Save My Soul (2 page)

How could she forget? Six months ago, his tan skin, black hair, towering stature, and ominous aura haunted her from behind the podium, where he addressed the graduating class of his alma mater — now her alma mater, too. He stirred such strong feelings in Maggie, she worried the neo-gothic buildings surrounding the commons would crumble after more than one hundred years of steadfast footing. But that was nothing compared to the unsettling jolt of their shared handshake when Maggie was awarded recognition for her research. Something about the darkly handsome man strangled her breath and drained her soul.

“I hope it's not too late to call. I work all hours and pay little attention to clocks and time zones. Can you talk or should we set another time?”

He didn't sound the least bit remorseful for the intrusion, and she had the intuitive feeling that he intended to have the discussion whether she was busy or not. A burst of nervous energy fluttered between her ribs.

“I happen to be at the office, so it's the perfect time to talk.” About anything other than late-twenties life crises or polygamists and sister wives.

Maggie ditched her red heels and folded her long legs in the shape of a pretzel.

“You see patients on Halloween night?”

“Clients.” How many times had Maggie explained to the layperson about the importance of choosing words wisely when it came to mental health? She sighed and reached for a rote explanation. “The word patient denotes sickness, and my clients aren't sick. They need options and guidance. And no, I'm not seeing clients. I'm doing … inner work.”

Silence. She leaned forward, carrying goose-pimpled arms to her knees where her eyes caught the movement of a nickel-sized spider suspended from the blade of a ceiling fan.

“Dr. Collins, I have a proposition for you.”

The spider plummeted toward her bare leg. She screamed and leaped across the room, panting into the phone.

“What?” he barked. “Are you all right?” His yelling vibrated her eardrum and flooded her body with foolishness.

She kept her eyes on the spider and one hand over her throbbing heart. “I'm fine. It's a spider.” She drew a deep, cleansing breath. “I apologize for my skittishness tonight.”

“Let me guess. You believe portals to the other dimension open at midnight on All Hallows Eve, populating the earth with immortals hungry for human souls.”

Maggie balked. Was this guy serious? He had no idea how scary real life could be. “Immortals haven't even crossed my mind, Mr. Kemmons. I'm merely distracted with thoughts of polygamy, sister wives and the likelihood of nervous breakdowns in a person's mid-twenties.”

More silence. Deeper silence. The kind that made a heartbeat echo.

The spider scurried up the arm of the sofa and then made a U-turn toward the floor. Maggie leaped onto a leopard print footstool.

“Dr. Collins, I'm the agent for a pitcher who flaked out during game six of the NLCS. My sports psychologists can't break through. I don't think he's eating, and I've noticed unexplainable scars on his arms. Obviously this isn't about pitching. The kid is crazy, but his high-profile image makes it difficult to seek inpatient treatment without career repercussions. Remembering your research, I thought maybe you could help.”

Maggie winced and dug emerald green toe nails into the cushion, once again taking on the role as champion for the misunderstood. “Mr. Kemmons, the terms ‘flaked out' and ‘crazy' are offensive. People on a tormented mental plane don't deserve to have their temporary weaknesses belittled.”

“Call him whatever you want to call him. I'll call it like I see it. And the way I see it, he isn't focusing. He can't throw a strike, and his fast ball dropped eight miles per hour. I can't negotiate a case of bats for him at that speed.”

The spider disappeared under the sofa and reappeared on the woodwork. Maggie dropped her butt to the footstool and pinned her eyes on the eight-legged creature.

“I've exhausted all legitimate, medical treatments,” he said with a huff. “Next up is reiki and some cranial sacral voodoo that a team trainer suggested. Before I toss Carlos off the deep end and jump after him, I figured I'd give your brand of hocus pocus a try.”

Maggie winced. If he wanted the best hocus pocus money could buy, he'd have to call her mother.

Reaching up to calm a twitching vein in her forehead, Maggie rubbed her clammy skin. “I don't even know where to start,” she said, releasing a sigh. “Reiki and cranial sacral therapy
are
legitimate treatments, neither of which do I practice. My brand of hocus pocus … ” she choked a little on the words, “ … is nothing more than tradition therapy offered in a non-traditional format. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but while I feel sorry for this boy, and not because he isn't pitching well enough but because he's forced to deal with your spiritual retardation, I'm hardly the person to help him heal.”

Jordon snorted. “Did you just call me retarded?”

Maggie rolled her eyes, going over her words in her head. “Of course not. I simply meant your spiritual evolution is delayed.”

“Is it now?” He didn't sound impressed.

She was beyond caring about impressions. Taking out the evening's frustrations on this faceless man seemed infinitely more enjoyable than beating herself up about it.

With a noisy exhale, Maggie released the frustration that had been locked inside of her since her awkward date with Paul. “Mr. Kemmons, every other word that comes out of your mouth offends me, and that's amazing, because I assure you, you won't find a more open-minded individual than me.” She should've stopped there, but the emotional floodgate slammed open. “Just because I won't participate in a polygamist marriage or engage in orgiastic relationships doesn't mean I judge those who do.”

Deep laughter slithered through the phone, tickling her ears and neck until it shot off tiny sparks in her chest. She pounded a fist against her breastbone to stop the tingles.

“Orgiastic.” The way he said the word made her face burn. “I had no idea that was even a word.”

She raised her hand, fanning the heat. “Never mind. I … Good night, Mr. Kemmons.”

“Wait,” he yelled. “I'm prepared to double your salary.”

She didn't have a salary. She worked off billing and sliding scales. It was “eat what you kill,” so to speak. And with her brand of therapy in low-demand, Maggie was starving.

“Dr. Collins, are you still there?”

Another shaky breath. “I am.”

“Carlos plays for Carolina, and he's staying at my vacation home in Lake Norman. I'd like to pay you for a professional visit. Talk to him. See if you can help. Travel and hotel expenses will be covered.”

For a moment, all Maggie could see was a couple days away from a life that was closing in on her, and some extra cash to start anew. But when she opened her mouth to agree, her stomach clenched. If only she didn't feel like she was making a deal with the devil …

The spider scrambled in the distance, and Maggie scooted the footstool closer to the door.

“Are you interested in the opportunity, Dr. Collins?” he asked in a clipped and clearly exasperated tone.

Maggie had never been one to ignore opportunity, partly because she had her mother's impulsive streak, but also because she was smart and determined … and right now, she was struggling to make sense of her life. This opportunity could be key.

“Send me the terms in writing.” She spewed the sentence before she could take it back, using as much conviction as she could muster.

The spider raced toward the footstool, and Maggie screamed, skipping across the hardwoods on tiptoes before she crashed into the sofa.

“What now?” he growled.

“The spider.” She panted, waiting for the eight-legged demon to regroup and charge again.

“Kill the damn thing.”

“No! That robs us of the chance to grow on a spiritual path. I practice a non-harming way of life, and I'm going to deal with this arachnophobia like any other enlightened adult. When I hang up, I'll talk to him.”

Dead silence mixed with the distinct feeling that she said something wrong. Maggie knew the words that made sense to her sounded strange to everyone else — especially tall, dark, analytical men, but she couldn't help herself. Try as she might to tame her alternative thoughts, in times of duress they overruled.

She fought the urge to hang up and handle her mortification in private. “Mr. Kemmons, are you there?”

“I'm
all there
. I was about to ask you the same thing.”

She caught his dreadful double meaning, but couldn't blame him. After all, she told him she planned to spend Halloween night talking to a spider.

Palming her face, she drew a deep breath and refocused. “You may think of my person however you like, but professionally, I'm without reproach. I accept your verbal terms and await a contract.”

He chuckled. “Good night, Dr. Collins. Give my regards to the spider.”

• • •

Jordon pulled square black eyeglasses off his face and pressed his head to the scrolled headboard his interior decorator designed for occasions like this. He worked a lot in bed. There was a time when the work related to his libido. These days, the only thing waking him was the BlackBerry charging on his bamboo nightstand or the cordless phone resting in his hand.

A few feet below his bedroom window, the New York City streets hummed, keeping him company through another long night. He bent his knees, bringing the laptop with Carlos Nunez's final stats closer to his burning eyes and pressed the phone to his ear.

The buzzing was displaced by one word, spoken dejectedly with a hint of Spanish accent. “Hallow.”

“Hey, buddy. How are you feeling tonight?”

“The same.”

Jordon squeezed his lips until they hurt. When Carlos sniffed on the other end, Jordon thought about hopping a flight to Carolina so the kid didn't have to suffer alone. “Is Bernie there?”

“Just left.” A yawn filtered through the receiver.

“Okay. Try to get some rest while I work on Plan B.” Or was it Plan Z at this point?

Jordon smacked his head against the bed. If he had to, he'd start all over at Plan A and rework every detail until somebody, somewhere, helped this kid. “Night, buddy.”

“Night … ”

Dad.
Jordon couldn't remember when it first happened, but for years now — maybe since he started down the hill toward forty — the name appeared in his head at the end of certain calls. For many of the young men he represented, the moniker wasn't far off. Jordon did more than guide their careers, and he sure as hell felt more for them than the average agent, which was precisely why Kemmons Corp. was anything but average.

Studying the laptop screen again, Jordon shook his head at the numbers. Last season, Carlos flaked out, but the kid wasn't a genuine flake, not like Dr. Maggie Collins.

You may think of my person however you like.
Jordon clicked another browser tab and gazed on the exotic Maggie. Betty Boop eyes smiled at him from the pages of her website. He pushed a palm up the stubby underside of his chin, and a devilish grin crept across his lips. Oh, he liked. A lot.

The first time he saw her, she floated down a red carpet aisle, wrapped in traditional graduation garb — with the exception of those damn shoes. It took him a moment to remember he was presenting a doctoral award of excellence to the woman in fuck-me pumps. Later in the evening, at a graduate reception, they shook hands during an introduction, and Jordon momentarily lost his mind.

Glancing at his opening and closing hand, Jordon recalled the heat that travelled from her body to his. The physical attraction intensified when she joined a group in a belly-dancing tribute to an Egypt-bound professor. Having shed the scholarly robe, she wore a sleeveless dress that was little more than a slip. He remembered the generous amount of shapely leg between the hem of that so-called dress and the black bows tied around each ankle. Those tiny bows strapped stiletto heels to her feet as she rolled and swirled all over the dance floor like an erotic dream.

A dream he couldn't shake.

Snapping the laptop shut and tossing it to Bethany's side of the bed, Jordon slid down the headboard, pushed into the pillow and closed his eyes. The right side hadn't been Bethany's side for two years. He thought about rolling over, about reclaiming the space, but his back glued to the mattress. It pissed him off that he still couldn't sleep on the right side.

Maybe Carlos wasn't the only one who needed a therapist.

Jordon launched an exhale from his mouth to the ceiling. If Dr. Collins succeeded in fixing Carlos, maybe Jordon would modify his impression of her from flake to capable flake. The corners of his sleepy mouth lifted. Right now, though, the only impression he cared to imagine was how capable Dr. Maggie Collins was in bed.

Maggie's mother wore flowers in her hair; a wreath of pink alyssum set atop Crystal's gray, shoulder-length curls. Sitting cross-legged on Maggie's bed, Crystal looked like the Earth Mother, and Maggie loved her.

There was much to admire about Crystal. As a successful singer-songwriter in the seventies, pockets of fans lingered. The woman epitomized unconditional love and unadulterated passion. Most everything Maggie knew about the world, she learned from the petite whirlwind of positive energy.

“Oh, Magpie, those boots. Nothing good can come from wearing slaughtered calf.”

But there were negatives, too.

Maggie folded a silk blouse and tucked it beside the Frye boots in question. The contradictory parts of Maggie cringed from guilt, and she rattled off a silent prayer of thanks to the cow who lost his life to create such magnificent footwear.

“Give me your palms.” Crystal reached for her.

Normally Maggie wouldn't think twice, but lately her thoughts had been so troubling, she worried about Crystal's reaction if she knew. “My palms are packing.”