Learning to Soar (3 page)

“So glad you got a reward for tricking me into coming here,” she steamed, “but I’m sorry to say that I’m leaving. I hope you don’t have to return it since you worked so hard to earn it.”

Monica rolled her eyes. “Lighten up, Chloe,” she said, “and trust me. You’ll like what Damien can do for you.”

Before Chloe could protest further, Monica shoved her into the office and slammed the door shut.

Chapter Three

“Aaaarghh!” Chloe shouted with her eyes squeezed shut. “Damn it, Monica!” She turned and slapped her hands on the closed door in desperation.

A calm male voice spoke up behind her. “You’re not locked in, you know. You can go. I’d never dream of forcing anyone to meet with me.”

Chloe turned and saw an entirely normal-looking man rise from an armchair and approach her.
I don’t know what I was expecting,
she thought,
but it sure wasn’t
this
.

Damien appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had wavy, brown hair with a few flecks of grey, and wide, solid shoulders. As he walked to Chloe she noted that she was a little taller than he in her stiletto boots, which probably put him at about five-foot-ten. He wore a collared, light-blue shirt with a subtle diamond pattern, a striped wine-and-navy tie, and casual flat-front chinos that skimmed over his slim waist and hips. His glossy nut-brown loafers matched his belt—they looked both understated and expensive.
Hardly a pimp outfit,
she admitted to herself.
Also, nice shoes, dude.

Damien placed his hand on the doorknob and opened it. Chloe caught a whiff of Obsession for Men coming from him.
Yum,
she thought reflexively. Pulsing dance music wafted into the room. “There you go”—Damien gestured out into the hallway—“you can leave if you’d like. But since you came all this way, maybe you’d like to hear what I can do for you.”

Chloe studied his face. He looked sincere. His denim-blue eyes were frank and warm, and his face was classically handsome without being pretty-boy soft. He looked, she decided, an awful lot like Russell Crowe mixed with a touch of Hugh Jackman—minus the metal claws. In short, he was an awfully attractive man.

She looked out into the deserted hallway. The red ‘Exit’ sign still beckoned, but nowhere near as compellingly as it had before. The throbbing music and laughter still echoed from the dance floor and bar, reassuring her that humanity was only a short hallway away.

Plus, as wild as Monica was, she had been Chloe’s closest friend for years, through college and grad school and all sorts of emotional mayhem. In her heart, Chloe knew that Monica wanted the best for her. If Monica trusted Damien to help her, and Monica’s therapist—okay, fine, her masseuse—had recommended this guy’s services, surely he had something to offer.

Chloe pulled the door shut and held her hand out to Damien for a handshake. “I’m sorry for the rude entrance. I guess I’m a little nervous. I’m Chloe Davis, Monica’s friend.” His hand felt warm and strong around hers. Little crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Chloe wondered what it would feel like to trace her fingertip down the side of his temple, over his chiselled cheekbone, to that firmly set jawline.

“I’m Damien Walters,” he said. “I’m also a friend of Monica’s, so at least we have that much in common. Please have a seat.” He gestured to a sleek, black leather sofa and chairs set. Monica eased onto the Eames sofa carefully and crossed her legs. It was incredibly difficult to be ladylike in the glorified stretch belt that Monica had passed off as a skirt, but Chloe was determined to give it her best shot.

“Would you like a drink?” Damien asked. “I have pinot grigio, chardonnay, and cabernet sauvignon. I also have some nice scotch and tequila, as well as soft drinks and bottled water.” He waited for her response in front of a sculptural glass and chrome bar.

“Um, I suppose I’ll have some water,” Chloe answered. “Sparkling, if you have it.”

Damien nodded and opened the refrigerator door.

“On second thought,” Chloe stopped him. “I’ll have some white wine. My stomach’s a little fluttery, and maybe the wine will help.”

“No need to explain,” Damien said as he withdrew a bottle from an under-counter wine chiller. “This is a bar, after all, and I think alcohol certainly has its place. All in moderation, of course,” he added. Damien poured two servings of wine into stemless glasses and handed one to Chloe. He sat in the chair closest to her and took a sip.

“Mmm, this is an Italian pinot grigio from 2005. Excellent.” Damien smiled and placed his glass on the gleaming boomerang coffee table.

“So”—he clasped his hands together—“let me describe what I do. I am a freelance sex therapist. I am not certified by any school or government branch. I have not undergone any professional training. I am not licensed in any way. I base my individualised courses of treatment on my own life experiences, nothing more. You are never required to partake of any action during your treatment session, and I promise that I will not touch you during your session.”

“Wow. Impressive,” Chloe quipped.

“I usually see one client on each night that Volare is open. The charge for each session is two hundred dollars,” Damien continued, “although I ask that clients wait to pay until their sessions are completed. I don’t want you to pay a cent if you are not fully satisfied that I’ve resolved your problem.”

“Interesting. And you make a living doing this?” Chloe mused.

“Well, I can’t complain,” Damien answered. “I am pleased to report that I’ve never had an unsatisfied client. Most of my revenue comes from the club, however. Volare is thriving and provides me with a very steady income.”

Chloe sipped her wine and asked, “How many patients have you seen?”

“I refer to them as clients, actually,” he replied, “since I am not a doctor or licensed therapist. You will be the three-hundredth. It’s an anniversary of sorts. I’ve been at this for a little over three years now.”

Chloe studied his face. He seemed so genuine and kind. And
nice
. “How in the world did you get into freelance sex therapy? Why do you do it?”

Damien shrugged, but Chloe thought she detected the first hint of reticence in him. “It’s a long story,” he said with a practised air. “I think there’s a lot of unnecessary loneliness and sadness in the world. By helping people enjoy their sexuality, I’m making the world a better, happier place.”

“You’re a do-gooder.” Chloe nodded in understanding. “You genuinely want to help people. I believe you. And I think that’s really nice.”

“I try to help people, at least. I find my occupation very rewarding.” He returned his attention to her and rubbed his hands together softly. “Let’s talk about you, though, Chloe. Monica told me something about what’s been going on in your life, but why don’t you give me your own version?”

Chloe finished her wine and held the glass out for Damien to refill. “I never had any sort of, you know, sexual problems at all until about three years ago. I started having sex in college and it was great. I had three different steady boyfriends—each relationship lasted several months—and, while none of them were my soul mates, they were all great guys. Apparently lots of women don’t reach orgasm, at least according to the World Wide Web, but I never failed to. I often came two or three times each time I had sex. I guess I totally took it for granted. And then…” She looked down at her lap and paused.

“Go on,” Damien urged. “This is all entirely confidential.”

“And then I started dating Mark,” Chloe sighed. “He was really out of my league. I don’t know what I was thinking. It would never have worked in the long run.” Chloe began to speak in clipped, forced words. “He was from this wealthy, old Boston family. You know, the kind with yachts and garden parties and family vacations in Europe? They meant for him to go to Harvard, but some teacher screwed him over in high school and he couldn’t get in. So he ended up at Salem State, where I was.”

“Salem State is a good college,” Damien noted.

“It’s no Harvard. It wasn’t good enough for Mark’s family,” Chloe stated with cold certainty, “and neither was I. He took me to meet them a few times, and they were polite enough to my face, but I could tell that they were just letting him have his stupid college fling. There was no way he’d ever end up with a girl like me.”

“It’s astonishing to hear you say that,” Damien countered. “You’re a very beautiful woman. Aside from your looks, Monica told me that you have a master’s degree in accounting from the University of Massachusetts, that you worked your own way through college and grad school, and that you work for one of the largest accounting firms in Atlanta now.”

Chloe laughed mirthlessly. “You mean worked for one of the largest accounting firms in Atlanta. I got canned today. Nothing personal. Cutbacks, you know. Stupid economy.” She grimaced and took a deep swallow of wine.

“Anyway, as I was saying, Mark and I dated my senior year of college and while I was getting my master’s degree. I was busy with classes and work, and Mark was still going to school part-time and didn’t have a job. He had a very active social life. I started to bore him, I know. All work and no play made Chloe a dull girl. He made that very clear.

“He yelled at me a few times when he was drunk. I know I should have left him after the first time. I do see that now. He just apologised so sweetly—he’d send enormous bouquets of flowers to my apartment and then pick me up in his Ferrari for dinner at the best restaurant in town. He’d take me shopping, too, and pick out my clothes. He said my figure was too skinny and my boobs were too small, and that I had to learn how to dress to make up for that.”

Chloe saw the muscles of Damien’s jaw tense before he spoke. “Go on, Chloe. I’m listening.”

“The sex was good, although we started having it less and less. I found some panties at his apartment that weren’t mine, and I once found a used condom in the trash. I answered his phone when a girl called and he about tore my head off. He always had excuses, though—a friend had stayed over with a girl, or a female cousin was going through a crisis. I bought it, each and every time.

“I feel like such an idiot for putting up with him for so long. I guess I was star-struck by his money and his good looks. I thought his family would eventually see past my bus driver father and my housewife mother and my boring suburban childhood. I thought Mark and I would end up married and have beautiful children together.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and tugged at her skirt.

“The end was sort of anti-climactic, I guess. There wasn’t a big blow-up fight or anything. We were having sex, and he was on top, as usual. I was really close to orgasm, and I’m sure my face looked really stupid. He always told me I looked like a troll doll when I came.” She tried to laugh but ended in a choking sound.

“He stopped all of a sudden and said, ‘You know, I can’t do this anymore.’ He climbed off me and started getting dressed. I’m laying there, my pulse still racing with the build-up of an orgasm, and I can’t think of anything to say. He wasn’t done, either. ‘I’m sick and tired of fucking a troll doll,’ he laughed, ‘although right now you look more like a dying fish.’ And then he left.” She bit her lip and stared at her wine glass. “That’s it.”

“What an asshole,” Damien muttered

“Huh?” Chloe looked up. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I’m sorry, please go on,” he said smoothly.

“Well, there’s not much left to tell. Thank goodness I had just earned my master’s degree, because I was so crushed that I couldn’t think straight for weeks and weeks. Monica had been my room-mate at Salem State. She had moved to Atlanta after we graduated and we had stayed in close touch. She begged me to move down to Atlanta and live with her and forget all about Mark. Monica’s been great.”

“So that was three years ago, right? Have you been on dates since then?” Damien asked.

Chloe shrugged. “Yeah, there have been a few guys. After four months or so, Monica got tired of me flopping around the apartment in pyjamas and moaning about Mark. She set me up on dates with some of her friends, but nothing much came of it.” Chloe glanced around the room.

“That’s a really cool clock, by the way,” she noted, pointing out a dramatic black starburst on the wall. “Where do you find all this vintage stuff? Your office is amazing. I love that coat rack, too. It’s like a piece of art.”

Damien smiled. “Thank you. The clock is by Howard Miller, and the coat rack is from the early seventies. I find things I like on eBay, mostly, but I like to check out antique stores, too.” He took a sip of wine and raised his eyebrows at her over the top of the glass. “But let’s get back to you, Chloe. Why didn’t the dates work out?”

“You can probably guess,” she answered with a bitter expression. “I’d go out on a few dates with a guy, and he’d be this really great, good-looking guy with a cool job who was actually nice to me. We’d go back to his apartment, and everything would be moving along.”

“By that you mean,” Damien interrupted, “you were starting to have sex?”

Chloe blushed and nodded. “Exactly. So, we’d undress and start, you know.”

“Kissing, touching, fondling each other?” supplied Damien.

“Uh-huh. And I’d feel a little nervous, but each time I’d think, ‘
This
time it will be different. I
won’t
think about Mark.’ But when it came to it, when he entered me and things started to get hot, I’d do it.”

“You’d think of Mark.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’d think about how he used to say I looked like a troll doll when I came. And how he said he just couldn’t do it anymore. And how I wasn’t good enough and never would be. I’d shut down and go cold and make the guy stop. He’d never understand why, but I couldn’t exactly explain, you know?”

“Why couldn’t you explain?” Damien prodded. “You said they were great guys. Wasn’t salvaging those relationships worth trying to work through it?”

“I know.” She shook her head. “I’m so mad that Mark has done this to me. I’m afraid, I guess.” She wiped her eyes and continued in a quiet voice. “I’m afraid that they’ll all agree with him. That I look ugly when I’m having sex, and that I’m”—she exhaled—“not good enough.”