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  Anarchy

  Carmel Rhodes

  Copyright © 2018 by Carmel Rhodes

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Beta: Shanesmommy

  Editing: Kristen- Your Editing Lounge

  Cover Design: Erica Marselas

  Interior Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  —Prologue—

  —1—

  —2—

  —3—

  —4—

  —5—

  —6—

  —7—

  —8—

  —9—

  —10—

  —11—

  —Epilogue—

  Other books By Carmel Rhodes

  About the Author

  For the other two Witches.

  Disclaimer: I am not a doctor. I just play one in my head.

  —Prologue—

  Five Years Before.

  Aspen was miserable in the winter. Nouveau riche stomped over every surface of the quaint town like vultures. Restaurants were congested. Ski slopes were polluted with students on holiday and families with small children. It was the kind of scene that made the monster residing in my chest anxious. Yes, monster. Underneath the six-foot-three exterior, onyx eyes and hair to match, lived an animal lacking impulse control. An animal devoid of remorse. A fire breather. A dragon.

  The November wind assaulted me as I weaved through hordes of tourists on the way back to The Standard. The bitter bite sparked something inside me. I felt alive. A blood coursing through my veins and heat billowing from my chest, kind of alive.

  I’d arrived in Colorado three days prior to attend a behavioral sciences conference; a tedious workshop that left me clawing at my skin. Each morning, I pulled on a chunky, cable-knit sweater and a pair of sensible brown loafers, then spent the day huddled in small groups dissecting case studies, and listening to hour-long talks given by men who resembled corpses. Pretending to be normal was exhausting. Conjuring false enthusiasm and feigned interest in people who I never cared to see again made the dragon restless. When he got restless, he turned vicious, and when he turned vicious, he fed.

  The dragon was a simple creature. He feasted on vices. Alcohol, prescription pills, and pussy were his favorites, but after three days in the wondrous hell on earth that was Aspen, Colorado, he was ravenous.

  It was the final day of the conference and after a particularly banal round of talks I was desperate to ride the cocaine train all the way back to New York. Pushing through the door of the hotel, I bypassed the elevator and headed straight for the bar, unfastening the buttons on my Italian wool topcoat as I went.

  The bar was dim—quiet—like a cave. It was the reason I chose to stay at The Standard over the one sponsoring the conference. The solitude the older hotel offered was essential. I didn’t want to rub elbows with stuffy psychiatrists and reality TV starlets. I was better than them. The mysterious Dr. Damien Cooper. They fucking loved me. They could never—would never—understand my darker proclivities, so I kept them hidden.

  Sinatra billowed from the jukebox. Ricky, the old school bartender, was as much a part of the draw as the music. Late fifties with salt and pepper hair, he refused to serve anything blended, and would shoot you dead if you asked for something sweet. “Hendricks, straight,” I said as I approached the shiny mahogany bar, tossing my coat on the neighboring stool.

  “Coop,” Ricky greeted dropping a highball in front of me. He sounded like he had smoked a pack of cigarettes a day for the last twenty years. “How was the last day of the quack conference?” Yeah, Ricky was that type. A mean bastard who thought mental illness could be prayed away, worked away, or ignored outright. I stopped trying to reason with him an hour and three gins into the first night of my stay.

  “Same old, same old,” I replied, tilting the glass back. The clear liquid burned like a bitch, but I welcomed it. The dragon welcomed it. “A bunch of pretentious assholes, referring to each other as Doctor, and waxing poetically about saving the world.”

  “Sounds dreadful,” a low throaty voice said from behind. Ricky’s eyes lit up and a smile stretched across the thin skin around his mouth. It was the first time I’d seen him smile in three days. He hadn’t even given me half a smirk when I had performed an impromptu rendition of My Way the night before.

  Turning, I spotted who made Ricky so fucking amiable. A leggy brunette stood there with a pair of tits on her that single-handedly convinced me that there was a God. I took my time memorizing every curve of her body. Shiny brown hair curled at the tips. Powder blue eyes flickered like white hot flames. Slender jaw. Perfect nose—too perfect—likely the handiwork of an overpriced surgeon. She wore a gray pantsuit, the jacket draped over her dainty forearm, revealing a white lace bodysuit that looked more like lingerie than a shirt. My dick took notice.

  “Simone, dollface, it’s been awhile,” Ricky said with each one of his stained teeth on full display. Two smiles in less than two minutes. Who was this Simone, and what kind of magic did she possess to turn an old bastard like Ricky into a grinning idiot?

  “Too long,” she said, slinking into the stool on my left. Her voice was like poison, sweet and deadly. I wanted to bathe in it. I wanted to hear her muffled screams as I shoved my dick down her throat. “I’m only home for the weekend, then it’s back on the road.”

  Simone was a local. That’s why she didn’t have the stench of sightseer or day-tripper. Aspen wasn’t her adventure, it was her refuge.

  “Another tour?” Ricky asked.

  “Another tour,” she sighed.

  “You want your usual?”

  “Please.”

  Ricky busied himself making her drink, while I studied Simone from my periphery. I fantasized about smearing her cherry red lipstick all over her porcelain skin. I could practically taste the salty mascara stained tears that would leak from her eyes when I fucked her face. “You come here often?” I asked, because it was either that or keep staring at her like a fucking stalker. There was no denying my attraction. After three days of pretending to be an upstanding and productive member of society, I wanted to devour Simone. I wanted her quivering underneath me.

  “Minus ten for originality, but I’ll give you bonus points for the Ferragamos.” She eyed my shoes pointedly before her gaze trailed back up my body until our eyes met again.

  She paid attention to detail. I liked that. “How many points would I get if I bought you a drink?”

  “You’d get more if you let me buy yours.”

  “I’m not cheap.” The music changed, Ella Fitzgerald. The air between us changed too. It went from playful to charged with lust and depravity.

  Simone leaned toward me, granting me a peek down her blouse and a whiff of her vanilla scented skin. “I can afford it.”

  Ricky sat a dry martini in front of her, then motioned towards my now empty glass. “Another?”

  I nodded. “Keep ‘em coming, and add ‘em to her tab.”

  The older man looked to Simone for confirmation. She laughed, a chuckle that started in her belly and poured past her lips like velvet, rich and smooth. Simo
ne was harder to read than most—not impossible—I was an expert, but still not quite transparent either. She oozed confidence from the top of her head to the tip of her pinky toe. She knew who she was and she was content. No, content wasn’t the word. Simone was gleeful. She possessed a joy I’d never known. Her passion for life bordered on manic, and I’d snuffed that out after only one drink.

  “Most men wouldn’t be okay with a woman buying their drinks.”

  “I’m not most men,” I said, waving my hand absently. “Pussy power and all that jazz.”

  Simone barked out another laugh. “Pussy power? I’ve never heard that one before. I’m going to use that.”

  “Just make sure to credit Dr. Damien Cooper when you do.”

  “So, you’re one of those pretentious assholes. Suddenly it all makes sense.”

  “Guilty.” I winked, then swallowed the dredges of my second and slammed the glass on the bar. “Ricky.”

  “Coming right up, Coop.”

  “So, Doctor,” Simone whispered, her lips puckered into a pout, “what kind of medicine do you practice?”

  “I’m a psychiatrist.”

  “Does that mean you can refill my Percocet prescription?” There was an air of amusement to her tone, but I saw the gears turning. Perhaps Simone and I had more in common than I’d originally thought. Perhaps her magic was darker, sinister even.

  “Prescriptions require a physical exam.” I liked dark, and I fucking loved sinister.

  “Well then, Doctor, point me towards your examining room.”

  —1—

  Bedlam

  I often wondered about kindness. It was a foreign concept to me. Were people born good or were they taught? Nature vs. Nurture. A college acquaintance of mine once said he only ever cared about himself until he met his wife. He said she inspired a change in him. He said she made him a better man.

  It sounded good, so I tried it.

  It didn’t work for me.

  Three years ago, I married a woman who had been altruistic since birth; a beautiful woman from a wealthy family. A woman who listened to Chopin and Brahms. A woman who loved to cook. A woman who spoke three languages. A woman who enjoyed sex as much as I did. I married the perfect woman and yet, I was still a narcissistic asshole. Technically speaking, I had antisocial personality disorder with narcissistic tendencies, but in laymen’s, I was wired wrong.

  I knew the difference between good and evil, right and wrong. I understood concepts like morals and values, I just didn’t use them in everyday application, not unless I somehow benefited from it. Most people didn’t see the real me. I hid that person—that dragon—behind a doctorate in clinical psychology and a prestigious family name. I hid behind my classically handsome face and my kind wife. I hid behind slick words and sly smiles. I’d gotten good at hiding, good at pretending. So good, I even started to believe my own bullshit. I’d been so caught up in my life—my pleasure—I didn’t notice the world crumbling around me.

  “I want a divorce,” my wife said as I stepped into our bedroom. Water dripped from my skin, a gray terry cloth towel tucked neatly around my waist. The shower had been amazing. This conversation, however, was not. We’d had variations of this same talk for months now.

  Spoiler alert: we fight, she stays.

  “Natasha, can this wait?” I huffed. “I need to get to work.”

  “I’m serious this time, Damien. I can’t do this with you anymore.”

  “What is it you can’t do exactly?” I asked.

  I should have ignored her. I should have gotten ready for work. We had a new clinic director and he had established Monday morning staff meetings to learn more about Meadowbrook’s therapists and patients. That meant I had to leave an hour earlier. It also meant Natasha could save her divorce talk until I wasn’t in as much of a rush and was much less sober.

  “I can’t be married to you anymore. You’re a cruel man.” Her voice cracked as she spoke. The tears weren’t far off. More of the same. Always the same. I could recite her little spiel by memory.

  Pushing back my annoyance, I walked over to where my wife sat on the bed with her face buried in her hands. Her long, dark hair fell around her body, shielding her from the monster she had married.

  “Natasha, baby, come here.”

  After a few moments of resistance, she sagged into my embrace. There was once a time when she’d jump into my arms like they were home. I don’t know when she stopped. I was too busy with myself to care. I tucked her hair behind her ear, and was granted a glimpse of her beautiful face. My sad little doll, with her perfect bone structure and red-rimmed, almond-shaped eyes. She’d probably tossed and turned all night, dreading morning, dreading this moment. I swung her around to straddle me. She wore silk. Her body was warm and familiar. Her tears made my dick hard.

  Tension, hate and love, mixed and swirled around us, until I couldn’t take it anymore. My lips found hers, our first kiss in days, me coaxing, her resisting, but before long, I triumphed. With slumped shoulders she threaded her fingers into my hair and opened for me, like always. She tasted like salty tears and green tea—a morning ritual she picked up from her Japanese mother.

  Our kiss was slow, sensual. If I’d had more time, I’d drape her body over our California king bed and fuck her until she couldn’t walk. I’d fuck away all thoughts of divorce or unhappiness. I’d fuck her until she no longer saw the cruel man I was. I’d fuck the stars back into her eyes. But I didn’t have time, so I wrapped my hand around her jet-black hair and yanked her head back in that way she once enjoyed.

  “This is going to be fast.” I growled.

  “No,” she exhaled, wiggling off my lap and onto her feet. “No. No. No.”

  “Natasha,” I warned. My dick wasn’t amused. Neither was the dragon.

  “This wasn’t supposed to go like this. I need to stay strong.” She wrapped her arms around her slender frame and backed away until her ass hit the dresser. The distance between us was immense, both physically and emotionally. I only realized that later, but in that moment, I couldn’t see past myself.

  “You can explain it to me on your knees,” I said, removing the towel to drive my point home. Her hands moved so quickly, I barely registered the bottle of ninety-dollar face cream before it came flying at my head. “What the fuck is your problem?” I snapped, stalking over to her.

  “You are my problem. This marriage is my problem.”

  “Me?” My tone was bored—I was bored. “I shut down a thriving practice in New York to move to a fucking fly over state so you could care for your sick grandmother. I am not the problem here, you are.”

  “And you have resented me ever since,” she yelled, which should have struck me as odd. Natasha didn’t yell. In fact, the only time her voice ever went above a whisper was when she was screaming my name in bed. This was new. My wife was pissed.

  “I don’t resent you.” I didn’t. I resented her lazy ass sister for not volunteering for the job, even though she lived three hours away. I resented her parents for raising a selfless daughter. I resented her grandmother for not dying already, but I never resented Natasha.

  “How many times have you gone to see her since we moved to Colorado?”

  “I don’t keep count.” I yawned. I probably shouldn’t have, but it was too early, and my wife was no longer interested in my erection.

  “Twice, asshole. You’ve gone to see my obāchan two times in eight months,” she huffed, waving two tan fingers in my face.

  “So, if I agree to go see your grandmother, will you suck my dick?” I asked. Again, probably shouldn’t have.

  “I hate you.”

  “Well then,” I turned to pull open the top drawer, “I’m going to work.”

  * * *

  I steered my Tahoe—when in Rome—up the steep mountain towards the medical campus. Meadowbrook was a modern-day, inpatient psychiatric hospital that sat just north of Colorado Springs. No electric shock therapy or wards for the criminally insane; just a safe
, sane environment where people with light to moderate mental illnesses could go to recharge. It was postcard perfect, all clean air and scenic mountain views.

  It took me forty-five minutes to drive to work each day, and on that commute, I thought about Natasha, about how I let things get so out of control. We were happy once—she was happy once. I only ever existed in neutral, never happy, never sad, never quite content.

  Content.

  Seven letters, two syllables, and a slew of expectations. She was content being my wife until she wanted children, a family, stability. I wanted to be able to drink until my face was numb and snort Percocet.

  We both had to compromise.

  Meadowbrook appeared in my windshield and I shoved thoughts of my unhappy wife to the back of my mind. Dr. Rodgers, the clinic director, was new on staff and had yet to warm up to me. I had faith Rodgers would fall in line, eventually. Everyone loved me. I was the handsome doctor from the big city who gave up everything for his wife. I was king. Nothing happened at Meadowbrook without my knowledge.

  I parked, went through security, exchanged friendly banter with the guard, and headed to my office. “Good morning, Harper.” I nodded to my assistant, passing her desk.

  “Dr. Cooper.” She smiled.

  Harper had been with me since the beginning. She was more perceptive than most. Her intuition told her to fear me, but my face convinced her I was harmless. Reality fell somewhere between the two. I didn’t shit where I ate. It was a rule I put into practice a long time ago. It was one thing to be a selfish prick, but another entirely for everyone to know I was a selfish prick.

  A large cherry wood desk sat in the center of my office. It was too big for the space, but it had belonged to my father. I wasn’t sentimental, but he had given it to me, and it was expensive as fuck, so I kept it. I dropped my briefcase on the floor and shucked my coat off before settling in. The Monday morning meeting was scheduled to begin at eight, so I needed to review my incoming patient files and sign-off on the ones who were set to be discharged.