RINGMASTER

EnterCreativeName

Note: Not mine, just fun to play with. Don't sue.

CHAPTER 2 - CONTROL

As I left his apartment, the events of the evening kept racing through my mind, the scent of his shirt covering my bare shoulders intoxicating me with the essence of his entity. He was so gentle with me; yet, he made sure I knew I was never in control. Yet, who was really in control? As the evening went on, I quickly learned that neither of us really was.

Looking back at what I've already told you, it seems like Greg and I slept together; to be honest, what happened is completely opposite of what you think happened. If we both had the chance, I'm sure we would have though. We couldn't: we were never alone that night.

There were two people there with us that night in memory but not in physicality. The first was his ex-girlfriend, Stacy Warner, the woman who made him a cripple. How cruel could that woman be to him? First, she robs him of his ability to walk normally, and then she steals his heart. Finally, as he is just about ready to get over her, she comes back as a bitter reminder of the past, and then steals his heart again. She kept him playing a vicious cycle over and over to the point where he didn't know what was happening with his life anymore. Or so he told me.

The second was a man, his best friend Jimmy Wilson. This man was always there for Greg, yet, Greg seemed to resent it. He told me that Jimmy was the reason he was alive, yet, Jimmy was also at times the reason he was miserable. He was there to pick up the pieces of Greg after Stacy left the first time. Then, when she came back Jimmy was there to keep him sane. And now, he had fought with Jimmy just today, over Stacy. That's why I was here and not him. When Stacy left Greg, Jimmy was the distraction. When Jimmy got divorced, Greg was the distraction. That's how it worked.

Whenever something very distracting and wonderful was about to happen between us, Greg would stop and say something about Jimmy. We almost did make love. Then Jimmy was mentioned. There were moments I said and did things that suddenly made Greg stop and call me Jimmy.

Getting tired of being called the name of his male best friend, I asked him what he thought of Jimmy and all he could do was smile knowingly. For a man of many words commanding me throughout the evening, it was hard for me to see him suddenly silent. I asked him what he was thinking and he shot me a look of pain through those blue eyes.

Ice.

Cold.

I could not get over his eyes that night. Whenever he would look off into the distance silently, there would be those eyes telling me his every thought. And every thought turned into pain of some sort.

The pain.

He didn't keep to his word on the Vicodin, of course, neither did I. When I realized that he needed the drug for more than just the physical pain of his leg, I allowed him to have it. I guess I was in control for that at least, I wish it could have been for more. He was so pained that he didn't want to feel anything, he even told me this.

How could I get him to open up so much? I asked him and he told me that he didn't know. He had tried therapy once, but gave up after a session when he realized he preferred to feel miserable. At least there was company in it that way. The pain was always there, like a friend that nagged too much, like Jimmy. Then again, there was always the cause of the pain, Stacy. The two were always there.

I started to make him enjoy himself, have fun, and feel good, but it would never last. He told me that Jimmy told him to get a hooker. Two days ago. Then he gave himself a migraine, took LSD, and then a bunch of antidepressants. But, it wasn't my place to judge my clients.

So instead, I made him feel special. I massaged him, listened to him, cooked for him, and did whatever he requested at the time. He in turn sent me away at the end of the evening with a rather pleasant tip and the note which I was still playing with in my hand as I kept circling his block.

I've learned in this business that when a client sends you away against his will it's either because he is about to be found out, such as the moments when his wife is about to come home, or it's because he's about to be attracted to you. As Greg is not married, and neither Jimmy nor Stacy were there, I was soon overcome by the realization of what had happened. I did make him feel special that night.

"If I could only have someone else see what it's like to be me."

I turned around from the stove and looked over at him. He had just asked me to make dinner for him, remain silent, play piano for him, and now he's just randomly talking. Weirdo.

"You did hear me, right?"

The way the night was turning out, I didn't like it. He was weird, and I hated being there. He was cruel, mean, irritable, irrational; he was every word I could think of that I didn't like. Then, he'd look at me with those ice blue hard cold eyes and I'd fall back into his spell. At the moment, he was in the other room with his back to me. At the moment, I thought he was weird. Then, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"You did hear what I said, right?" His hand forcefully turned me around and I was suddenly locked back in his gaze again. I didn't know what to do, think, or act. I suddenly couldn't steady myself so I put my hand back behind me to steady myself.

"Ow!" Pain had seared through my hand and the smell of burnt flesh emaciated from behind where I was now falling forward, away from the heat and the source of pain. I had just burned myself on the burner of the electric stove behind me. Falling forward I found myself suddenly in Greg's arms.

"Are you okay?"

"My hand."

"Let me see."

"It's okay. I just need to…"

"I'm a doctor. Let me see."

I had wanted to run and wrap my hand in something, but he wouldn't let me. Instead, he led me over to the sink where he started the cold water running. He took my hand, looked at it, and then guided it into an immersion of cooling relief.

"You'll be fine, it's just a first degree burn. Nothing serious. Stay here for a moment." He told me as he walked off, turning off the stove on the way out of the kitchen. The water was a relief on the sting of the burn on my hand. I felt so foolish! Every time I saw his eyes I just turned into some idiot. I looked back at my hand and saw little blisters starting to appear where the skin first met the heating element. My eyes welled up with tears of embarrassment and I began to cry.

"I found some Advil in the medicine cabinet. Take a couple."

I took the bottle with the hand that was still okay and he stood behind me, trapping me between him and the sink. Not that I minded. He handed me a glass and motioned for me to fill it with water. I did and took two of the pills. Playtime was over.

"Let me see your hand again." He guided it out of the faucet and looked more closely this time, and under a light. "Second degree. You won't be cooking anymore tonight." I soon felt the cooling relief of cold water on my hand again as he walked off again, leaving me alone. I began to tremble and tried to contain a whimper. I was such a fool! First that professor and now this whole evening here. Could I do nothing right?

"You have a second degree burn. Not fun, but it won't kill you. Well, shouldn't kill you." He turned off the water and led me over to the couch again where he sat me down. On the coffee table lay an open first aid kit. I looked up and mistakenly saw his eyes again.

"Wow, you doctors really are prepared for everything." Idiot!

"Jimmy made me get it. It was that or he'd hire me a nurse to follow me around all the time. Or install closed circuit television in my apartment. Something like that." He held my hand in his, and even though I was watching, I don't remember seeing anything happen.

"How are you feeling?"

I was staring off now across the room. I was so embarrassed by this whole incident. I wanted to run, scream, do anything, but all I could do was sit there staring.

"I asked, how are you feeling? Paula?" I felt a hand jostling my shoulder and he was suddenly shaking me out of my near-trance. I looked at him.

"Cold. Thirsty."

He was lying me down on the couch and he helped me put his shirt on me for extra warmth; my tank top wasn't doing enough of the work. First one hand in one arm and then the other. He then eased me down to lie on the couch and covered me with a blanked that was lying behind me. When I saw him walk back into the kitchen, I became scared. I had lost sight of him! I could tell by the look in his eyes before he left that he was concerned, and normally so was I but I was suddenly feeling, rather good? The pain in my hand had subsided and it just pulsed with a dull throb. All inhibitions left me as I realized I was smiling and blushing.

Greg came back with the glass of water, some spilled on his trousers and his t-shirt as well.

"You spilled the water on you."

"The complication of not using a cane at the moment. How are you feeling now?"

"Drunk."

"Sorry about that. I guess I switched out the Advil with an old bottle of Vicodin awhile back. You'll have to just sleep it off. I brought you some water." He sat on the edge of the couch, his hips touching mine as he guided the cool liquid to my lips. I drank of the cool water, realizing that I was no longer really in control of what I was doing or saying. He held the glass for me as he continued; "I guess this night was nothing like either of us suspected it would be. You did good though, you distracted me. Thank you."

He put the glass next to me and went over to his piano, improvising melodies and harmonies that no longer made sense in my mind, the drug having completely taken over my senses. All was right with the world and I didn't care that I had broken all of my rules, all of the agency's rules, that night.

Time had abandoned me as I lie on Greg's couch somewhere between sleep and reality listening to the sound the man playing piano. I didn't really feel bad anymore; I didn't feel anything at all for that matter as the painkiller coursing through my veins had taken control of my senses.

Control.

It was a dangerous thing, control. I was supposed to have it when I was with a client. I didn't. He didn't either. Throughout the night though, it was clear that someone in his life was in control of it, but I couldn't figure out who it was. I sat up. "Greg?"

Silence from the piano was all that replied.

"Who's really in control right now?"

He turned around and looked at me from the piano. "I like you. You've taken time for me tonight, and you haven't given me any looks of pity. You've followed through with almost everything, questioning me when you should have. You've given me the puzzle of your life to solve. You've taken my mind off what was bothering me, and now it seems I've given you the puzzle I've been trying to solve for the last five years of my life."

I saw him stand up and he walked towards a small side table near a chair, picked up a paper and pen, and began to write. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better, more awake."

"Good. Do you want to see someone else for your hand?"

I looked down at it, having completely forgotten about it. "No, it's okay."

He came back to the couch and sat on its edge, placing one hand on my left arm. "If it starts to get worse, you should see someone. Keep it clean. You should probably get these two prescriptions filled in the morning, but who am I to tell you what to do." He put two pieces of paper in the pocket of my jeans and looked back into my eyes.

"Neither of us were in control tonight, were we?" I asked, his gaze no longer keeping me in its trance, but instead raising me to action. I needed to know what exactly had happened, and I needed him to tell me.

Instead, he handed me a note.

"Don't open this until you've left here," he said, guiding me up from the couch while looking my body over, making sure the ill effects of the Vicodin and shock had both worn out. He then led me to the door in silence, handing me my coat and seeing me out.

That was an hour and a half before this moment. I took a look at the note in my hand, my burned hand, and knew I had to end this while I still had a chance.

I walked up to the door, knocked, and a short while later, he answered.

"What are you doing here?" he asked roughly, the same roughness that forced me to stay quiet when I first arrived for the evening, the roughness then made me later question this night. I noticed he had never changed out of his clothes; he must have been awake all this time.

I looked into his eyes, I didn't want to do this but I had to. I held his note up between the gaze of our interlocked eyes and handed it back to him. "I can't."

"Keep it. Come to my office tomorrow. I have something fun planned. Oh, and dress, professionally." He closed the door, leaving me standing in silence on his doorstep in the cool night air.