Who am I kidding? I definitely like her. Well, I would like her right up until I came, and then I wouldn’t want to see her again.
Do I really want to screw up getting help from a brilliant therapist for the sake of a fuck that I can get with someone else later?
“I apologize that I’m a little late for our appointment.”
“No problem.” I follow her into her office.
Standard therapist’s office, all neutral colors and calm feel to it. Not that I have been in a therapist’s office before.
“Please take a seat.” She gestures to a comfy-looking seat as she sits down in one a few feet in front of me with a coffee table separating us. “Would you like a drink before we start?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” I say with my eyes glued on her legs, which she’s just crossed.
She clears her throat, dragging my eyes up to hers.
Reaching forward, she picks up a manila folder, setting it on her lap. “So, this is our introductory meeting. This will help me get to know a little about you and what you need help with. It will let you get to know me and see if we’re a good fit together, if you think I can help you.”
We’d definitely be a good fit. Her naked, me inside her.
I think we’d fit just perfectly.
“I’ll make notes, if that’s okay with you? Some therapists like to tape the sessions, but I prefer pen and paper.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I give her a small smile, so I don’t come off like the asshole I am.
She returns my smile, eyes on mine.
I feel that smile all the way down to my cock.
She looks away, down at the folder. Opening it up, she picks up a pen from the table and holds it, poised over the paper before her. “So, let’s start with the reason you’re here?”
Tell her why I’m here.
I’m here because my life is fucked. Fucked because of one accident.
I don’t want to sound like a whiny-ass pussy to anyone, but I know, to get better, I have to fess up my shit to this woman.
“I was in an accident.” My voice is monotone.
She nods as she begins writing.
“On the track. I’m a racing driver.”
“Did your accident result in major injuries?” Her eyes meet with mine. She’s looking at me like she doesn’t know, and her words sure as hell sound like she doesn’t know.
I thought the world knew everything about me.
Maybe not her.
The knowledge relaxes me a little, and from out of nowhere, I find myself wanting to tell this woman everything.
My biggest fears. My regrets. The self-loathing I feel at my own weaknesses.
“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “Both my legs were broken. My wrist was shattered. I had numerous broken ribs. But those injuries were the easy part.” I give a sardonic smile. “The worst were…a burst fracture in my lower vertebrae and a subdural hematoma.” I tap a finger to my head where the scar lies hidden beneath my overgrown hair. “I was on the operating table with my head wide open when my heart stopped beating.” I take a deep breath. “I was technically dead for about a minute.”
“And how does that feel, knowing that you died?”
I lift a shoulder in a half shrug, like it doesn’t matter. It does matter.
“I don’t know. But I do know how it doesn’t make me feel.”
“And how is that?”
“Alive. I know that it should make me feel more alive now than ever. But I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t race. Without racing, I’m nothing.”
“Are you sure that’s true?”
“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
Eyes leaving me, she stares at the words she’s written. “You haven’t raced since the accident?”
“No.”
“Are you physically able to drive a car? Your injuries haven’t hindered that?”
“No, they haven’t. I spent a year going through rehabilitation, making sure I could get back in a car.” And now, I can’t because I’m a fucking coward.
“So, it’s not your body keeping you from racing. It’s your mind.”
“I wouldn’t fucking be here if it wasn’t.” I don’t mean to curse or snap at her, but I can’t help it. And I won’t apologize for it either, because I’m an asshole.
Her eyes meet with mine, her gaze steady. “How about traveling as a passenger in a car? How do you find that?”
“I manage.” Just.
“The same level of anxiety as when you’ve attempted to drive?”
“No. Slightly less. Not as bad.”
“Do you suffer from anxiety attacks?”
I frown. “Only when I try to drive a car,” I mutter quietly.