Max - Bey Deckard Page 0,5

switched to channel twenty-three. A woman on the screen started crying hysterically. Quickly, he thumbed the volume button. He took another swig of beer and grabbed his phone.

Watching was all that he sent.

The phone vibrated a second later.

Good.

3

The Rabbit Hole

Monday, July 18th

Crane checked his phone. Again. No message from Max and it was three minutes into their appointment. He pinched the bridge of his nose, tapping his pen against his knee a few times. Was he going to be “stood up” again? Last week, Max had messaged him almost ten minutes after he was supposed to have been there with a simple “can’t make it, see you next week.” Annoyed, Crane had messaged back immediately to point out that Max would be billed the usual two-hundred-dollar fee since he hadn’t given twenty-four hours’ notice. The reply that came from Max a heartbeat later was an infuriatingly short “Yeah.”

He stood up and crossed the room to look out the window. The noontime traffic below was light, and the weather had shifted from gloomy and overcast to sunny since he’d been at the office. He glanced at his phone. Seven minutes late. Fucking hell, Max. Technically, he wasn’t required to wait around if a patient was more than fifteen minutes late. However, the thought of sitting there like an idiot until Max deigned to message him only to dismiss him again… Well, fuck that. Max was playing games with him. He was sure of it. After two weeks of texting each other semi-regularly, always under the pretense of discussing movies, the radio silence of the last week was… What? Frustrating? Insulting? Worrying?

Crane pressed his palm over his mouth, breathing slowly through his nose as he stared at the empty sidewalk below.

Why are you getting so riled up about this? Max lives to manipulate. If you react to this, you’re just playing into his power games. He’s obviously not coming. Crane sighed, squinting in the direction of the nearby metro station.

You know what? If you leave right this minute, you can probably catch Mary before she heads out for her shift. Maybe you can go take a walk in the park together… hand in hand, like you used to when you were first dating back in high school. Remember that? Yeah. That sounds nice… Despite the thread of his thoughts, Crane remained at the window, scanning the street for any sign of Max.

Crane was stalling. He knew it and hated himself for it. Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned softly into his palm. Then he opened his eyes and fished in his pocket for his phone.

No. Don’t message him. Don’t chase after him. Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s gotten under your skin. Have Debra email him the bill and tell him that he’s being referred to another therapist… hell, another clinic.

Crane felt like punching something really hard… or crushing something. Or… having sex. No, not sex. Fucking. Dirty, raunchy hard-core fucking. Shoving his dick into someone with the sole purpose of emptying his balls. No foreplay. No talking. Just raw, animal fucking.

Crane felt his cock stir and jammed his hand down the front of his Dockers to adjust himself. With a bitter laugh, he fondled himself gently for a moment. What did he know about fucking? Even as a hormonal teen, Mary had been all about making love. Not that that was a bad thing, but now that they were no longer trying for a baby, even the lovemaking had dwindled to almost nothing.

His skin prickled uncomfortably, and a cold spike of adrenaline went straight to his gut a full second before the quiet voice spoke behind him.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Crane pulled his hand out of his pants as he spun around, his mouth dry. How long had Max been standing there, watching him? It took some effort, but he managed a serene smile as he gestured to one of the seats.

“That’s fine, Max,” he lied. “Take a seat.” The clock on the wall above the door showed that Max was nearly twenty minutes late.

Max sat down and crossed one leg over the other so his ankle rested on the opposite knee. There was a large pixelated skull on his black shirt, and he wore threadbare jeans and black and white Converse. On his head was the dark-grey, army-style cap he’d worn the day they’d met, its frayed, curling brim casting his features into shadow.

Max scratched at the side of his head and tucked a brown curl behind his ear,