Page 11 of Control Freak

I eyed him. “Doesn’t mean I think you should take breaks during the workday.”

He barked a laugh. “You’re such a hard-ass. Jesus.”

“I’m kidding,” I lied.

It was a work in progress, loosening my grip on everything around me. I’d unearthed enough in therapy to know that I wascontrolling because it made the world around me feel safer. If I were in control, no one could hurt me the way my parents did. I’d been helpless and powerless during the years of my abuse, and my urge to control every situation was a defense mechanism.

But that didn’t mean my brothers enjoyed being bossed around like children.

Gray chuckled like he knew I was full of shit. “Okay, well, I better get back to work. Wouldn’t want to squander any opportunities.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, knowing I deserved the sarcasm.

He left, and I straightened my desk. Someone had moved my daily calendar. I shifted it two inches to the left and read the Word of the Day. Equanimity. I could sure use more of that in my life. Jesus.

I finished out the day updating our expense sheet, running an invoice for the Honda owner who finally showed up, and RSVPing for the Chamber of Commerce Community Influence event.

The phantom imprint of Gray’s hand continued to burn on my skin, making me shudder now and then. Not in revulsion or even fear. Just my body’s nervous system reminding me that touch wasn’t safe.

“But I’m fine,” I said aloud to the room. “So get the fuck over it.”

I clenched my pen tighter, trying to will my body to fucking understand that this shit wasn’t necessary.

Dr. Levy’s voice echoed in my head. “You can’t force your way past trauma.”

If I could, I’d have been beyond it by now. I hated this lack of control. It was why I’d fallen into a pattern of avoiding, rather than dealing with, my touch aversion.

I took dinner in my room that evening. My brothers cast each other concerned looks, but they didn’t try to talk me into staying. They were used to my moods after a therapy session.

I closed myself into my bedroom and set my plate of leftover goulash on the nightstand. I wasn’t hungry.

I pulled up some panda videos while I reclined in the bed. It was a silly therapy tool Dr. Levy had encouraged me to try. The bears were cute and ridiculous and silly. They fell over, somersaulted, and popped right back up, as eager as ever to take on the world. Something about watching their endless optimism soothed me, but it wasn’t enough tonight.

I wanted Shiloh. Wanted the sense of control he gave me in our sexual interludes.

I picked up the phone.

Can we go early?

Shiloh took a few minutes to respond. I fidgeted on the bed, my heart rabbiting.What if he said no? What if he was busy with another client? Jealousy twisted my gut, even though I had no right to it. I wanted Shiloh all to myself, but I couldn’t have him like that.

Finally, my phone beeped with his response.

Shiloh:

Give me ten minutes to get pretty.

Holden:

You don’t need to do that. I like you however you are.

Shiloh:

You might change your mind about that tonight.

Holden:

Never.