Page 12 of Vanessa’s Bravery

7

Cole hadn’t been able to sleep right away after coming back from the brothel. His encounter with Vanessa had churned up all kinds of long repressed desires. He hadn’t acted the way he normally did when he slept with prostitutes. In general, he fucked them and got the pleasure he paid for. So why had he been unable to do the same with Vanessa? Sure, she was beautiful, more so than the other women he’d fucked. But there was something else about her. A vulnerability and mysteriousness that drew him to her like a moth to the flame. As if she’d put chains around him to imprison him. One look into her green eyes, and he’d become her captive.

The decision not to fuck her had been an automatic one, because once he did, it would be over. And that was a prospect he didn’t relish. He wanted to seduce her slowly, to pleasure her, so maybe in this crazy dream of his, Vanessa would accept him for what he was and look past the ugliness he kept hidden. Yes, he could admit it to himself: he wanted the prostitute he’d just met to show him love and affection and mean it. How fucked up was that?

When he’d finally fallen asleep, he’d been plagued with dreams about her, dreams of a life he would never have. After waking around noon, he’d spent the afternoon and early evening walking aimlessly around the city, killing time until his appointment with Dr. Drake. He could only hope that the doctor had a solution to his problem, or he would be out of options.

After nightfall, he decided to walk to Dr. Drake’s practice. It wasn’t far, and considering how hard it had been to find a parking spot the night before, he didn’t think it wise to take the car. By the time he reached the street where Dr. Drake’s practice was located, a thick fog had descended on the city, giving it a spooky atmosphere. There was a chill in the air, and he realized he should have worn a thicker jacket. But it was too late to turn around now. He’d already reached his destination: a large Edwardian mansion with an iron gate in front.

He touched the gate and read the plaque on it: Dr. E. Drake, Psychiatrist, By appointment only.

Cole hesitated, his hope deflating. This was probably a dead end. If Drake was a psychiatrist, then he’d probably treated his father for depression—and failed. Though why his father had seen a psychiatrist in San Francisco when he’d lived in Philadelphia most of his life, puzzled him. He sighed. He was already here, and he had an appointment. What did he have to lose by talking to Drake? Just a few minutes of his time, and whatever fee the good doctor charged for the consultation.

Determined to get this over with, Cole pushed the gate open and followed the sign that led along the house to a tradesmen entrance where a light flickered over an unassuming door. He pressed the door handle down and pushed it open. Bright light greeted him, and he entered and closed the door behind him.

He stood in a reception area with a few seats and a vending machine, a fake Ficus tree, and a counter with a large computer and a busty blonde sitting behind it. The woman who looked to be in her early thirties lifted her gaze and stared at him, a frown forming on her face.

“Sir, what are you—”

“I’m Cole Whitlock. We spoke yesterday?” he introduced himself, approaching her.

“Oh,” she said, her plump lips forming a perfect circle, while she rose, her ample cleavage suddenly in his direct line of sight.

Despite that fact, nothing stirred in his groin. The oversexed blonde didn’t even remotely arouse him.

“You’re his 8:15?”

“Yes, I know I’m a few minutes early. I can wait.” He was about to turn toward the seating area, when she stopped him.

“Just a moment,” she said quickly and picked up the phone then pressed a button. “Dr. Drake, your 8:15 is here. But, uhm, maybe you should… uhm… he’s a new client. A civilian.” There was a short pause. “Yes, of course.”

Civilian? What did she mean by it? Was Dr. Drake only seeing members of the military? Perhaps he specialized in post-traumatic stress disorder.

The receptionist placed the receiver back on the cradle. “May I ask how you heard about Dr. Drake?”

“Well, it’s a long story. Maybe I could talk to him myself.” He tilted his head to the door that he assumed was the doctor’s office.

“Are you here on a recommendation by somebody? Another patient maybe?” she asked, her voice more insistent now.

Surprised she was giving him the third degree, he found it best to not let her know that he didn’t really know why his father had Dr. Drake’s number in his journal. “Yes, you could say that. My father was a patient. He passed away…”

“Oh, my condolences, Mr. Whitlock. Just a moment, please.”

She picked the phone up again and pressed the same button as before. “Dr. Drake. He’s here on a recommendation by a former patient. Yes.”

When she disconnected the call, she pointed to the door. “He will see you now.”

With a nod at her, Cole strode to the door, knocked briefly, and entered. Inside the large room the décor was very different from the airy, bright reception area. There was a large desk with an office chair, the only two items in the room that didn’t look out of place. Everything else did: the murals that made the room look like a crypt, the oddly shaped black sofa with red velvet cushions that made it look like a coffin from the set of a cheap Dracula movie. Not to speak of the coffee table whose legs looked like wooden stakes. The armchairs opposite the sofa looked just as inappropriate as everything else in the room. One thing was instantly clear: Dr. Drake had horrible taste in furniture.

“Mr. Whitlock, please take a seat.”

Drake was a tall, lanky man who looked to be in his early forties—too young for having treated his father, who’d died seventeen years ago. Drake would have been in his early twenties and undoubtedly still in medical school, rather than running his own practice.

“You are Dr. Drake?” Cole managed to ask.

“The one and only,” he replied. “Is there a problem?”

“Actually, you’re too young to be the man I was looking for. No offense.”