Look, Don’t Touch
Meg Everly
(Pieces of Us, #1)
Publication date: August 27th 2024
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Dark Romance, Romance
The scars you see are only the beginning.
Hailey Fitzpatrick
When people see me walking on a New York City sidewalk, they think mousey b*tch and stuck-up c*nt. How do I know? It’s NYC. They yell it to my face. I smile to myself and keep walking. After all, I have clients that need me.
I’m wrapping up my first decade as a licensed clinical psychologist. Things are as good as they’ve ever been. Still, I get the itch. The tattoos worked into my skin take the edge off.
When one of my first clients goes on s*icide watch and on of my newest challenges the very ground on which I stand, I seek relief only being blindfolded and bound can bring.
Arlo Judge
Look all you want. Don’t f*cking touch me. No one does.
I’m no longer that little boy who cowers in fear. I’m six three, two hundred fifteen pounds of muscle, and own the largest conglomerates in the States. Still, that boy’s demons live inside me. One in particular looms over my shoulder, always ready to strike.
When I see her, perfectly poised and in command, I think nothing of the beautiful exterior. Then I see the demons lurking in her striking green eyes. I’m intrigued. Hooked. Obsessed.
I need to know how they came to be and how she hides them so well. I need to dig them out and set her free. I never expected that she could do the same for me.
Doctor Fitzpatrick is now accepting new clients!
Look, Don’t Touch is a dark romance. It is the first in the Pieces of Us Trilogy. It’s an MF, four jalapeño, HFN novel with graphic depictions of s*x and k*nk. Trigger Warning for talks of ab*se, death by s*icide, and m*rder.
Pieces of Us is a polyamorous romance trilogy. Book 2, Forever We Fall is an MM, three jalapeño, HFN novel. Book 3, Hard to Judge is an MMF, four flaming jalapeño, HEA novel.
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EXCERPT:
Hailey
My lips part, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I can say anything without sobbing. So I let him go. The door whispers open and, after a moment, closes with an abrupt snap.
I crumple. My hands engulf my face, and I wail. Thoughts of Matt’s handsome face and his bright and tortured eyes haunt me. Sobs burn in and out of my lungs as though they might catch fire. I cry for what seems like forever. My abs cramp, and my fingers begin to tingle.
“Fuck!” I scream for all I’m worth, thankful for soundproofing, and wish I could have it installed in my brain. Where I could turn it on with the click of a button.
Sobs pull a vacuum on my lungs. My chest feels like it may cave in on itself. If I pass out, I can at least avoid this for a little while.
“Hailey?”
My epic cries stop instantly, caught in my shock.
The heavy whispering voice is still in the room and closer than ever. He’s just over my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
I leap from my seat and rush to the window, wiping at my tears and commanding control over my sorrow as I go. My legs wobble but hold me up.
“You weren’t supposed to see that.” My shaking hands smooth down my pants. “The door opened and closed. I thought you were gone.”
“Your aunt…I was going to get her for you, but she’s not here.”
I’m nodding and not understanding anything.
Why is he still here? Why is Matt dead? Why couldn’t I save him?
I stare out at the endless sky.
Mr. Judge’s large frame fills my periphery. He stands no more than a foot away to my left. He faces the window.
“I could tell the call you got wasn’t a good one. I thought your aunt could help.”
No one can help.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminds me as if I’m the patient and he’s my therapist. It’s apt for the moment.
I swallow, knowing I shouldn’t say anything. Knowing I can corrupt his treatment more than I already have. If he knows I’ve failed one client, what would that mean for him? Plus, confiding goes beyond the realm of professionalism.
“I just lost a patient.” I choke down a sob. “My first.”
He stuffs his hand into nice slacks. “Patient or loss?”
“First patient and first patient loss.” He’s taller than me by a lot, and I’m not considered short.
“How long have you been doing this?”
I notice a cross-hatched design on the sleeve of his suit jacket before I force my eyes away and back to the sky. The sunset is just beginning to blend its colors into the clouds that are no longer heart-shaped but gray and droopy. They promise rain.
Cold. Darkness. Sorrow.
“Six years licensed with my PhD. Thirteen, if you include all the practicums and internships.”
“It’s never good to lose someone, but it seems almost inevitable in your line of work.” His words are soft.
Sure, colleagues of mine have lost patients. But I don’t specialize in suicide prevention. I’d tried to talk Matt into seeing a psychologist who does. I even set up appointments for him. Time and again, he refused to show up at a single one.
“I specialize in cognitive and behavioral therapy. In the beginning, I saw patients dealing with severe depression, anxiety, and PTSD. Slowly, that shifted into phobias, relationships, and sexual disorders. I’ve been lucky.”
“Or good at your job,” he offers.
My throat aches from my cries and screams. It’s thick and cumbersome. Because of his kindness, the threat of more raging sentiments sits on the precipice of erupting.
“Considering I left you raw and vulnerable with no resolution, cried in front of you, and told you things I shouldn’t, I’ll go with luck.”
The room goes quiet for a long time. We stand side by side, staring at the birds, the trees, the people, the nothingness and everythingness of life in front of us. There’s a calming reassurance in the silence, in his disposition.
“I am sorry.” His words vibrate with meaning.
“Whatever for? You’ve done nothing wrong.” I breathe.
He takes his hand out of his pockets. They hang by his side. He has long fingers, and when he balls them into fists, the veins and muscles in his hands bulge.
“I can’t offer you comfort.”
For a moment, I want to cry for him. For all the comfort and pleasure that he’s lost. For all the connections he’s been unable to make in his life. For his discomfort. For his perennial solitude.
“You don’t have to touch, talk, or even allow me to look at you to provide me comfort, Mr. Judge.” I pull my sneaking gaze away from him and focus on the horizon. The sky has turned dark, drained of all its color. For this moment, it looks brighter than it did thirty minutes ago. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness and presence.”
He nods. I can barely see the movement in my periphery.
“Can I call someone for you?”
There is no one to call.
“No. You’ve helped quite a lot. Thank you.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.”
I nod. “Goodbye, Mr. Judge.”
He retreats from view. This time, I watch his silhouette as it appears in the light of the exit room in the reflection of the window. He stalls in the doorway.
“Goodbye, Hailey.”
Then he leaves and closes the door behind him.
Author Bio:
Meg Everly writes stories with sentiment, smut, and love with no bounds.
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