Max - Bey Deckard Page 0,3

a bit terse.

Crane leaned forward and Max averted his eyes. “You’re just telling me what you’re feeling physically. What about mentally? How are you feeling?”

Max grimaced as he looked out the window. One shoulder came up in a small shrug. “Somewhere between amused and annoyed. Like usual.”

“What do you mean ‘like usual’?”

The way Max’s eyes swivelled back to Crane’s gave him the impression that his mood had slipped somewhat in the direction of “annoyed”.

Max sized him up for a moment. “Those are my two basic moods. The only other ones I can identify reliably are anger and arousal… But I do, on occasion, get them mixed up.”

Crane stared into Max’s dark eyes and felt his heart beat faster, but he forced himself to smile. Never show fear. Wasn’t that advice for dealing with aggressive dogs?

After a moment, Max smiled back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to being like this with anyone.”

“Like how?” Crane sat back, then let out a silent sigh of relief as the tension in the room petered out.

Max averted his eyes again. “Honest.”

“That’s good that you’re being honest with me.” He glanced down at his book and realized the page was still blank. He wasn’t sure how to approach this session. Max wasn’t nearly as talkative as last time. Not for the first time, Crane wished he had Max’s previous therapy records. “Have you ever been diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder?”

Max chuckled and glanced at Crane. It was a yes or no question, but it obviously amused him enough that he gave Crane more than a one-word answer.

“Why does everyone ask me that?” Max said, rolling his eyes. “No. I do not fall on the spectrum.”

“But you get asked that often?” It was another yes or no, but again, Max was forthcoming.

“Yeah. It’s a real pain in my ass—it’s like everyone and their dog is obsessed with diagnosing folks with Asperger’s. Drives me insane.” Max grinned and smoothed down his tie. Crane noticed then that the geometric patterns on it were the aliens from Space Invaders, and he laughed to himself.

Crane made a note: Feelings = bad topic. Mental acuity = good. “What do you think you have?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m normal.” Max’s laugh rang out and Crane added his own quiet laugh. “No, serious, Doc. They’ve tried to pin me with a number of things: manic-depressive or bipolar even though I am neither manic nor depressive, nor do I have any kind of discernible mood swings; narcissistic, histrionic, borderline, dissociative… etcetera, etcetera.” Max rolled his hand in the air and chuckled again, dismissing the diagnoses. “But you’re smarter than they are, Dr. Crane… Aren’t you?”

Crane smiled at the compliment before he could stop himself. Max was charming, manipulative, focused, self-aware, and incredibly intelligent—exactly the kind of character that Crane normally loved on-screen. However, this wasn’t fiction, and the room suddenly felt even smaller when Max’s expression went neutral and he tilted his head a little. The psychopath’s head tilt.

Half of him knew he should probably drop Max as a patient and refer him to someone with more experience. Crane was barely out of school, and Max was only his fifth patient. He was out of his league. However, the other half was thrilled at the chance to pick Max’s brain. To study him. Hell, maybe he could write a paper on him.

Crane nodded. “None of those things fit,” he agreed, fully aware that he was saying exactly what Max wanted to hear. He tried to formulate his next question in a way that would get Max talking.

“No trauma,” said Max pre-emptively, and then he frowned as he focused on something above Crane’s head.

Crane glanced down at what he had written, and a tiny, cool surge of adrenaline raced through him: History of trauma? “How did you know I was going to ask you about trauma right then?” he asked.

For a moment, it was like Max hadn’t heard him as he continued to stare over Crane’s head. Then he blinked and focused on him.

“That was the next logical question, wasn’t it?” Max said with a smile. “At least, that’s what I would have asked.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. In the dim natural light of the office, his eyes appeared black… completely opaque. Crane couldn’t look away, seized by the ridiculous suspicion that Max could see into his thoughts. “No trauma. Normal upbringing. No one was murdered in front of me, I was not molested by anyone, and I’ve never