Lance: A Hitman Romance (Santa Espera #2)

Copyright 2016 Harley Fox

Cover Designed by
Silver Heart Publishing

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is intended for adult audiences only. All sexually active characters depicted are at least 18 years of age. All sexual activity is between consenting, non-blood related adults. All characters and activities appearing in this work are fictitious. This book does not endorse or encourage illegal or immoral activities. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Content warnings:
This book contains swearing, sex, gang-related activities, dark themes, and murder.

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Lance: A Hitman Romance

by Harley Fox

Katie

The clock ticks by slowly on the wall.

The blinds are down but angled in such a way as to allow diffuse light into the room. The temperature is warm enough to make the room comfortable, but not so hot as to make it stuffy. The walls have been painted a mellow green, not offensive, not thought-provoking. All this to make sure my clients are at ease.

Against one wall of my office sit my bookcases, filled with innumerable tomes on physiological psychology, behavioral organization, cognition, memory. There are works by Piaget and Freud, along with books by Dawkins and Darwin. I even have a copy of the DSM-V, although that’s one I haven’t managed to read in its entirety yet. I’m working on it, though.

Sitting on my mahogany desk is my laptop, pens, a stapler. A few loose notes are held down by a paperweight my sister got me for Christmas three years ago, a solid block of granite carved into an elephant. My door is closed, though I can hear soft music coming through that Amin, my receptionist, likes to play in the foyer. Today he’s chosen Enya.

And here I sit in one of the two comfortable leather chairs, my legs crossed, notepad and pen in hand. My short blonde hair is tucked back behind my ears and I’m wearing one of many similar outfits: button-up blouse, smart knee-length skirt, high heels. It’s a combination that clients seem to find comforting. It shows professionalism, but with enough ease as to imply that I’m not merely a robot. It’s what I wear every day now.

Across from me is retired Afghanistan veteran Harold Whitaker. His trim haircut and cleanly ironed clothes are belied by his body language: head hanging down; elbows resting on knees; talking in a low tone to the carpeted floor, or perhaps the coffee table that separates us. This man is not in a good place.

“… it wasn’t till Mancer got over that hill that I knew somethin’ was wrong,” he says, recounting a mission gone wrong while serving overseas. “Like … like some kinda instinct crept over me, you know? Like I knew he was a goner, and we’d just had our last conversation together.”

He looks up at me and I see that young face looking too old for its own good. I nod for him to go on and he drops his head again.

“A minute passed. Then two. I thought maybe I was wrong. Maybe Mancer was okay.” He shakes his head. “But I ain’t never wrong. Not when I get that instinct comin’ over me.” He pauses and I notice the subtle shake of his right hand before he stops it. “It sounded like a volcano went off. Or an earthquake. Yeah. It was … it was just like an … an earthquake …”

That shake again and he sniffs as a glistening teardrop falls from his eyes to be swallowed up by the carpet below. I switch my pen to my other hand and grab a Kleenex from the coffee table. Leaning forward, I offer it to him and he accepts, but as he takes it his fingers graze against the back of my hand. I settle back in my chair, switching my pen back as Harold dabs at his eyes, then blows his nose.

“How close were you and Edward?” I ask him.

Harold sniffs again. “Shit, Mancer and me went way back. Back to when … when we were kids.”

I wait a beat of silence but Harold doesn’t go on.

“Losing somebody close to you is always tough,” I tell him. “It makes you think what you could have done differently. How you could have stopped it from happening.”

But Harold shakes his head as he wipes at his nose again.

“Sorry Doctor Simmons. I don’t think you get it this time.”

My eyebrow raises. “I’m sorry?” I ask.

Harold looks up at me, clutching the Kleenex in his fist.

“I appreciate you tryin’ to comfort me, but your psychobabble, that patter you use out of a book …” He shakes his head again. “It’s not the same when it comes to someone dying. There ain’t no book in the world that can tell you what it’s like to lose somebody you love.”

Our eyes are locked, Harold’s burning, mine placid. Another beat of silence goes by and finally I take a breath.

“Let me ask you something, Harold. Do you know what schizophrenia is?”

A wave of uncertainty crosses his face. “Yeah. Like, thinkin’ you’re two different people and seein’ things?”

“Close,” I say. “Thinking you’re two different people is Multiple Personality Disorder. But schizophrenia has a range of symptoms. Some more common ones include auditory and visual hallucinations, and severe paranoia. Sometimes the schizophrenia comes on out of nowhere. And sometimes to people who have, previously, lived a very healthy life.”

“Okay,” he says, furrowing his brow. “But I don’t see-”

“When I was six years old my mother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia,” I say. “The diagnosis came when I was six, but she’d been experiencing worsening symptoms for two years before that. I remember once she threatened to drown me in the bath because I lied about snacking before dinner. Another time she forgot to pick my sister up from daycare, and then tried to convince my father that she never existed in the first place.

“After her diagnosis she was given medication but her condition, instead of getting better, only got worse and she had to be admitted to the hospital. We visited her every day, and on some of those days she seemed normal — she was the mother I remember growing up with. But on other days it was like she was a completely different person. She didn’t know who we were, and she screamed for her real family instead of us, these impostors.”

Harold doesn’t say anything as I take a steadying breath in through my nose and let it out.

“She died a week after my seventh birthday,” I tell him. “In the hospital bed she’d been strapped to. They said her brain couldn’t support herself anymore. They said there was nothing they could do.

“That was years ago, and since then there have been many good books written about schizophrenia, along with many more written about dealing with the loss of a loved one. And I agree with you: there isn’t any book out there that can tell you what it’s really like to lose somebody. I’m sorry to say it, but in order to really appreciate it, you have to experience it for yourself.”

Harold’s eyes hold mine after I’m done talking, but a moment later he drops his gaze. He slides back in the leather chair, still holding onto the wad of Kleenex.

“Is that why you became a shrink?” he asks, looking up, and I nod. “That must’ve been tough.”

“It was, yes,” I agree. “But we’re not here to talk about me. So, tell me about how Edward’s death affected your outlook on the army.”

Harold’s session goes on, and when it finishes fifteen minutes later we both stand up as I walk him to the door.

“Same time next week?” I ask.

“Yeah, same time,” he says. I step past him, reaching for the door handle, but as I do his voice pipes up.

“Wait,” he says.

I turn, and stop when I see him looking me right in the eyes. My body language doesn’t change. I already know where this is going.

“You know,” Harold says in a lower voice, “you’re a very good listener, Doctor Simmons.”

“It’s an important part of this job,” I tell him, and he nods, slowly.

“My momma always said I should find myself a girl who knows how to listen.” He starts to lean forward, and I stand my ground. “I never met anyone as pretty or smart as you.”

Harold’s eyes close and his lips pucker out, and that’s when I put my hands on his chest, turning my head so that he catches my cheek instead of my lips. I feel him falter.

“Harold,” I say, keeping my voice stern, level. He pulls back and I see a slight furrow in his brow. “I want you to know that I’m not interested in any relationship with you beyond that of doctor and client. These feelings you’re having, while flattering, are a normal side effect of spending so much time with someone, especially someone who is helping you through a difficult time in your life.”

“I know what I’m feeling,” he says, bristling, but I keep my gaze level.

“Harold, trust the person with two psychology degrees. What you’re feeling is infatuation, nothing more. I’m flattered, but nothing is going to happen between us.”

He remains defiant for a moment, but then relaxes as he drops his gaze again.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“That’s quite all right,” I reply. Then, considering, “To be honest, it actually happens all the time.”

Harold lifts his eyes.

“Yeah? I’m not just bein’ a sleazebag?”

I smile. “No, you’re not.”

As Harold smiles back, I grab the door handle and pull it open, letting him out. Out in the foyer Amin looks up from his receptionist’s desk, his laptop open in front of him.

“Schedule another appointment with Amin,” I tell Harold. “And I’ll see you next week.”

“See you next week, Doctor,” Harold says, and I smile to him as I shut the door.

Now alone, I turn back and walk over to my leather chair, grabbing up the notepad and pen, ripping off the top sheet with today’s notes on Harold. Taking it over to my desk, I open up a drawer and add it to Harold Whitaker’s file. That done, I put the notepad down on my desk and place the pen in the pen holder. Then I look around.

My office looks big and empty when I’m the only one in here. And when there’s no work to distract me. I tap my fingers on my desk, watching the clock on the wall. When I figure enough time has gone by I walk back to my door and open it up to find just Amin in the foyer. He looks up from behind his desk.

“Hi, Katie,” he says with a smile.

“Hi, Amin.” I walk into the foyer and look around for my next client.
No one else is here.

“Your five o’clock canceled,” Amin says, and I look back at him. “She called while you were in session.”

“Oh,” I say. This is strange. I suddenly feel out of place.

“Yep, you’re free to enjoy your Wednesday two hours early,” he says. “Got any plans?”

“Um … yes. I’m having dinner with my sister and her family,” I tell him.

“Oh, that sounds nice.”

“Yeah … yeah, it is,” I say, giving the foyer another glance, as though Patricia were to magically appear.

“Are you not looking forward to it?” comes Amin’s voice, and I look at him again.

“Huh?” I say again. “Oh, no I’m just … I was expecting to leave later.”

And Amin shakes his head.

“You know Katie, most people would love to be able to leave work two hours early.”

“Yes, I know …” I say. “But that means that
you’re
free to go too,” I tell him, deflecting the attention. Amin nods, looking back down at his laptop.

“Mm hmm. I just need to finish up a few emails and then I’m outta here.”

“Are you doing anything tonight?” I ask, and Amin shrugs.

“I don’t know. I was thinking of inviting Chester over to watch a movie but …” He sighs. “I don’t know. I just don’t know if it’s going to work out with him, you know?”

I nod. “Have you tried talking to him? Telling him how you feel?”

“No,” Amin sighs. “And I
know
that’s what I’m supposed to do, but I just don’t want to have that conversation.”

“Talking things through can be difficult, definitely,” I say. “But communication is the most important part of any relationship. Chester’s not a mind reader. If you don’t tell him how you’re feeling then he’ll never know.”

Amin nods, but then gives me a sly look.

“Hey, you’re not charging me for this session, are you?” he asks, and I feel my cheeks colour.

“Oh, I … I’m sorry,” I say, but Amin shakes his head.

“I’m just teasing you. But you’re right. I should talk to him. I’ll ask if he wants to get together.”

I smile. “I think that’s probably the best thing.”

“Yeah.” Amin looks down at his laptop again. “Well, I’m just going to finish this up …”

“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. I should get going too.”

I go back into my office to gather my things now. I slip off my high heels and put on some flats, tucking the other shoes underneath my desk. When I’m all ready and I come back out Amin is focused on the screen, typing quickly.

“Okay, I’m out of here. You’ll lock up?” I ask, and he nods without looking up.

“Yep. Have fun at your sister’s tonight,” he says.

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

I leave by the front door and step out into the hallway of the building, turning to head towards the elevators. The doors I pass all have names of various doctors stenciled on their glass fronts. Mine is no different. The thin carpet muffles my footsteps as I reach the elevator and press the button to go down. The metal doors ding open and I step in, taking it down two levels to the main floor.

I walk through the lobby and step out through the double glass doors and into bright sunshine. I’m momentarily blinded — a side effect of having my blinds drawn almost closed. But it’s worth it. I find the patients open up more when the windows are mostly covered. They feel safer, like nobody can look in and see them unburden their souls.

I reach into my purse and take out my car key, remotely unlocking the doors. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I start it up and back out of my parking space. Then I pull out onto the road.

I’m not being conceited when I say that the tiny idiosyncrasies of my practice are what separate me from the other therapists out there. I’ve been to conventions, and I’ve spoken to other doctors in my field. I don’t view this business as one where only the strong survive, but as a way of developing community. So long as clients are helped in the best possible way, then I’m happy. I’m not afraid of losing them, and in fact I’ve made plenty of referrals and had plenty of clients referred to me. Whatever works best for them.