Unethical

Chapter One

Maxim

An electrical whirring comes from behind me as the door closes and locks. I’m free, even if I don’t really think I should be free at all. Bad people like me shouldn’t walk around with normal people with normal brains. But I’m really good at blending in. I can meld with the worst of the criminals and the most mundane of society. I just made a stupid mistake and got caught this time.

I’ve murdered people, but the law has remained completely blind to those offenses. The stolen car was what hemmed me up. And then I maybe caused a little fight with the officer who tried to apprehend me.

Now they say I need therapy. I don’t think I need therapy for my anger, but it might help with everything else that’s wrong with my brain. The thought of talking about my feelings makes me more homicidal than it should, though.

I study the paperwork once more and follow the directions to the halfway house, where I’ll stay until I finish therapy and get a job, because that’s so easy to do as a felon. I cross through the city on foot, heading toward the building that’s almost guaranteed to be a dump. My gaze returns to the paperwork as I walk, just to keep my mind on something other than the stifling heat rising from the pavement.

Though I didn’t receive a death sentence, this is almost as bad. I can’t drink or do drugs, and I’m forced to check in every night by ten p.m. The random piss tests are just the sprinkles on this shit sundae. The whole thing sounds awfully shitty.

I eye the paperwork again and spot the therapist’s name at the bottom. Dr. Sarah Reeves. I’ve spent the last four years in prison, so I can only hope she’s a gray-haired bat with a sharp nose. I’m not sure how well I can hold myself back if she’s hot. Self-control isn’t a strength of mine. Dangle a hot piece of ass in front of me, and I might fuck the judgement out of her.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I pull out the cheapo phone the prison gave me and type her name into the browser. My jaw tightens when her picture appears on the screen. She is hot. And I’ll have to sit in front of her and pretend I’m not rabid for pussy at this point. More specifically, her pussy.

Fuck, I guess I’ll go. Maybe I’ll even like it. She might not, though. That depends on how much she pries into my mind. I can only hope she has a flashlight if she chooses to venture into a darkness she’s not prepared for. All the schooling in the world won’t help her once she delves into my pitch-black depths. My fucked-up brain.

Who knows, though? Most mental-health providers have a darkness of their own. Their own problems inspire their career choice. No one understands fucked-up like those who are also a bit fucked.

Just a week until my first appointment, and then we’ll see just how well the prison therapy will help me control my impulses. I don’t have much hope, especially considering the impulses I’m getting after seeing her picture.

Maybe a visit with the doctor won’t be so bad after all.

Chapter Two

Sarah

Icome into work and sit down at my desk. A paper glares up at me from the smooth oak surface. I pick it up and see that the court has assigned a new client to me. Great.

These are my least favorite types of clients. Instead of choosing to seek help on their own, they’ve been forced to meet some psychiatric quota for a problem they refuse to acknowledge. Or worse, a problem they acknowledge and refuse to change.

They don’t want to be here. They often have little interest in bettering themselves because they don’t think anything is wrong with them. The world has wronged them, not the other way around. There’s little worse than sitting across from a smug ex-con who thinks the entire justice system is out to get them.

What do you even talk about with patients like that? It’s usually clear as day that there is something wrong with them. The justice system is out to get them because they need to be gotten, and most of them should still be in prison because they haven’t made the progress needed to integrate successfully back into society.

But the prisons and jails are too overcrowded, so here we are.

His name is Maxim Jankowski. His intimidating first name creates a vision in my mind. Tall. Tattooed. Scary. I’m pretty certain there’s a serial killer with the same first name. Maybe that’s why it creates such a malevolent vision in my mind.

I look through his charges. He’s been in prison for some robberies and assaults, but nothing as bad as I expected. I’ve taken on clients who are killers. The worst one was a man who killed his own child.

Maybe he won’t be as bad as I’m thinking. Not much is worse than a baby murderer. I’m getting myself all worked up for nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time I let my anxiety take hold and drive my train of thought.

Then again, maybe the murderers are better than the others. They always come with someone from their parole office, a watchdog to keep everyone safe. Because Maxim isn’t a murderer, I’ll be alone with him in this little office, completely vulnerable and at the mercy of an ex-convict who isn’t deemed dangerous enough to warrant my protection.

I sit down at my computer and search for his name. A few news articles pop up. When I click on the first one, his mugshot fills the screen.

He isn’t as intimidating as the figure I conjured in my mind. He’s definitely tall at six foot seven, but he isn’t as bulky as I expected. Slim but muscular, with broad shoulders that make him look more rugged. Dark hair sits on his head, and it’s a mess, though the sides have been neatly shaved. His big green eyes take on a dark cast as he stares at the camera with a smirk.

Judging by this picture, I’m assuming his arrest didn’t go all that well. A shiner circles the right eye, and a cut dashes his cheek.

I read the report and see that he attempted to fight off the officers. Yeah, his arrest definitely didn’t go well. But it helps to see his face—to get an idea of what to expect before he walks into my office. Before I’m alone with him.

Before I need to try to fix everything that’s wrong with him.

Chapter Three

Maxim

Istand by the front door and allow my eyes to ride up the small office building. Dying bushes droop by the door, their curled brown leaves begging for water. It’s not very welcoming, even if I wanted to go to this appointment. I’d rather do almost anything else than walk in there.

Therapy has never really been my thing. When I first started acting out when I was extremely young, the courts tried to intervene and force me into counseling. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me that getting bounced around from one shitty foster home to another had done a number on my psyche.

I was damaged before the foster parents even gave up on me, though. Something has been wrong with me since the day I drew breath. Something not wired quite right.

I pull the door open, and a little electronic alert chimes overhead. A dark-haired young girl sits at the reception desk, playing on her phone, and I’m tempted to leave before she notices me. The prison release papers glue my feet to the floor, though.

Can I help you? the girl asks once she looks up from her phone long enough to notice me.

I’m here for an appointment with Dr. Reeves.

The girl looks at the clock. You’re ten minutes late.

Sue me, I clip. God, I’m feeling more homicidal by the minute. This girl is lucky I only have eyes for the doctor.

The moment I saw Dr. Reeves’ picture, she became my sole focus. I can’t stop thinking about her. I dreamed of this visit, but my fantasy took a pretty unethical turn. In my mind, I walked into the office, and she gave me the fuck-me eyes instead of asking me questions. She spread her skirt-clad thighs, and I placed myself between them. Instead of allowing her to force me to confront my demons with her words, I made her confront hers with my dick.

Have a seat and I’ll ask if she’s still available to see you, the girl says.

It’s ten fucking minutes, not an hour. Did the doctor magically vanish once I didn’t appear at the stroke of fucking midnight?

I just nod and pace by the windows lining the wall as I wait.

A few moments later, the girl leads me to a room in the back of the building. The office is nothing like my vision, and neither is the doctor. She can’t even be bothered to look up from a manila folder as I enter the room.

Hello, Mr. Jankowski. Nice of you to finally show up. She closes the manila folder, types something on her laptop, and finally meets my eyes.

Yeah, lady, neither of us wants to be here.

She gestures toward a chair across from her. Have a seat.

I do, and my jeans rise up as I sit. I drop my head to my fist. There’s nothing approachable about my body language, and hers matches mine.

I’m Dr. Sarah Reeves. I’ve been a therapist for ten years. Tell me about yourself, she says. When I don’t respond, she sighs and starts scribbling something on a yellow legal pad. It’s my understanding that you’re here because you’re court ordered, correct?

Yup.

Some of my colleagues believe that court-appointed therapy doesn’t work. It’s a waste of everyone’s time. Do you plan to participate?

It probably is a waste of time, to be honest. We’ll see about that, I guess, huh?

Do you have pets or anything, Maxim? Anything you care for? She swallows as my dark eyes land on her.

I had a cat, but they took him when I got arrested. I think I need to figure out my own life before I try to take care of something else.

Fair. She nods. Have you done therapy before?

Nah. Not really my thing.

She leans forward, pushing her breasts higher. I can’t keep my eyes away from them, and I don’t try.

But they brought it up to you before? she asks. Your parents?

My parents tried to bring me to therapy after the loss of my twin, I say coldly.

How old were you when you lost your brother?

It doesn’t matter. I don’t even remember him.

This is a lie. I remember him. I remember the way he looked when he was up to something, the little quirk of his brow. I remember his laugh. Most of all, I remember the sound of his body colliding with rocks at the bottom of the fucking well.

What happened to him?

He fell down a well on the property.

How did your parents cope with that loss?

I sit up. I don’t fucking know. And then they died too, so it doesn’t matter.

The air shifts. She no longer looks so sure of herself. Her confidence has drained from her eyes, replaced by a glint of fear.

Will you tell me more about that? Her voice quivers a bit, so she clears her throat and sips from a water bottle on her desk.

Absolutely not, I snap.

She should count herself blessed to have received this much information