‘He’s so fucking sexy but like in a gothic, vampire kinda way, don’t you agree?’ Lilac says, in a little whisper of awe. ‘Mr Sexpire, upstairs. Instead of biting you on the neck to morph you into a vampire, he fucks you with his big cock and turns you into a filthy sex addict.’ She makes a dreamy ‘mmmm’ noise. ‘I really hope he’s not assigned as my new therapist. The whole doctor-patient issue might ruin the buzz — or would it make it hotter? You know, forbidden lust between me and the sexy doc. So controversial.’
They all giggle loudly together, while I just sit and smile nervously.
I never call him things like that. Never speak about him at all. I never whisper a word to my friends. I keep them in the dark, make sure they never hear about my past with Shepherd. A time before my life was turned upside down, like a snow-globe shaken to chaos.
For a moment I can only remember the feeling of being kissed. How delicious he tasted, like spun sugar. How strong and safe he felt.
Then I remember the context of it all and I feel sick.
8
YOU
CONTROVERSIAL ARRIVES the next morning, while I’m lying on my bed studying the ceiling for new stains. It doesn’t knock, it just opens the door and walks in. My bedroom is small, cell-like, and the man fills it with the smell of worn leather and pipe-tobacco.
It’s Shepherd. And apparently, my new therapist.
He isn’t nice. He’s a sadist.
Just don’t look under the bed . . .
He’s wearing his leather jacket with old-school jeans, and his stubble is pure. His face is wind-beaten, he probably treats his skin like he treats his clothes, and the smoking can’t help. He still looks incredible. Darkly gorgeous.
Shepherd pulls out the old wicker chair from under my desk, and sits on it, his bottom filling the seat, his large veiny hands in his lap.
‘You can’t expect me to cooperate,’ I say. ‘Please don’t do this.’
‘You’re not crazy,’ he says, ignoring me. ‘OCD doesn’t add up to you being locked away for three years.’
‘I don’t understand why you care.’
‘Answer to that doesn’t matter. Listen, Amy. And listen good. I do the questioning. You’d do well to remember that.’
I hate him. I hate his deep, seductive voice and I hate his filthy dark eyes.
I curl into myself near the wooden headboard. I just want him to go away, and to disappear into the shadows again. I don’t want his special attention.
‘I heard you got some sad news about your mother’s passing. I don’t want to add to your burden. Things must feel overwhelming right now.’
I’m not overwhelmed. I feel nothing. If I begin to feel then I simply do my checks and that fixes me. Empty heart, empty emotions.
‘I can take you to the funeral.’
‘I don’t want to go.’
I refuse to see her or even think about her, preferring to scrub my heart of a need for her, just as I have stopped needing to live a normal life. I chose emptiness, and an empty heart, and so I won’t mourn. But still, I can’t help a rogue thought creeping in of my mother, in that chair. Her body stiff and cold. Dead.
‘Amy, I want us to make a start, right now. If you talk to me, I can fix you. Then you can start living your life. You don’t want to die here, I know you don’t.’
‘Please, leave me alone.’
‘Things are only gonna get worse for you if you don’t open up to me. You’re gonna talk sooner or later — so quit wasting time. What’s got you hurt so bad?’
I look at his arrogant face, his scratchy, hard-edged face, and hate him. I breathe in, every bit of air I can, and say with force, ‘Go away.’
He sighs, then looks at my front door key sat harmless on my desk. He picks it up, twirls it between his fingers. ‘This is your key to the front door, right?’
‘Yes . . . put it back.’
‘You’ve given me no choice.’
I twist the bedsheet between my fingers, and feel a drop of sweat trickling down my back.
Where is he going with this?
‘I know how important it is for you to lock the door. How important it is for you to check if it’s locked. Again and again. So I’m taking that liberty away from you.’
I take a deep breath, till it feels like I’m drowning in air, just to stop myself from cracking up.
‘What kind of therapy is this?’
‘I’m not the kind of doc to use conventional methods. You could call it intensive therapy. Unless, you’ve changed your mind and you wanna open up?’
‘Fuck you,’ I say, tired and broken, with less conviction than I want. ‘I hate you, Shepherd. I really hate you.’ And I mean it.
‘Good. Your hate makes me hard. Hate harder.’
He leaves the room, taking my key with him.
I feel sad and lonely.
Shepherd is wrong. I do want to die.
9
ME
I’M FREEZING MY BALLS off in the cold of January, standing outside my nightclub in The Valley, in deep discussion with a fire inspector.
I co-own a club-promotion business with my best mate. But my main source of income is from buying businesses that already have revenue, scale them, and sell for profit. At twenty years old, I’ve got money to burn. My life’s motto is: Party hard, give it loads, drink loads, then have a tear-up. I’m in a time of discontent, boredom, frustration and no direction.
Hell, that was true, until recently.
‘Mr Lawson, I insist on looking around your warehouse for fire risks or anything else that could be viewed as dangerous.’
My nightclub, The Wicked Witch, has been transformed into a
