Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series (13 page)

There is a beat, long enough for me to hear the voices of Mr. Penrose and Lena float up from the first floor and remind me that they can hear everything. That we are not alone. I look briefly over my shoulder at Cedric, but he is a vision of grim determination. He turns my head further and curls his neck around to kiss me again, then claps his hand between my legs from behind. I jolt from the shock, but he doesn’t let me go as I squirm in his grasp. I struggle with fear and lust, with uncertainty and love. I want him to take me like an animal, as his hand finds my breast again, pulling my dress aside to expose it to the cool air. I want him to claim me in some fucked up, backwards, chauvinistic way; I want him to roar over me, to own me, to dominate me. I want him to
want
those things, and now, for the first time, I know that he really does. This isn’t the cool, composed, controlled domination of our Doctor’s appointments; this is wild, feral, and fierce.

And I am afraid. I moan, and I push my ass into his groin, and I want to feel him inside me, and I am terrified of all of it.

I am afraid of what he did to his wife, because
he
is afraid of what he did to his wife.

The thought rises to the surface of my mind, pushed there by the intensity of my desire, by the desperation of it, by the heat of his hand working its way under my dress. I have a choice. It’s a choice between unknown danger, and knowingly losing Cedric.

Fuck that. I want him. I really do want all of him.

“Fuck me,” I beg him, my voice hoarse. “Please. Fuck me.”

Savagely he bites my shoulder, and his one hand begins to push me down, bending me over the desk, while his fingers finally, finally, finally push inside me, sliding in easily now that I am so very wet for him. I moan, and abandon all thought. I’m only grateful that I am going to have him again.

Until there is a knock on the open door.

The kind of perfunctory knock that is a polite way of intruding. It’s followed by the sound of a man clearing his throat.

There’s this incredible moment when everything stops, and I briefly think Cedric will just continue on, that this fever is strong enough to override all social considerations, that he’s about to send whomever it is fleeing for his life before fucking me over this desk. It is a distinct possibility, hanging in the air of that one, still moment.

But then Cedric’s fingers slide back out of me, his body guarding the sight of mine from the open door. I don’t even want to know who is there, except so that I can kill him later for interrupting. I feel Cedric turn around as I try to discreetly pop my breast back into my dress, and overall not look like I was just about to be bent over and fucked.

“Gerald, what is it?”

I spin around on my heel.
Him?
Seriously? What the hell is he doing here? Gerald stands there in the doorway, official looking papers and such in hand, still all scruffy blond and dressed like a casual Abercrombie model who’s about to go sailing or something, and returns my look of pure hatred with. . . disapproval? Suspicion?

Suddenly it feels like there’s more going on here than I’m aware of. Cedric still stands between us protectively.

“We have to get this meeting underway if there’s any hope of. . .” Gerald trails off, and looks at me. He seems grave and sad, not like the boyish charmer who tried to get in my pants not too long ago. “That is, if you still want to pursue this, Cedric?”

And Gerald’s gaze holds mine, just in case I didn’t know that was a loaded question.

Cedric looks back to me, and there is another long, empty moment. He is calm, cool, and collected once more, no trace of the raw, feral passion he let me see just minutes before. Nothing. Maybe I’m over-sensitive, but I feel the distance suddenly grow large between us. I don’t know what’s going on, but it makes me anxious and sad. I search his blue eyes for some sign, for any sign of recognition or acknowledgement, but he is impassive. Instead he makes a curiously formal little half bow in my direction.

“Please excuse me, Claire, I have something to attend to. Gerald will show you out in my place.”

I can only stare at him in astonishment. What the hell is happening here?

“Please forgive me,” he murmurs, and with that he turns and strides out of the room, grabbing the papers that Gerald holds out to him on his way out the door. He doesn’t look back.

Gerald at least has the courtesy to stare at the floor while I try to scrape some dignity together.

“What the hell was that?” I finally sputter.

“He had a prior appointment,” Gerald says to the carpet.

An
appointment
? Surely he’s kidding? Surely that is just a poor choice of words, and not that Cedric is. . .
seeing
anyone else? Still? But Gerald only continues to stare at the floor, apparently very unwilling to look me in the eye.

I don’t like that at all.

I don’t like any of this.

“Gerald?”

“Yes, Claire.”

“You don’t want me in his life, do you?”

This time Gerald looks up, no longer embarrassed, with a very serious look on his face. He looks at me for a long time before speaking. I get the impression that he’s weighing his words carefully.

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” he finally says, his grey eyes turned down at the edges, his eyebrows furrowed together. He almost looks sorry for me as he outstretches his arm, reminding me of the open door. That’s right: I’m being shown out.

I am, to put it mildly, a jumble of emotions as Gerald and I make our way down the stairs. I go slowly, at a stately pace, as though I’m holding my head up proudly, but really I’m just stalling for time. Thankfully, Cedric, Mr. Penrose, and the wretched Lena have gone elsewhere; there’s no one to see me get kicked out but Gerald, who’s doing the kicking.

I bridle at that, honestly. Gerald?

But I have to keep my wits about me. I’ve got literally thirty seconds to come up with a plan. I can’t afford to think too much about what Cedric’s other appointment means, or what happened to his wife, or what happened – or nearly happened – over that old desk, or what Gerald meant when he said he didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I have to come up with a
plan
.

I don’t quite manage that by the time we get to the front door, even though I deliberately wait for Gerald to open it for me. I mean, I’m not actually a secret agent or anything. So I do the next best thing. When Gerald gives me a sad, concerned look, I give him an understanding little smile, reach up, and give him a peck on the cheek, just to let him know there are no hard feelings.

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt, either,” I say.

And then I steal his wallet.

Ok, admittedly, stealing Gerald’s wallet – Distracting him with a kiss on the cheek! And then picking his pocket! – is kind of awesome. Like, it’s pretty exciting. I probably look calm and composed and sexy, given my outfit of choice, as I walk down Cedric’s sun-dappled street, but I am bouncing off the walls inside. And it is a little odd, given how much time I just devoted to reassuring Cedric that I’m not, in fact, crazy, because stealing a wallet is an objectively crazy thing to do.

But holy crap is it fun.

And it’s also the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment. I needed more information, I needed another window into Cedric’s life, and literally the only thing I have to go on is his friend Gerald, whom I know nothing about.

Well, whom I knew nothing about. I’m about to find out a whole bunch. Now, going through his wallet, I can see where he lives, and I can see where he works – his wallet is chock full of business cards.

And Gerald is a
psychiatrist
.

I almost drop everything when I see that. Just, completely stunned, right there. I can’t quite put my finger on exactly what it is, but something about that is incredibly funny to me. Gerald is the actual doctor, of the two of them? What’s Gerald’s professional opinion of all this?

Which is when I realize that Gerald’s final warning about getting hurt might reflect a more professional assessment than I’d first thought. I think of Cedric’s unexpected ferocity, bordering on brutality, and a brief chill dampens my excitement, and as the usual adrenaline rush of sexy times with Cedric begins to recede, it’s replaced by a gentle foreboding. This is possibly something that deserves more thought.

And boy, do I think about it. I think about it as I walk out into the street to hail a cab; I think about it as I ignore the roving eyes of the cab driver in the rearview mirror. I wonder about how Julia had been hurt, and who had hurt her, as I watch the city streets change from the broad, beautiful avenues of Cedric’s neighborhood to the small, littered streets that surround my parents’ modest house. I think about what a man could do to drive a woman to suicide, if such a thing even exists, and if Cedric, my Cedric, could possibly be that man.

I worry over what I’ve gotten myself into as I aimlessly wander about my parents’ house, unembarrassed by my outfit, and ignoring their uncomprehending stares. And as we finally sit down to dinner, I realize I’m worrying so much because I am, for better or worse, completely sunk. That man has a hold of me, and there’s nothing I can do but see it through.

Which means I need to know more. I need to know what happened to his wife, if I’m to know what might happen to us.

And I know just the man to explain it to me. Gerald has no idea what he’s in for, I think, and I smile and decisively slice off a piece of roast. It’s at this point that I finally notice my family, my parents trying to hide their curiosity at my outfit and demeanor, my brother openly staring.

“What?” I ask innocently.

And then the phone rings.

I’d been worrying so much about Cedric that I’d forgotten to worry about my application to art school. Small blessings, right? Well, I’m right back to worrying now.

The voice on the other end of the phone is imperious, and male, and vaguely familiar. He says he’s calling from the office of Admissions.

“Ms. Donner, you are aware that the application deadline passed some weeks ago?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you saw fit to apply anyway?”

I sigh. Exactly how do you explain that you met this mysterious man who administered a strict treatment regimen of fucking and personal exploration, and as a result you’ve become much more bold and assertive with the universe at large? You don’t, because that would sound insane.

“Yes, I did. It’s a good application.”

There is a slight pause. You know when you think you can hear someone smile over the phone, even though you know that’s impossible? I get that feeling now.

“Yes, it is, Ms. Donner. I’ve been reviewing it. We’re quite impressed with your ability. Your technique is very good.”

I do a little fist pump into the air.

“We do hope to see more personal expression during the interview. Please feel free to bring any other materials that you’d like us to see.”

My foot taps rapidly on the floor as I write down the interview details, like my body just cannot possibly contain the excitement with any kind of decorum, and that energy has to go somewhere if I want to avoid becoming a blubbering idiot. An interview! Just sending in an application had been a Hail Mary, more about proving to myself that I was worth it than anything else. I’d expected to reapply later, to get a job, just get on with the business of becoming the person I wanted to be. But a freaking
interview
!

I tear back up to my room and drag out every good piece I’ve ever done from deep within my closet, the Dean’s words about personal expression echoing in my mind. I lay the best paintings out on my bed, and a nagging fear begins to wear away at the edges of my mind. My work doesn’t really stand out. The technique is excellent; it always has been, I was always talented, and disciplined, in my way. But the Dean’s comment about personal expression begins to seem important. My best work shouldn’t blend into a drab bedspread, should it?

I look around the room I’ve lived in my entire life. In the same way I never cared to put much thought and effort into my personal appearance, I never cared to make this room my own. There’s nothing to indicate what sort of person lives here. The colors themselves are bland, greys and beige and even some taupe, as though I were striving to be the absolute best at never offending anyone, ever. It’s like the person who lives here has put all her effort into hiding herself.

I start to paw through my paintings, looking for any signs of life. How could I not have noticed this before? My work, all of my work, it tells the truth about the person who created it: boring, repressed, so afraid to let herself feel that she has nothing to say, no outlook on life. It is a crushing truth.

About the only thing that makes it bearable is the knowledge that I am no longer this person, if I ever truly was like this. I am now myself, in the world. I have things to say. I have an outlook on life. I’m not afraid to feel.

My work just doesn’t show it.

So now I have two problems. I need to find out who Cedric really is, and I need to show the world who I really am.

I have no idea what I’m going to do about the latter, but I know just the man to help with the former.

Gerald’s office is in the ground floor of what I suspect is his own fancy townhouse. Another of the manor-born – I feel like I’m moving up in the world, and am not entirely prepared for it, just like I’m not entirely prepared for this meeting. That’s one thing Cedric and Gerald seem to have in common, besides an attraction to me and being born into wealth: they are both very used to getting what they want. I have no idea how Gerald will react.

Well, he’s going to have to deal with it. I need to know about Cedric. I need to know what I’m getting into, with Gerald’s blessing or without it.

I take a deep breath and tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. I smooth the front of my trench coat – a deliberate choice; it’s the same coat I was wearing when Gerald tried to seduce me, when I thought he might be part of the Doctor’s elaborate instruction, and I want to remind Gerald of that infraction – and push open the finely wrought iron of what used to be the service entrance. Now it’s the entrance to his psychiatry practice.