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  UNLOVABLE

  The Case Files of Dr. Matilda Schmidt, Paranormal Psychologist

  By

  Cynthia St. Aubin

  UNLOVABLE

  Copyright © 2014 Cynthia St. Aubin

  All Rights Reserved

  The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover designed by Scarlett Rugers Design, www.scarlettrugers.com

  Illustration by Stephen Richards

  Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  www.facebook.com/eBookFormatting/info

  Other Matilda Schmidt, Paranormal Psychologist Novellas:

  Unlucky

  Unhoppy

  Unassailable

  Dysfunctional

  Coming soon:

  Undeadly

  Dedication

  For my husband. Your love is enough to make unicorns weep rainbow tears of jealousy.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to my friends and fellow authors: Kerrigan Byrne, Tiffinie Helmer, and Cindy Stark, whose gentle encouragement sometimes resembled a cattle prod.

  To the Writers of Imminent Death—long may we read naughty words loud enough to disturb other patrons.

  To Lynne Harter, my beloved WordNerd and dear friend—your expertise has made me a better writer and a happier person. Squedges.

  Thank you, Katharina Brendel, Portable Magic Editing for making this story infinitely more lovable.

  Lastly, and not leastly—Stephen Richards, thank you for sharing your talent with me. No one has ever made me laugh harder than you can, and no one ever will.

  I could smash it with a hammer.

  Or maybe boil it in a vat of hot tar. Perhaps douse it in gasoline and flick a match at it. No. A steamroller. I should definitely run it over with a steamroller.

  But I didn’t have any of those things, so I answered the phone instead. “Hello?”

  “Dr. Schmidt, Psy.D, Ph.D. It’s an honor.” A man. Not a voice I recognized, not one of my regulars. None of my regulars sounded like the auditory equivalent of scotch: smooth, smoky, and warm as sunshine swimming through my tired brain. Nor did they take the time to recite the letters attached to the end of my name.

  My bedroom was pitch black save for the glowing blue blur of the white noise machine/alarm clock hybrid on the nightstand. I fumbled across the table’s slick wooden surface, found my glasses and slid them on. The frames were cool against my skin as I blinked to focus. 3:48 a.m. And I had been having a really, really good dream. So good, I took a moment to peel the nightgown away from my sweat-soaked skin before answering. “My regular office hours begin at 9:00 a.m. You can call back at that time if you would like to schedule an appointment.”

  “Can I, good Doctor? May I call you Matilda?”

  My scalp prickled at the sound of my first name pronounced like an invitation on a stranger’s lips. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

  “My name is Crixus, and you’re going to help me save the world.”

  I sighed in relief. Thank God. Something diagnosable. In the course of thirty seconds, he’d already displayed several characteristics of histrionic personality disorder—theatricality in patterns of speech, considering relationships to be more intimate than they actually are, interaction with others characterized by sexually seductive behavior.

  “Crixus, I’d love to hear more about you, but you’ll have to call back during regular business hours. Do you think you can do that?”

  “You don’t believe me.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I didn’t say that, Crixus. I asked you to call back during my regular business hours.”

  “Which is exactly how I know you don’t believe me.”

  “Whether or not I believe you isn’t the—”

  “Did you enjoy my dream?”

  The sweat on my body turned cold, the bed sheets clinging to me like a skin needing to be shed. “Excuse me?”

  “My dream. The dream I sent you.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  A rich, masculine chuckle. “Tell that to your panties, Doctor.”

  I yanked the phone away from my ear and hung up. My heart hammered in my chest, the sound of my own pulse a deafening, repetitive rush. The phone came alive in my hand once again, the same foreign number flashing across the screen. I rejected the call and stuffed the device under a pillow on the empty side of my bed.

  The once comforting darkness seemed alive with endless threats. I turned on the bedside lamp to banish it and grabbed the glass tumbler I had brought to bed with me. The layer of melted ice gave way to the burn of whisky beneath as I finished the drink in three gulps.

  An electric jolt of fear seared through my nerves when the phone chirped from beneath the cotton. Reading the text message would only continue an unhealthy conversation. Not reading it would guarantee sleep wouldn’t visit me again tonight.

  I reached under the pillow, released the breath I was holding, and opened the text.

  Three words stared up at me from the glowing screen: Drinking won’t help.

  The empty glass slid from my hand, rolling soundlessly from my lap across the white down comforter.

  How did he know?

  The phone buzzed again. Same way I sent you the dream. I’m a demigod. We know shit. And from now on, you’ll answer when I call you.

  My face went numb.

  “A demigod? Someone has a severely overinflated ego.” The sound of my own voice failed to bring its usual comfort. Turning on the television was always my second choice when the hours of silence stretched too long in my solo sanctuary, but that would require venturing out of the warm lamp light.

  Another message lit the screen. Is that your official diagnosis? Shouldn’t you examine me first, Doctor?

  In the handful of words he had spoken to me, Crixus had forever changed the way I heard the word “doctor.” Even in my head, it was slicked with sarcasm. The title I had been so proud of felt like the punch line of a bad joke.

  Shaking, I turned the phone off and set it on the nightstand.

  Crixus. Where had I heard that name?

  My mind flipped back through the thousands of pages I’d read in grad school and for my doctorate, but landed on a different term.

  Telepathy, a term coined in 1882 by Frederick H. W. Meyers, was not an accepted psychological phenomenon. Individuals who believed their mind was an ATM capable of receiving thought deposits and withdrawals from others usually ended up with more troubling diagnoses—like psychosis and schizophrenia.

  This last term plunked into my stomach like a rock in a pond, sending ripples of fear outward.

  “Impossible.” That felt equal parts like a rebuke and a tidy assessment of the last five minutes.

  Had I known what was coming the following morning, I would have made myself another drink to help wash the word down when I had to eat it.

  *****

  “Dr. Schmidt!” The doughy security guard shot up from behind the front desk and grinned like he’d just woken up on Christmas morning. Chubby fingers pushed hair out of his eyes and pulled the belt of his brown trousers up his paunch. “Your…bun looks n
ice.”

  Roland “Rolly” Boggs, 36. Single, chronic comfort eater, low self-esteem stemming from overly critical mother. Prone to unhealthy fixations on women in positions of power. My hand tightened on the handle of my briefcase. “Good morning, Rolly. Do you have my mail?”

  “I might,” he said, trying for sly but settling for sheepish. “But it’s gonna cost you.”

  “Rolly,” I sighed. “We’ve been over this. I don’t date men I work with. It would be unprofessional.”

  His cheeks stained a blotchy pink. “But you don’t work with me. You work upstairs.”

  I thought of my tidy two-room office with longing. It had been the center of my bustling practice for nearly two years and felt as much like home as my apartment did.

  Julie, my assistant, would be at her desk by now. I’d much rather be peppered by her eager questions than Rolly’s plodding advances. Time to move this along. “Yes, but I rent my office from the man who signs your paycheck. It wouldn’t be right.”

  The eyes he fixed on me could have belonged to a Basset Hound. “Is that the only reason?”

  “That’s a personal question, Rolly. I’m not comfortable answering it.” I held my hand out for the stack of envelopes he had hidden behind the sweat-dampened shirt of his uniform. Tan was an unfortunate choice of color for a large man prone to perspiration.

  His shoulders slumped as he presented the mail like a gift. “Here you go, Doctor.”

  I tucked the envelopes away in my laptop bag and turned toward the elevator. “Thank you, Rolly.”

  “Have a good day, Dr. Schmidt.”

  “You too, Rolly.” I slid into the elevator and punched the fourth floor button. On the brief ride up, I considered Rolly’s unfortunate predicament. I could offer him a couple of free sessions, but in my experience, that therapist-patient relationship could launch past casual crushes into full-blown attachment with little encouragement. After being chased around my office by a few clients who had confused my role as facilitator of emotional healing for object of romantic attachment, I learned to draw lines early and often.

  And sometimes with pepper spray.

  Though I knew it would be better to tell Rolly flat out I wasn’t interested him, the words stuck in my throat every time I looked into his round, hopeful eyes.

  As the elevator doors opened on a quiet hallway, I resolved yet again that next time, I would tell Rolly the truth.

  The smell of antiseptic and fluoride clung to the air as I passed the suite belonging to a dentist before I reached my own door. A familiar feeling of calm settled over me as I read the door’s appellation: Matilda Schmidt. Psy.D, Ph.D.

  “You’re here!” Julie Harrison’s golden curls bounced with the energy her compact body struggled to contain. Today, she was clad in boots, black leggings and a pink sweater dress sprinkled with crimson hearts—a nod to the upcoming holiday.

  “Good morning, Julie. How’s the day shaping up?” I had bypassed my ritual of checking the calendar on my smartphone this morning, not yet ready to see if any additional messages or calls had materialized overnight.

  “Dr. Schmidt, you are booked. Solid.”

  I shrugged out of my black pea coat and slung it over my arm in preparation for the mahogany coat rack in my office. “Well, it is February. It’s more of the upswing we’ve seen since Christmas. An influx of Seasonal Affective Disorder, marital conflict because of holiday financial pressure, not to mention the rash of suicidal singles we get so close to Valentine’s Day.”

  Her wide brown eyes were more deer in the headlights than doe. “No, you don’t understand. You’re booked solid for two months.”

  “Two months?”

  “Yes! The phone’s been ringing off the hook. I had eighty-four emails this morning. Your 9:00 a.m. is a new client. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I glanced at the clock on the wall above the bank of waiting room chairs. “But Julie, it’s 9:05 a.m. already.”

  She winced, her freckled nose wrinkling in the lamplight. “He’s kind of already in your office.”

  “Julie, you know how I feel about drop-ins.” Julie’s propensity for taking in strays had resulted in countless last-minute consultations and one very uncomfortable month with an “office cat” who left surprises beneath my desk and judged the incoming clientele with his bossy golden-eyed gaze. Luckily, he had hitched a ride home with a widower and helped him through the last of his grieving process.

  Julie’s hand went straight for the curly lock at her temple. She began to wind it around her finger. Nervous reaction stemming from low-level anxiety.

  “Yes, Dr. Schmidt, I know. But his wife is threatening to leave him after fifty years of marriage, and he couldn’t stop crying on the phone, and I felt really, really bad for him, and he asked for an emergency session because he hasn’t slept in two days, and you were open this morning, and he was willing to pay cash and—”

  “All right, Julie. Do you have a file for him?”

  “Already on your desk,” she chirped.

  “What’s his name?”

  She glanced down at the designer notepad perched next to her phone. Not for the first time, I noticed the perfect hot pink sanctuary of Julie’s world reconstructed in miniature at the desk outside my door. Each object reflected a different aspect of her personality—the tape dispenser shaped like a peep-toe pump, a black wire organizer with compartments for lip-gloss, scented lotion, and nail files. Gel pens in cheerful hues poked out from a rhinestone-bedecked mug with the word Princess. Her desk looked more like a home than my apartment did. Even the personal touches in my office had leaked in from Julie’s general vicinity.

  “Yes, here he is,” she announced. “Martin Blye.”

  “Martin Blye,” I repeated. “Thanks, Julie.”

  “You bet, Dr. Schmidt.”

  “And no more surprise visitors today, okay?”

  She gave me a dimpled grin and saluted. “You got it.”

  *****

  Martin Blye looked like someone had crumpled him into a wad and shoved him in the corner of my overstuffed leather couch. The compact ball of middle-aged man shook as it sobbed into one of Julie’s carefully coordinated accent pillows.

  Why did I feel like this was going to be a very long day?

  The heavy door closed behind me, and I took a deep breath before speaking. “Martin Blye?”

  Turtle-like, the balding head stretched upward on a long, liver-spotted neck. He turned his swollen eyes to me and wiped his nose on his flannel shirtsleeve. “Yes.”

  I crossed the room and offered him my hand. “Dr. Schmidt. Pleasure to meet you.”

  The fingers he slid into mine were cold and limp. I gave them a quick squeeze. “If you’ll just give me a moment to put away my things, we can get started.”

  He pulled a scrap of fabric from his shirt pocket and blew his nose. “Okay, Doctor.”

  I hung my coat on the rack by the door and paused on my way to the desk to sprinkle a pinch of fish food into the bubbling tank on my credenza. Sigmund Freud, my goldfish, swam out of his miniature castle and bobbed to the surface to address his breakfast.

  Before sitting down with Martin, I grabbed a quick glance in the full-length mirror inside the closet door.

  The black rims of my cat-eye glasses framed hazel eyes, unadorned by anything but mascara to accentuate the long, dark lashes. When magnified at three times their normal size, eyeliner and eye shadow took on a drag queen sensibility that tended to compromise the sincerity of my practice. And anyway, if there was a feature I played up, it was my lips. Full, shapely and slicked with a dark red lipstick, they provided ample stimulation for anyone seeking a facial focus point.

  A faint headache pulled at my temples, a result of my choice to wind my thick, chestnut hair into a bun. This morning, the sleek hairstyle had seemed like a sensible choice. Now, it felt like a form of low-grade torture.

  Nothing for it.

  I collected a fresh legal pad, my favorite pen and Martin’s fil
e, pausing to scan over Julie’s notes. Wife of fifty years left him for a yoga instructor the pink sticky note declared. I evicted a handful of pillows from the brass-studded leather chair facing the couch and sat down.

  “So, Martin, why don’t you tell me a little about what brought you here today? Then we can talk about my methods and decide if this could be a beneficial process for you. Does that sound okay?”

  The crumpled ball of Martin looked at the Persian rug and nodded. “I guess so.”

  I uncapped my pen and scribbled Martin’s name and the date at the top of the page. “Good. Begin wherever you feel comfortable.”

  A shaky breath whispered out of Martin’s lungs. “Well,” he said, his voice stolen by a post-sob hiccup, “it all started at Christmas. Our kids had all driven—”

  The door to my office exploded open, amputating Martin’s sentence and stunning us both into silence.

  My first thought about the man filling the doorway: it was a wonder he could walk in without turning sideways, so wide were his shoulders. The second: I had seen him before.

  In my dreams.

  Last night.

  No. It couldn’t be. Not—

  “Crixus,” he finished for me. “Pleasure to meet you in person, Doctor.”

  That word. That voice.

  Not a voice I would quickly forget—dark, silky, resonant within his thick ribcage. A ribcage shrink-wrapped in a black T-shirt that clung to the broad planes of sloping muscle across his chest. I followed the corded lines of his neck to a jaw that looked cast from bronze rather than carved from marble. Those lips—I’d seen them before last night. A memory echoed through my mind and bounced back images from the covers of romance novels I had ratholed in my nightstand.

  They were the lips of a wicked pirate, a highland laird, a gentle rogue.

  The rest of his face, I could have conjured with my eyes closed. For it had been with closed eyes I’d first seen him: high cheekbones, eyes a blue so dark they bordered on black, hair the color of wet sand.