The Vampire Shrink(13)
Author: Lynda Hilburn

"But you don't believe?"

"No, of course not."

She seemed to think that was very funny, because she shook her head, put one hand on her chest, and laughed until tears flowed from her eyes. "I envy you your journey. If you are courageous, your life will become extraordinary. Even as stubborn as you arc."

I let the stubborn comment pass. "What do you know about the vampires?"

"I'm very psychic. I have always been aware of non-humans—not only vampires—and of a growing darkness that is pure evil. There are a few places in the world where this evil is manifesting. Denver is such a place. You are to play a key role. But, even more important, you are to learn to love and be loved."

Cerridwyn certainly had a flair for the dramatic. Pure evil in Denver? Non-humans?

"Well, I have to say that I was expecting a canned pre­diction and you've been very creative. I want to pay you for your time."

She reached across the table and grabbed my hand, her expression suddenly serious. "There is danger tonight. It's too late for the young woman you seek. Don't be afraid of your own abilities. They will save you."

The breakfast burrito churned in my stomach. I was afraid to ask what she meant by the comment about the young woman, so I just sat there staring at her.

"I hope this reading was helpful to you. Come and see me again when you're ready to ask the right questions and to hear the answers." She reached into a pocket in her shirt. "Here's my card. Call me when you find your courage. Re­member that nothing comes to you without your invitation, even if you don't realize you're sending it."

What invitation?

She handed me her business card, gathered her Tarot deck back into a pile, and wrapped it in a red, silk scarf.

I fished in my pocket for some money and pulled out a $10 bill. I put it on the table, stood and said, "You frightened me." I was surprised to hear those words come out of my mouth be­cause it wasn't like me to share my feelings with strangers—or with anyone, for that matter.

She laughed. "Good. Being frightened will help you pay attention.

She palmed the money, put it in her pocket and closed her eyes.

I took that as a dismissal and walked back to my office, replaying her words in my mind. The logical part of me tried to take charge, reminding me that there was no solid research to back up the validity of psychic readings. It had really only been cosmo-babble, anyway, and the strange feel­ing in my midsection was simple indigestion.

But the instinctual part of me ignored all that, and re­minded me of the story of 'The Three Little Pigs," and the one little pig who built his house with bricks. What was my unconscious trying to tell me? Was there really a big, bad wolf out there that could blow the house down?

Chapter Nine

The rest of the day was pleasantly routine. I'd scheduled several clients. The task of concentrating on their concerns kept my mind off the ghoulish madness and bizarre chaos that had penetrated the edges of my life. The key to successful denial is to keep busy.

Actually, it turned out to be quite a satisfying afternoon.

Spock had a moment of illumination in the midst of waxing euphoric about the latest Star Trek convention he'd attended. It seemed he'd had a close encounter with a pro­tester—I couldn't imagine what anyone would protest about a Star Trek convention—out in front of the building, and it had upset him. The woman was handing out flyers and bumped into Spock, accusing him of being a "sick-o with no life."

He paused in the middle of his passionate diatribe about the injustice of her accusations and said, a horrified expres­sion on his face, "Is that true? Am I a sick-o with no life?"

I asked him what he thought, and we had our first au­thentic, meaningful dialog about his role-playing.

All in all, a significant session.

Then Wendy, a member of my Fear of Commitment group, came for her first individual appointment to tell me that she'd read a book I'd suggested and had courageously allowed herself to go on a fourth date with a particularly intriguing man she'd been seeing. Since she usually ended every relationship after the third date—thanks to the num­ber of times her father visited her as a child after abandoning the family—this was indeed exciting news.

Witnessing client breakthroughs reminds me why I chose this work to begin with.

Feeling good, I finished up with my last client, went home, poured a glass of wine and crawled into an aromatic, hot bubble bath.

Enjoying the blissful sensations and playing with the bubbles, I recalled my talk with Cerridwyn on the mall and thought about how silly I'd been to take the Tarot reader se­riously. It was totally rational that the strange events of the morning had caused me to be anxious. It really wasn't so un­usual that she'd picked up my fears about Emerald because I knew my own intuitive abilities often opened me to informa­tion from others, whether I wanted it or not. I had no doubt that Cerridwyn had skills, but she was only a mirror. Im­pressive, but not supernatural.

I was just thinking about how great it would be to take a nap, when I heard a voice downstairs in my living room.

"Kismet? It's me, Tom. Your door was unlocked. I knocked but nobody answered."

My door's unlocked? What's the matter with me? Damn. I forgot to call Tom and cancel. And then the little psychologist in my head suggested, "Maybe you didn't want to cancel."

"I'll be down in a minute," I yelled.

I heard footsteps tromping up the stairs and then Tom poked his head into the bathroom, beaming a toothpaste commercial smile.

Same old obnoxious Tom.

Surprised and highly annoyed, I sat up in the water, pulled a couple of big clumps of bubbles toward me and raised my knees up to my chest. "Hey! I'm taking a bath here. I wasn't expecting you so early. Why don't you wait for me downstairs?"

Why am I being polite to this jerk?

He ambled over, lowered the toilet lid, sat down and made himself comfortable. "No. I enjoy having you as a captive au­dience. And besides, I've seen you na**d hundreds of times."

He was right about that. From the first moment I laid eyes on him during our internship at the psychiatric hospital, I was putty in his hands. All he had to do was give me one of those dazzling smiles or glance at me with his bedroom eyes and I'd follow him anywhere.

Okay. So I'd led a sheltered life.

Tom had been the first man that I'd had a sexual re­lationship with. Oh, sure, I'd fumbled around in the back seats of cars with various high school and college dates, and I even managed to find a willing participant to initiate me into womanhood when I determined the time was right. But until Tom, I'd been an emotional virgin.

He was eight years older than I and he taught me things about the sexual arts I never knew existed. We spent four years together and amassed quite a collection of sexual aids, books, toys, and videos. Unfortunately, while it was all about pleasure and orgasms for Tom, it was all about love for me. He'd been so disappointed that I'd muddied the waters.

I gathered more bubbles around me. "That's ancient history," I sneered. Unfortunately, I realized too late that it's hard to pull off an effective sneer while sitting na**d in a foamy tub.

He perched there watching me, making no effort to hide the fact his eyes were lingering on certain parts of my body and he was enjoying the view. I remembered that wicked ex­pression on his face and I felt a tightening low in my body—as if my libido had sent out an invitation that went into the mail before my brain could retrieve it.

"Is the water getting cold?" He leered at my br**sts and smiled.

I followed his gaze down and noticed my ni**les were large and hard.

Shit Apparently my body didn't get the memo about this lusting after Tom thing

He smiled. "I always appreciated how quickly your body got aroused. It was very exciting to watch you respond to me in such an obvious way."

He stood, moved a step closer to the bathtub and laid his hand on his zipper. "Look," he said, rubbing his hand up and down the front of his pants, showing me his erection. "See what you do to me?"

Geez. It had been two years since I'd had sex and my body was screaming yes! Despite his heartless rejection and empty promises, I still wanted him inside me. Even though he was the poster boy for superficiality, I still lusted after him. I was torn between being disgusted with myself and being overwhelmingly aroused. I started to suggest that we move into my bedroom when he uttered the immortal words, "Tell me how bad you want it."

Yuck.

I'd been expecting a sensual seduction scene and instead he gave me a worn out line from one of the p**n movies he collected. His words hit me like a cold shower, putting out the flames of my romantic fantasy. All of my desire for him immediately evaporated in the crystal clear realization that he'd never been who I imagined him to be and I'd been fool­ing myself all those years.

I raised my voice and gave it a cutting edge.

"Very tacky, Dr. Radcliffe. Tell me. Does that approach usually work for you these days? Are more women respond­ing to 'Mr. Macho' than responded to 'Mr. Sensitivity'? Hand me a towel and get out."

With a shocked expression on his face, he reached over, picked up a towel and handed it to me.

I stood and slowly wrapped the towel around myself, no­ticing he was still enjoying the show. "There's some wine downstairs. Go help yourself. Get out."

He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times but no words emerged. The color had drained from his face, and his expression veered back and forth between confusion and disbelief. He finally turned and silently retreated.

After he left, I stepped out of the tub and stood in front of the mirror. My cheeks were flushed and my eyes were shining. At least it was good to know that my body was still capable of sexual arousal. I'd started to wonder. But it was clear that anything personal between the two of us was fin­ished. I was actually glad Tom had shown up, because who knew how long I might have carried the torch if he hadn't re­minded me of who he really was.

Love truly was blind.

***

"If I promise to go back to being Mr. Sensitivity, can I come up and talk to you while you put your makeup on? I always enjoyed watching you do that, plus I'm getting lonesome down here," Tom crooned, standing at the foot of the stairs.

I shook my head and smiled. He was trying to schmooze me again, but it wasn't going to work. I had come to my senses.

"Sure. You can come up, but I'm almost done. Bring the wine bottle with you."

I might need a weapon.

He came upstairs and leaned against the door to the bathroom, lowered the bottle down onto the counter by the sink and stood there quietly, sipping his wine.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I feel as if I should apol­ogize, but you can't really blame a guy for trying. We've got such a long history together. You've gotten even prettier since we split up."

"I can blame a guy for trying, so feel free to come up with one of your brilliant, meaningless apologies. I'm all ears."

I'd pulled my hair up into one of those large hair clips so it wouldn't get wet in the bath, and I released it, letting the curls cascade down my back.

He reached out and picked up one of the wavy clumps. "Was your hair always this long? It's very sexy."

He cocked his head and inspected the band-aid on my neck. "What's this?'" He touched it with one finger.

I smacked his hand away.

"A nasty hickey, if you must know. Nothing I'd want my clients to see."

He raised his eyebrows, smiled.

"A hickey, eh? Someone claiming his territory?"

"You, Dr. Radcliffe, are a sexist pig."

He trailed a finger across the top of my breast, and gave me his "Aren't I a naughty boy" face I remembered so well.

I guess you really can't teach an old horndog new tricks.

I smiled and grabbed the offending finger and bent it backward, causing him to yelp with pain.

He rubbed his wounded digit and rambled about how ir­rational I was being, how women were all so emotional, and how he was just showing me that he found me appealing.

I didn't address anything he said, because I knew what he was up to, and I was already tired of his games. He just couldn't believe that a woman would turn him down—that his routine hadn't worked. I remember being jealous for most of the time we'd been together because Tom just couldn't resist flirting with every waitress, clerk, or secretary he en­countered. Why hadn't I noticed his pitiful insecurity before? And why had I blamed myself?

"A friend is coming by pretty soon and we're going out to a club downtown. I meant to call you and cancel for tonight, but I forgot," I mumbled, my face close to the mirror so I could finish putting on my mascara without smudging it.

And, right on cue, there was a knock at the door.

Tom turned and raced down the stairs, yelling, "I'll get it." I'd put money on the fact that he assumed my friend would be female.

The sound carried easily in my small townhouse.

"Is Kismet here?" Alan asked, giving each syllable a slightly higher pitch, as if he momentarily thought he'd come to the wrong door.

I didn't hear anything for a few seconds and then Tom obviously recovered from his dashed expectations and re­claimed his innate pomposity. "Yes, of course, please come in. I'm an old friend of hers. Tom. Tom Radcliffe."

I called down the stairs. "I'll be right there, Alan. Just give me a few minutes. Get him something to drink, Tom."

I went into my bedroom and put on the outfit I'd laid out for the evening, then went back into the bathroom for some finishing touches to my makeup and hair. I even squirted on a hint of the perfume a friend had sent me from Paris on her last trip.