Dance with the Devil: Chapter 13

I just changed my mind about sharing you.

His words roll through me but I’m too shocked to react. He steps away and walks to the door, and my heart is racing inside my chest as I follow him to the elevator. Did he mean what I think he meant? Or am I overthinking?

Just relax and be the easygoing Frankie everyone knows and loves.

We exit the hotel and fortunately, despite the tension, we’re able to strike up an easy conversation about school. He went to UCSF for undergrad, then got both of his graduate degrees at UCSB—which is why he now lives there. He grew up in Marin County but doesn’t have any family left. Both of his parents are dead—including his horrible stepfather. His mom lived with him until a few years ago, which does not help me find him any less attractive seeing him as a doting son. I tell him about growing up in San Diego, how I got a scholarship to San Diego State University, and how I met Jake in high school.

By the time we get to the cable car line, my feet are aching and I hate myself for wearing heels again. Standing in line for ten minutes doesn’t help, either—by the time a car comes down the track and people disembark, I’m almost screaming to sit down.

“Guess you’re going to need that piggyback ride, after all,” Dr. Kincaid murmurs, practically growling it into my ear.

“I’ll be fine. I just needed to sit.”

He shakes his head, but we’re quiet for the rest of the ride up the hill and then back down toward North Beach. His hand is gripping the edge of the seat, and the other hand keeps brushing my bare thigh. He’s not doing it on purpose, but I can feel the heat radiating from him nonetheless. We get off at a stop at the intersection of Mason and Union, and we walk a block to a small Italian place named Sotto Mare with tons of people spilling out of the front door. It’s slightly off the main road, and everyone in front of us is speaking Italian, which is a good sign. Dr. Kincaid’s hand never leaves my back.

It’s nice being taken care of.

I almost laugh at that last thought. Daddy issues, much?

He waves at the chefs and we’re guided to a free table in the back. It smells like garlic and marinara sauce, and my mouth waters as I get a glimpse of what they’re cooking.

The conversation continues to flow easily. It’s strange—I was so worried about this week being awkward, but when we’re out, Dr. Kincaid and I have no problem communicating. Talking to him is easy now that he knows my deepest, darkest secret. And of course, now that I know more about him, and it feels like we have a sort of camaraderie between us that wasn’t there before this trip.

Before he fucked my brains out, at least.

He orders us some bread for the table and the cioppino, which comes in a large, ceramic bowl.

It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever had, and I eat the entire thing.

I’ve always loved food, but I hate cooking. I order food way too often at home, but being in a new city, trying the best food it has to offer… it’s a surefire way to my heart.

I haven’t had a single bad meal with my boss—and when he tells me about learning how to cook, I have to ignore the way my stomach fills with butterflies.

Imagining him in the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned, bare feet… the domestic version of Dr. Kincaid would surely get me in trouble.

Dr. Kincaid’s expression almost seems proud as I push my bowl away, and as the waiter comes by and asks about dessert, I inquire about the tiramisu.

We both order a serving of it, and I sit back with my hands on my stomach. “I’m so full but I can’t pass up tiramisu. It’s my favorite dessert.”

His eyes narrow slightly as he sips his red wine—I opted to forgo alcohol tonight so that I didn’t make any rash decisions about leaving my door unlocked. If we had sex tonight, I’m pretty sure my vulva would fall off.

“Coffee. Cake. Cream. Cocoa powder. What’s not to love?” he asks, finishing his wine and setting his glass down.

“Exactly.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, I chew on my lower lip as I think of how to ask my next question.

“Have you always been a sleepwalker?” I ask casually.

His face doesn’t give anything away. Instead, he leans forward. “No. It started in graduate school. I woke up one day in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.”

“That must’ve been scary.”

“Wielding a massive knife in my sleep? Terrifying. It started to progress. I went on medication. It still happens, but… I can control it now. Mostly.”

He can control it?

I want to tell him that he can’t control it, but I think he already knows. The question is, why lie about it?

Also, is that what the medication in the bathroom is for?

I don’t get to ask that question, though, because our desserts are placed on the table in front of us, and we spend the next five minutes eating in contented silence. He finishes first and leans back as I pick at the last half. I’m so full, but it’s too good to stop.

“Have you always had anxiety?” he asks.

I swallow. “No. It wasn’t until everything happened. It might surprise you, but I’m actually a pretty calm person. Even-keeled. So the anxiety took me by surprise.”

“Or maybe you just learned to mask your anxiety at a young age?” he suggests.

My brows scrunch together as I push my plate away. “Okay, Doctor. Thanks for the diagnosis.” His lips twitch as realization dawns. “Oh my god, you’ve diagnosed me in your head before, haven’t you?”

He smiles at this, and I’m once again taken by surprise at how it changes his face completely.

“I’d need to do a session with you to diagnose you, Francesca.”

I clasp my hands together and give him a conspiratorial smile. “Well, we’re here. Fix me, Doctor.”

It comes out more sultry than I intended, and his lips part. His eyes flick down to my mouth before coming back up to mine, a shade darker.

“Fine. Tell me about your childhood.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s it? You’re really going to ask me about my childhood? How cliché.”

He cocks his head. “It’s interesting. Most people have some sort of unrealized childhood trauma. Some people have done the work to uncover it, but most haven’t. Things that happen to us as children affect us for the rest of our lives. How we were raised impacts how we make decisions, our impulse control, our coping mechanisms, our food habits, and even our love interests. And yet, the people who scoff at that first question about childhood are usually the ones most affected by unrealized childhood trauma. So yes, I start with that question, because it tells me whether or not I need to dig deeper.”

My mouth opens and closes.

I search his face to see if he’s kidding, but as his green eyes bore into my gray ones, I know he’s being serious.

Unrealized childhood trauma? I mean… maybe? My childhood was chaotic but it was also amazing and idyllic.

“Fine. My mom got pregnant with me during a one-night stand. She was a groupie and the band was stationed in Nashville for the night. She doesn’t even remember his name. After she gave birth to me, we toured with bands for the first two years of my life before she decided she wanted to be an artist. We put down roots in San Diego, though I was originally born in Tennessee. She rented a one-bedroom apartment in Encinitas and eventually started being able to sell her work. We moved into her current house when I was ten, and she’s now a successful artist and a complete pain in my ass,” I finish. “I love her, but she’s unreliable and hard to get a hold of sometimes.”

Dr. Kincaid’s eyes narrow as they rove over my face. “Children need stability. Routine. I’d be curious to learn more about the two years you lived in Tennessee,” he starts, his voice low and gentle. “For example, if you didn’t have a home, where did you sleep? Did you have toys? Money for diapers?”

I swallow. For some reason, thinking of that time—a time I can’t even remember—makes my throat catch.

“She was a single mom. I’m sure she did the best she could.”

“I have no doubt she did. But that doesn’t mean it was ideal for a baby in any way.”

“And lots of families move around. For example, Ari bounced around between bases because her dad was a lieutenant in the army.”

Even saying it out loud makes it sound different. Yes, we both had instability, but at least Ari had a mother, a father, a proper house with a proper crib, and older siblings she could learn from.

He sits back and rubs his mouth, ignoring my statement. “Do you think the instability in your childhood is why you crave a family so badly? So that you can provide the secure, safe childhood you always wanted?”

My breathing stutters and my eyes begin to sting. “I think wanting a family is a perfectly normal thing,” I tell him a little too loudly.

“Of course it is.”

How does he do that? How the hell does he break down the very fiber of my being in two minutes, and still come off as caring and interested?

My hands grip the edge of the table. “Good job. You really sized me up,” I add, feeling my eyes well with tears.

Not because he’s wrong.

Because I’m just now realizing he’s right.

Growing up, I was obsessed with dollhouses. I’d beg for the fancy ones every Christmas, and when I was five, my mom saved the money from her art and bought me a large, vintage Victorian dollhouse. It must’ve cost her a fortune. I played with that dollhouse every day for years. She still has it—it’s sitting in my old room in her house. It came with a mom, a dad, and two babies that I had to take care of. I spent hundreds, if not thousands of hours rearranging the furniture. Making sure everything was in its place. Feeding and taking care of the babies. Bathing the babies. Sometimes one of my Barbies was the other mom, and sometimes the babies had two Ken dolls as dads. The point is, I wanted to live in that house with the dining room, the art on the walls, the piano, the small yet cozy kitchen…

I can’t even remember what my bedroom looked like in the apartment I spent my early childhood in.

I wanted the four-poster bed with two doting parents who would tuck me in every night, but instead I got my mom, who was gone several nights a week in her studio and left me with a babysitter.

I wanted the kitchen with fresh fruit, but instead I got moldy bread and hard cheese, because despite having the money for it, my mom would forget to go grocery shopping.

I wanted the bedtime stories, but instead I got told that they’re just fairy tales and they weren’t realistic. She wasn’t mean about it—none of it was done maliciously. But she was a free thinker and wanted me to be one, too.

Dr. Kincaid must sense my emotional turmoil, because he reaches out for my hands. “I wasn’t trying to size you up, Francesca⁠—”

Something inside of me snaps.

The events of the entire week slam into me, rushing through my mind in a whirlwind of anxiety and tension.

Whatever just happened dislodged some sort of emotional block, because now I’m crying and I feel so angry with him.

“For the love of God, call me Frankie,” I hiss, pulling my hands out of his grasp.

I stand up, grab my things, and walk out of the restaurant. Dr. Kincaid calls after me, but I keep going as I turn right. Wrapping my arms around myself, I continue walking past a busy intersection, hiccupping and trying to calm my sniffling. He sized me up so easily—and in less than five minutes. My whole childhood flashes before my eyes, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

He’s good.

And I hate that.

I hear him call out for me from a few feet behind, so I make a snap decision to cross the street when the light turns green at the crosswalk. My foot barely touches the asphalt when a strong hand pulls me back, and a man on a bike whirs past me, cursing at me as he speeds off.

“Christ, Frankie,” Dr. Kincaid shouts, dragging me farther onto the sidewalk.

My heart ricochets against my rib cage, and icy fear twists around my heart as I realize I’d nearly been run over by the bike. He presses me against a light pole, and as he looks down at me, the ferocity of his frightened expression startles and humbles me. He was genuinely scared I was going to get hurt—I can tell by his flared nostrils, wide eyes, and heaving chest.

“You called me Frankie,” I mumble, something warm cracking over my heart.

The noisy sounds of the busy intersection and dusky light threaten to break my fragile control, and just as I start to pull away from him, he grips my arm tighter. The strange surge of affection I’m feeling for him terrifies me, and by the looks of it, he feels the same way. His thumb brushes against my bare arm, and my breath cuts off as I reach up, place my hand on the back of his neck, and pull him down for a kiss.

The instant his lips meet mine, he groans and deepens the kiss, his touch on me firm and possessive.

I am burning, and as I open my mouth slightly, he plunges his tongue inside and claims me completely.