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She asks me questions, and I answer them. I ask her questions, and most of the time she answers me. Other times she tilts her head to one side, cocking her brow as if to say you’re dreaming if you think I’m telling you that.
That look on her face always brings a smile to my lips.
Fuck, she’s pretty.
And the fact that she doesn’t know how pretty she is only makes her more attractive.
Like today, for example—black three-quarter length pants cling to her round, perky ass which practically scream “squeeze me” from across the room. The thin V-neck sweater she’s wearing is a pale shade of blue, making her eyes pop nicely.
I know I shouldn’t be looking at herthatway; she’s my therapist after all. It’s most probably frowned upon by the powers that be. But dammit if I can make my eyes look anywhere else but her eyes when we’re in the same room.
And as if her eyes aren’t enough, I’m sure I’m getting a one-way ticket straight to hell for noticing the smooth silky skin of her throat, not to mention her hair.
Sienna Jones has the kind of hair made for sliding your fingers through. Maybe even pulling on it a little, you know, just hard enough that it doesn’t hurt, but hard enough that she’s left breathless and begging for more.
But I digress…
There are certain subjects I’ve dodged like bullets over the past week, being that I’m a master of ambiguity. But all in all, our sessions together haven’t been the death sentence I expected them to be.
Sienna spends most of our time together writing things down in her notebook, scribbling words or phrases that apparently mean something to her. They mean nothing to me, but what the hell do I know?
Occasionally she stands, stretching out her back before moving over to the window. She does this most often when we’ve broached some heavier issues. I’d love to know what she’s thinking when she stares out the window like that.
She looks torn up about something, as if she’s not sure if she should be coming or going, or maybe she’s just stuck somewhere in between.
Other times, she takes a textbook from the shelf, reading through it while she listens to me talk, highlighting passages with a fluorescent marker, before making even more entries in her notebook.
“How are you handling your medications?” The sound of her voice breaking through the silence drags me out of my thoughts and back to the present.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
I’m not fine. I haven’t been fine since I stepped foot in this place. The meds they have me on to stave off the cravings make me nauseous. I want to puke my guts out twenty-four-seven, and I’m so tired I can hardly think straight anymore.
I talked to Dr. Copeland about changing the meds to something else, something that doesn’t leave me feeling so drained all the time. He said he’d see what he could do.
I don’t like my chances.
I’m officially out of the withdrawal stage, though, and I’ve never been more grateful for anything in my life. My hands aren’t shaking anymore, and the headaches are all but gone. I’m still a moody prick, but I don’t think that has anything to do with me being an alcoholic. I think that’s just my personality. If you’re an asshole, and you know it, clap your hands.
“Kael?”
Fuck.I just clapped for no reason at all, and now Sienna is watching me closely, the silence of the room suddenly interrupted by my idiosyncrasy.
“Sorry, uh… tick.”
No response. She frowns at me.
I frown back.
“Is there a problem?” she asks.
“I hate it when you use that voice with me, Jonesy.”
“What voice?”
“Thatvoice,” I say, nodding my head in her general direction. “The voice that makes you sound like a school teacher and I’m the naughty kid caught chewing gum in the back of your classroom. Knock it off.”
She closes the book, tucks it under her arm and walks toward the couch. “You’re a delight this afternoon. Something happen to warrant such a good mood?”
