For Her Own Good Page 3

  At least he doesn’t talk to me for the rest of the flight. The rage has faded and I doubt his lilting accent would do anything to reignite it. If anything, it would crank up my steadfast lust for him and I don’t think I could deal.

  We land without incident, and as the plane makes its way to the gate, I feel him turn to me and I steel myself. Don’t. Just don’t. Get up and leave and don’t talk to me because hearing you speak hurts me too much. Reminds me of when you carried me out to your car, tucked me into the front seat, and spoke to me the whole way to Harbinson.

  He must’ve known given the state I was in that I could barely hear him, but he did it nonetheless. Stayed with me until the anesthetic took effect, and I can only imagine after that as well, though my memories of him being there are solely of when I woke up.

  Yes, Lowry. Please leave and don’t force me to endure your presence any further.

  He clears his throat and I close my eyes. Don’t fucking do it.

  And yet.

  “Starla. I—”

  I turn away because having him say my name is a stab to the heart. It is physically painful, an intensified version of how my body starts to ache from the depression that’s bogging it down. It’s all exhausting, it all hurts.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to ask this of you. But could you look at me so I know you’re hearing me?”

  Ah yes, up to his old tricks. He used to ask me for this when I didn’t have anything to give. I could always look at him, though. For the most part, enjoyed it even when I couldn’t feel much of anything else. An animal reflex, that feeling of comfort and safety when I saw his face. I don’t feel that way now, but my body apparently doesn’t realize that, so before I can consciously stop myself, I’m glaring at him. At least there’s that. Let him know I’ll do it but I am not happy about it. Not at all.

  “I wanted you to know I’ll be back on staff at Harbinson. You might see me. If you’re still—”

  “I am.”

  For fuck’s sake.

  “Then you might see me there. I didn’t want to surprise you.”

  “Well, you’re doing a bang-up job so far, Doctor Campbell.”

  He has the good grace to look abashed. I don’t love going to Harbinson anyway—who would?—but it’s at least a place I associate with feeling better. I’m not as resentful as I was as a teenager, but all things being equal, I’d rather not be a regular at a psychiatric hospital. Which I know is ridiculous, and I allow other people far more grace than I do myself. The shame and embarrassment about being “defective” is deeply ingrained. Even knowing that’s not true. Brains can be shitty sometimes.

  He nods once, the motion crisp, and I turn away. He doesn’t insist I look at him again so I gaze out the window until everyone—including the good doctor—has deplaned and then I try to get on with my life. As if that’s going to be possible knowing that Doctor Lowry Campbell is back.

  Chapter 2

  Lowry

  I’ve been in town for over a month, back at Harbinson, settled in a new apartment nearby though still in the city, whereas the hospital complex is at the inner suburban edge. I’ve seen some old colleagues and met new ones. Joined a gym, established a schedule. Been asked out on a date but didn’t go.

  Everything is falling into place, and it turns out that yes, I did miss Boston. There’s something to be said for the haphazard and cramped streets of the city, and knowing the chill that radiates from most of the people here covers up a deep and abiding loyalty—and not just to the Red Sox.

  My slate of clients filled up almost immediately, which is good. I like to be busy. From dawn to dusk, and sometimes later if I go out with colleagues, my days are full. I have everything a man could want. And yet…

  I haven’t seen Starla since I walked away from her on the plane. Which she’s most likely fine with but I am…not. I won’t do anything about it because she made it clear that I’m not welcome in her space and I understand why. Even if I didn’t, I would respect her request.

  I’m reminded of her presence not through anything particular in the office—though I know she sees Doctor Gendron regularly because it’s on the office schedule—but because I can’t be here without thinking of her. She’s a clear, clean note at the back of my brain I want to silence—mostly for her sake—but I can’t help returning to it again and again.

  Like now, when I’m lying in bed, waiting for my alarm to go off. I went to bed early last night because there was nothing else I wanted to do, and now I’m staring at the blank ceiling in my bachelor’s apartment. Maeve would be disgusted. Perhaps I’ll ask her to visit. She’d decorate the place whether I wanted her to or not. But if I do end up dating and someone compliments me on the decor, do I really want to say my ex-wife did it? Probably not. So the walls will mostly stay bare. Maeve at least ensured my closet’s full of decent clothes and nominally fashionable shoes.

  But as kindly as I think of Maeve, she’s not at the forefront of my mind. No, that would be Starla. Starla with the fury sparking in her eyes and the way she gave me a very thorough tongue-lashing. Christ, Campbell, you can’t think of her tongue. Or her lips, or her wide eyes, or the gloss of her hair. Does she still hate to have it in her face? She always did. It was one of the signs she was feeling truly awful: she’d let it hang in her face, not bother to get it out of her eyes, off her forehead.

  What I do know is despite her best efforts to ignore me, she snuck glances in my direction. Is she as curious about me as I am about her? I know some things—what the most basic search on the internet would tell me—but not the most important things.

  Is she happy? Is she at peace? Does she like her job? I’m assuming so, because it would be easy enough for her to drop it if she didn’t. It’s not as though she needs the money.

  As for what she’s doing, well. She set up shop as a consultant to help people with mental health issues arrange their schedules and living/working spaces in a way that fits their needs better, which is admirable. Clinicians don’t always have time to do that granular work, but it can make huge improvements in patients’ quality of life. I’d think she’d be very good at it, and the flexibility of running her own business must be a boon as well, though a lot of pressure. Or perhaps she can handle those elements in her sleep given her father taught her how to run an empire.

  These are the things I’d like to know but have no way of asking her. I won’t violate her privacy by asking Lacey—Doctor Gendron to her, I suppose—either.

  And I definitely need to stop thinking about how goddamn good she looked even as she scowled at me on that plane.

  My alarm goes off, rescuing me from my sad attempts to shove Starla Patrick from my mind and not—definitely not—daydream about her while I’m in my bed. Saved from perving on my ex-patient by the bell. Again.

  * * *

  Starla

  As much as I’d like to focus on the reminder system I’m setting up for one of my clients with ADHD, I’m thinking a lot more about a certain ginger psychiatrist than I am about sticky notes, white boards, and planners. It’s annoying.

  It’s annoying to have a man who abandoned me in reality haunt my dreams where I can’t tell him to fuck off. I could, I suppose—lucid dreaming is a thing and I’ve made use of it before—but I maybe enjoy it. Especially since the only way I’m regularly getting off these days is by my own hand. Yes, I see my play partner Jade sometimes, though not since my father’s death. And if Dream Lowry wants to help me obtain orgasms, then perhaps it’s the least he can do. He owes me that much, right? Right?

  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, because I don’t want to have a guilt complex about how I perhaps woke up this morning with my hand in my underwear and didn’t remove it until after I’d rubbed one out while transmuting my dream into a much more conscious fantasy. A fantasy which involved the good doctor bending me over his knee and taking his belt to my upturned bottom and then fucking me into next week while telling me he’s wanted this for years, and how happy
he is that I can finally be his good little girl.

  Yeah, it was definitely one of the most explosive, toe-curling, back-arching, moan-inducing climaxes I’ve had in some time. I mean, prior to the past month at any rate, because they’re a somewhat regular happening now that Doctor Lowry Campbell is back in town.

  We had a chance run-in on a plane, yes, but also knowing he walks the same halls I do at Harbinson makes dread and anticipation—two sides of the same anxious coin—war inside me. Alongside the low buzz of wanting to find out what it would be like for it to be him getting me off with his thick, blunt fingers while he croons to me in that dreamy voice of his, or even better, for him to be pounding into me with his cock, instead of me making use of one of my favorite dildos while I imagine all the filthy things we could do together.

  How the fuck am I supposed to think about Kanban boards now? Not that I don’t find organization and office supplies sexy, but do they really compare to a somewhat-taboo crush—complete with masturbatory fantasies—on my ex-psychiatrist? Frankly, I don’t think they do. There is little in this world that does.

  Thank fuck my phone rings because I’ve got to get this man out of my head. Hell, I’d even be less than ragey at the prospect of talking to Tad right now if I could only get Lowry to vacate the premises of my mind. As if he hasn’t spent enough years sifting around in there. But it’s not Tad, it’s the main line at Harbinson, perhaps Lacey’s admin calling to reschedule or something like that. Whatever it is, bring on the distraction.

  “Hello, this is Starla.”

  “Starla, it’s—”

  Goddammit. Goddammit all to hell. He doesn’t need to say his name. I know who it is. Yes, there’s a thrill that runs through me at the sound of his voice, but all he needs to know about is the fit of pique.

  “What do you want, Doctor Campbell?”

  “You could start by not calling me Doctor Campbell. We’re both adults, you’re not my patient anymore. You can call me Lowry.”

  If he only knew how many times I’d called him that in my mind, while I had incredibly inappropriate fantasies about him when I was in fact his patient…and also a couple of hours ago. Which is less scandalous, but no less mortifying. My face burns hot thinking about it. Thank god he can’t see me and the shade of scarlet my cheeks have no doubt turned given the heat warming my entire face.

  “What can I do for you, Doctor Campbell?”

  Yes, I have all sorts of feelings about Lowry Campbell and a whole bunch of them involve wanting to make all those dreams I had come true, but I’m still a child to him. So, to remind myself, “Doctor Campbell” and a crisp, no-nonsense address it is.

  “This is a purely professional call. I was wondering if you were taking on new clients.”

  That brings me up short. I wasn’t aware Lowry knew what I do for a living. It’s not as though the information isn’t readily available, but why would he have looked? A spike of that same exhilaration goes through me. He thought of me? I wasn’t merely a passing—and super angry—thing flitting by like an enraged wasp? But clearly not in the same way I’ve thought of him. Professional. I can be professional as fuck.

  “I have a couple of openings, yes. Why?”

  Now that Rafa is settled in Chicago, my workload for my own business has been comparatively light. It’s of course more than made up for by all the time I spend doing things for my father’s business and I’m still not doing enough. I’ll never be able to do enough because… It doesn’t matter. The point is that I’d be more than happy to wedge another client into my schedule and be able to make excuses about why I can’t be on yet another interminable conference call or some other meeting because I’m expected to make decisions about everything, all the time. Yes, please, for the love of god, give me something to do that I’m competent at.

  “I have a patient I think you might be able to help. She deals with some anxiety, but her primary diagnosis is ADHD which isn’t my area of expertise. I’ve been seeing her weekly for the last month and while we talk through some of the ways she could organize her space and her workload, we also have a lot of other issues to address. Given that it would take more time than I can devote to her, and also that it’s not precisely in my wheelhouse, I mentioned you to her but didn’t want to make any promises. May I send her your way?”

  Oh. Lowry thinks enough of me, my professional acumen, to refer a patient to me? He believes I’m stable enough to help others? Which I fucking am, thankyouverymuch, but still. It’s…it’s really nice. It makes the fire that lit on my face moments ago settle into a crackling warmth in my belly. Approval, from a nurturing man I respect and find attractive. It’s basically my daddy kink kryptonite and I could… I don’t know, whatever happens to Superman when he gets exposed to kryptonite. I’m a Star Wars nerd, not a DC Comics geek.

  I try to focus on the pride of it, which makes sense. Anyone would be proud their former psychiatrist who saw them through 90 percent of the worst shit of their lives thinks they’re good enough to be trusted with their own patients. Not everyone would be getting turned on by that, though. Not everyone would want to be told that while sitting, cradled, on Lowry’s lap and then squirming with delight until he issued a mild threat to spank me if I didn’t stop. And would I?

  Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Lowry has a patient he thinks I can help. Even though potentially working with Lowry to help this client to the best of my abilities pokes at some vulnerable places, I won’t pass up work or refuse to offer my services to someone because I’m still bruised from Lowry’s abrupt departure over a decade ago. Especially since I already told him I had time. I’m awkward enough already, thanks.

  “Yes, of course. You, uh, obviously have my number. Or she can email me if she prefers. I assume you have that as well.”

  He makes a noncommittal noise that I’ll take as agreement.

  “Have her mention she’s your patient, and we’ll see how it goes.”

  “Brilliant. Thank you.”

  Lowry thanking me? That’s something I never expected. I always figured I’d be the one forever being grateful to him. Which I am. I doubt I would be here on this earth if it weren’t for him, never mind being a successful professional to whom he feels comfortable referring his own patients. Yes, that is a flattering turn of the tables, and it’s perfectly reasonable to have to swipe at the corners of my eyes. Perhaps allergy season has started? But fucking A, it’s November, so that’s bullshit. Steaming heap of it. Feelings it is, then. Worst.

  I don’t need Lowry knowing he’s got me choked up, but I suppose I should respond. At least somewhat politely. Manners—I have those, right?

  “You’re welcome.” Damn it felt good to say that. And I should say something else as well. “Thank you for thinking of me… That means a lot.”

  And then because a human being can only take so many feelings in a day, I hang up on him.

  * * *

  Lowry

  The feisty little thing hung up on me. I take the phone from my ear and stare at it in case that’s not actually what happened, but it definitely is. I wasn’t finished yet. Although perhaps this is better since I did tell her it was a purely professional call.

  It wasn’t. I mean, I do have a patient who I think could benefit immensely from Starla’s particular services, that wasn’t a lie. I wouldn’t do that to Starla. She sounded so innocently pleased that I would refer someone to her, but honestly, how could I not? I looked around her website, read the testimonials, and it surprises me not at all that she’s excellent at what she’s chosen to do. There was never any doubt in my mind about her intelligence or drive, only whether she could manage her depression well enough to let the rest of her shine. And it seems she’s been able to. I couldn’t be prouder.

  I’d been pacing my office while talking to her, and now I drop into one of my office chairs. My desk looks odd from this angle since I never sit over here. Mostly my patients don’t either. We’re usually in the sitting area, which is more comfortab
le. It’s a different office than the one I had before, when Starla was my patient, but the things I have in here—my books, my diplomas, the photographs I took on a trip to the Isle of Skye—they’re all the same.

  My office phone rests in my hand and I fiddle with it.

  If she hung up on me, does that mean she doesn’t want to talk to me? Or does she want to talk to me but doesn’t think she should? You’d think spending ten years studying psychiatry and figuring out how the human mind works would prepare one for dealing with real people. That’s less true than I would’ve hoped.

  When she was a girl, on her good days, Starla wasn’t great about hiding how she felt about me. I’d known she had a bit of a crush. Which, honestly, was to be expected. I was young, she trusted me, I talked to her like she was a responsible and intelligent person—because she was—and I like to think I helped her. It’s not at all unusual for patients to develop crushes on their therapists.

  These days, getting a read on her is more complicated. She seems to want to gouge my eyes out with whatever might be handy, but I could swear there’s something else there as well. Maybe nothing more than a residual curiosity or fondness from all those years ago. But if I’m not completely deluding myself that she could be interested in a man eighteen years her senior—my God, I’m a fossil—then possibly more than that. Of course, for all I know, she could be in a serious relationship. Although anyone she might be dating wasn’t mentioned in the press recently, and I’d guess she would’ve volunteered that on the plane and didn’t. Maybe not, though, in her fury.

  What do I care if she’s got a boyfriend, anyhow? Or a girlfriend? Or whomever? It’s not as though I’d be asking her on a date. Any romantic interest I may or may not have in her is not why I’d like to have dinner with her. Entirely. But I would like to know that she’s safe. Happy. Satisfied. Is that really so bad?