking about dating Mr. Lowell if I decide to send him b
ack into your care."
She was free to do as she pleased if he wasn’t her patient, which might’ve been her main motive for passing Chad Lowell along. "Yeah, yeah, I am joking, okay?" rushed from her too fast to be believable. "I wouldn’t jeopardize your precious job and five-year tenure with Wellcare. You remember that too when Chad shows up for your session."
I guessed she wasn't concerned about her own job. She definitely wasn’t as bothered about me developing feelings for him as much as implying between the lines that she had first dibs on Mr. Lowell too. Having done my part to ward her off making a livelihood as well as reputation-destroying mistake, I wanted off the call. It was going sideways faster than her career would if she kept moving down this road.
Poising my finger over the same button used to answer the phone, I prepared to hit it again. "I have to go, Eva. Have a great one."
Hanging up in case she said something else dumb, I finished notating in the file then took my own lunch break. I hadn't tossed away the butcher paper wrapped around the devoured chicken salad sandwich yet when the receptionist stationed on the first floor buzzed my line. Chad Lowell was on his way up fifteen minutes ahead of our appointment. Those that came early to therapy were people to be wary of.
My stomach churned around the food I had just consumed. This wasn't the first time it acted up at new clients’ arrivals. Things never went well for them when it did. Mental institutions gained new patients. A hard knock at the door brought me to my feet.
“Dr. Laurent?” an emotionless, deep timbre called out from the hallway.
“Come in.” Knocking breadcrumbs from my navy-blue skirt suit, I stepped out from my desk.
The door swung open, admitting a sun-kissed man in his prime without an ounce of fat or wrinkles anywhere. Physically fit was a mild term to describe his towering physique in a tight, white tee and dark jeans. Tan military boots hardly made a whisper on the brown carpet. Immediately, I understood why Eva was so enamored. A Roman nose stood out between a pink, cupid bow mouth framed in a neat goatee. The liberal sprinkling of gray through blond, wavy tresses sweeping his hulking shoulders was the only giveaway to his age. His prominent brow, regularly found on the stubborn and dominant, eclipsed cunning eyes almost totally black from a distance. Up close, his pupils were dilated with dark gray rims. There were several reasons for their appearances, none of them good.
Mr. Lowell’s pleasant-to-look-at arrangement of characteristics did not take away the high creep-factor and sheer ruthlessness entering the room with him. He did not walk, he stalked as if hunting. As I examined him, he examined me from head to toe boldly. So boldly, tension began to build around us. His cold scrutiny skimmed over me like he was sizing me up as we met in the center of the room, which received an inspection from him too. If there was a God in heaven, he’d find me and the room insufficient and leave.
He thrust out a palm. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Laurent. I’m stoked to be here.”
And that bothered me. Who was stoked to go to therapy?
I took his warm hand in a single firm shake, quickly reclaiming mine. “It’s good to meet you too, Mr. Lowell. Please have a seat on the couch or at my desk. Whichever makes you feel more comfortable here.” My no-nonsense tone generally put things into perspective for the patient promptly.
Smirking, his browsing traipsed over the soft-green barrel chair facing a matching couch. I had positioned it against the rear wall, flanking it with artificial potted plants behind him. He didn't’ seem to like the arrangement.
“The couch looks more comfortable and better by the window. I’ll pass on the straight-back chair at your desk, which you are free to sit behind if it makes you more comfortable.” He was additionally an asshole who knew he made people, more specifically women, uneasy in his overbearing presence and didn’t care. Likely getting off on it.
“It’s my office. I’m comfortable wherever my potential patients choose to sit.” Clearly, his memory needed to be jogged about who was conducting this visit. Another one with me was not in the cards. Sessions with him would be the equivalent of a wrestling match. I wasn’t a wrestler.
Chad Lowell needed a male doctor, someone he could relate to but not overwhelm. Hopefully, listen to as well. Luckily, I had the right doctor in mind. He would be hearing from me the second Mr. Lowell left.
A grin that didn’t reach his eyes stole over his mouth. “The comfortable furniture for us it is then.” Us? As if I asked him to decide where I sat.
“Please have a seat. I’ll be right with you.” I turned my back on him, signifying that he didn’t bother me. That was a whole lie. His disposition worried me something awful, was as big as a house, and would see clear through my casual act too. Even so, it was his word against mine that it was an act at all.
