COMMAND | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

"Brad Jones," I introduced myself, and she scowled at my outstretched hand in bafflement. "I saw your website online after reading pamphlets I found in a nearby clinic..."

Her unimpressed glare travelled the expanse of my body.

I cannot leave here without answers. "You provide tailored solutions for clients and have the tools to help people overcome certain problems..."

"I am perfectly aware of my job description, Mr Jones." Fern opened the door fully to step forward, and I dropped back to leave space between us. "I want to know why you thought it was acceptable to knock on my door at unsociable hours without an agreement, preparation, or relationship-building prior to psychoeducation."

My face heated.

"It is four o'clock in the morning," she emphasised, and I looked down at the floor. "Is this unexpected visit an emergency? Are you a danger to yourself or others?"

"Look, I apologise." My hands slid into my trouser pockets. "I am not the most considerate person. I'm an impromptu man. I tend to act before I think."

"Well, I tend to sleep for eight hours per night to prevent tiredness." Her hands latched onto the side of the door as she started to retreat. "Arrange an appointment like everyone else."

"Wait." My palm struck the door before she could shut it in my face. "I have waited my entire life to use my voice."

Her stare narrowed fractionally.

"Don't close the door in my face and send me away." My gaze cast to her slippered feet. "I don't think I will find it in me to come back if you do."

Deep-cut wrinkles collected around her beady eyes, and dark, age spots mottled her nose and cheeks. "My service is not cheap."

I can afford the best shrink in London. "Money is not a problem."

"I expect commitment," she added, and I agreed with a sharp nod. "Healthy boundaries are non-negotiable. It is important for you, the client, and myself, the therapist, to establish structured communication to prevent mishaps in the future. You have to consider my emotional health alongside your own."

My lips flattened.

"Do you drink tea?" she asked, opening the door wide for me to enter. "Come inside and wipe your feet on the mat. I will not have mud traipsing through the house."

My shoes wiped the welcome mat as she locked the front door behind us. I had no desire to look around. From this angle, the place seemed warm, inviting and cosy, with its wooden furniture and artificial plants.

Into the first room on the left, she went. I moved in her shadow, almost popped open the buttons of my suit jacket, then I remembered the dry blood on my shirt and decided against it. "Everything discussed is confidential, right?" I asked, the room small and lavender-infused with scant furniture.

"Our conversations are completely private." Fern had a set up in the corner, a round table with a kettle, clean mugs, tea bags, sugar cubes and UHT milk. "Please, take a seat."

I sat in the high-backed armchair, the padded seat uncomfortable and unaccommodating. "We need to wrap this up in one meeting," I said, not that she spared me a glance. She is too busy ruining the tea with warm milk. "Do I pay now or later?"

"Therapy session. Counselling. Psychotherapy," she tweaked the use of an incorrect word. "And, just so we are clear, I am a trauma therapist."

Yes, I am aware.

Fern added sugar cubes to the mugs. "How old are you, Mr Jones?"

What does age have to do with anything?