Dance with the Devil: Chapter 4

Two Years Ago

An incoming email pings through my desktop speaker, but I ignore it in lieu of the man sitting across from me. Anxiety, insomnia, major depressive disorder. The insomnia is mostly a symptom of the other two diagnoses, but in his case, the insomnia hits first, and Colin is falling apart in front of me. He’s exhausted all other avenues, including therapy, hypnosis, and home remedies. As a psychiatrist who prescribes medication, this is usually the case with new patients.

I am a last resort—the last, desperate stepping stone when all else fails.

“I feel crazy, like I’m dreaming,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t. Sometimes I have these dreams that feel so vivid—” He suddenly stops talking and dips his chin.

“Tell me about the dreams,” I say, gently tapping my expensive fountain pen against the notebook I use to take notes during appointments.

“It’s horrible. I’m so ashamed,” he mumbles, face crumpling.

“Colin, you can tell me anything. I am here to help you. But I can’t help you if I don’t know exactly what’s going on.” He swallows and begins to rock back and forth. I watch him, silently assessing his behavior. “This is a safe space.”

He lets out a sharp breath of air. “I wake up sometimes on top of my wife. And I’m—we’re⁠—”

He starts to cry. “I feel like a horrible person. We’ve been married for twenty years, and this only started recently. She must think I’m a monster.”

“Do you mean you’re engaging in sexual behavior while asleep?” I ask gently.

He nods, and then he falls forward, sobbing.

“It sounds like you’re suffering from somnambulistic sexual behavior, which is a type of parasomnia.”

Because I specialize in sleep disorders, his story is not unique.

“Have you talked about it with your wife?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m too ashamed. She never says anything the next day, but something’s shifted between us since this started. Her eyes are empty—and she jumps whenever I go to touch her.”

I press my lips together in sympathy, knowing exactly how he feels.

We talk for thirty more minutes. I ask about family history, any other medications that he’s taking, and whether he’s been evaluated for sleep apnea—he has, and he doesn’t have it. I question him about alcohol usage, as that can make symptoms worse. Seeing as he doesn’t drink very much, I decide to start him on a course of treatment. As the session nears the end, I pull my prescription pad out.

“I’m prescribing hydroxyzine to take before you sleep every night. It’s very mild, and a good starting point. If this makes symptoms worse—as it can for a small subset of people—please let me know. There are other things we can try, such as a benzodiazepine, but that’s riskier and should only be used as a last resort.”

His eyes go wide. “You mean you can cure me?” he asks, taking the paper from my hand.

I shake my head. “Unfortunately, no. You’ll never be cured, per se, but we can identify and treat the triggers. Medication helps, so let’s start with the safest one first.”

He stands up but doesn’t make eye contact. “Thanks, Doc. I’m glad I made this appointment. It happened again last week, and I apparently got pretty aggressive with her. She never says anything, but I see the bruises.”

I nod. “That’s very common. Please try not to blame yourself for something you can’t control.”

“I know. But I still feel like a terrible husband.”

I stand and walk him to the door of my private office. “I’d like to see you next week, once you’ve been taking the medication for a few nights. I’m currently in the middle of hiring a new assistant, so it might be them who reaches out.”

“All right, Doc,” he says, eyes bleary.

“Get some sleep. Trust me, being overtired only makes things worse.”

He gives me a grateful smile before exiting the room, where he’ll take a nondescript hallway to the exterior patient door of my house. I wait until I hear his car on the gravel before heading back to my desk chair. Once seated, I click through to my email.

A few more applications for my assistant position have trickled in this morning, so I quickly flick through them. Because the position is advertised as either in person or virtual, I get applications from people all over the United States. Nothing has stood out so far—there’s a single mom of two with zero experience, a young guy who just graduated with his bachelor’s in psychology, and an older, local woman coming out of retirement who was recommended by a colleague.

They’re all fine—and truthfully, this job will be hard, so I can’t afford to be picky. As I get to the email that pinged during my session with Colin, I lean forward and stare at the picture attached to the application.

Most people have attached pictures, but this one stands out.

It’s a younger woman with long, dark, straight hair. She’s barely smiling—her eyes seem sad, like she doesn’t want to be taking the picture. Not only that, but she’s… fucking beautiful.

I click over to her résumé, taking in the words on the screen like a starved drug addict.

Francesca Bristow.

San Diego, CA—a few hours south of me.

Her age isn’t listed, but she does have the year she graduated college. I do the math in my head.

No experience as an assistant to a doctor, but her résumé is filled with volunteering gigs—the NICU for three years, a year with an unhoused person charity, and then there’s an Etsy shop listing. I click on it, and I’m suddenly mesmerized by this woman who seems like an anomaly. Small, thick blankets made with gender-neutral prints and faux fur…

She makes baby blankets on the side.

I go back to the picture of her, studying her large gray eyes. I take in the whole picture, from her makeup-less face, her denim overalls, the sizable bit of cleavage, the curvy nature of the top half of her body…

My heart is pounding for no reason at all, but I know in an instant that I’m going to offer her the job.

Not because I find her attractive—I mean, I’d have to be dead to not see how gorgeous she is—but because something about the way she’s looking into the camera is hauntingly soulless, and I want to know why.

I also want to know why I’m having this reaction to her in the first place. She’s certainly not the first beautiful woman I’ve seen. But her eyes are calling to something inside of me, and I’d never be able to stop thinking about the woman in this picture if I didn’t offer her the job.

Replying quickly, I ask if she’s available for an interview later today.

After I send it, I pull her picture back up and study it for far too long. It’s not until I hear another car coming down the gravel driveway that I realize my next appointment is in three minutes.

I stand quickly and refill my water glass, readying myself for another patient but knowing I’ll be thinking of the sad girl with gray eyes the entire time.

Present

The hot spike of arousal wakes me from a vivid dream. My hands grip the edges of the bathroom vanity and I groan, shuddering as my release pulses onto the counter. I pant as hot jets of cum splash over Francesca’s sink, hanging my head as one hand squeezes my rock-hard cock.

“Holy shit,” I hiss, involuntarily thrusting and spilling more cum all over my hand.

It takes me a minute to come to completely, and when I do, I realize the bathroom door is wide open.

“Fuck,” I mutter, grabbing the nearest towel and placing it over my still-hard cock as I close and lock the door.

The light of dawn is casting enough light into the bathroom that I can see the dark shadows underneath my eyes. I clean myself up before wiping the sink down, my hands shaking.

The medication I’m on is supposed to help, and most of the time, it does. However, being in a new environment—as well as chronic sleep deprivation—can make the symptoms worse. I’m not at home and I was up until nearly three in the morning, trying to exhaust myself so thoroughly that my body wouldn’t physically be able to walk around and fuck anything with a hole. Apparently, I was wrong.

Better the sink than my assistant.

At least, not on the first night.

After I take a quick shower and get ready for the day, I pull on a new suit. It’s barely past six in the morning, but I need to get out of this hotel room.

The temptation is too great, and I hardly trust myself around her. The masochist in me is regretting even putting myself in this situation.

There were other rooms available—I just booked them out.

I needed her to be here with me. I needed to see her in the flesh.

As I quietly exit the suite and make my way downstairs for coffee, I think about the first time I met Francesca over video. From what I gathered following our first interview, her friend had been looking for jobs for her that paid well and my listing came up on a popular job search site. Of course I did my due diligence afterward and looked her up online—everything from her social media to a complete background and medical check.

What started as an innocent curiosity turned into something so much more.

Being this obsessed with someone isn’t normal. You don’t need a doctorate like me to know that.

I know it shows a lack of boundaries, a shaky grasp on reality, and sociopathic tendencies—something I’ve always feared I had.

But I’d been waiting for this moment for two years, and I wasn’t about to waste it.

I wanted to study her, to figure out what made her tick. But also… to figure out why I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since the day her picture popped up in my email.

After a walk through the city, I walk back into the hotel, taking a moment to calm my breathing as I type my journal into my phone. It’s something my therapist recommended years ago, and now I have hundreds of thousands of words about my day—usually having to do with the woman sleeping upstairs.

I promised myself I would only use this opportunity to get to know her. But why does it suddenly feel impossible to stay away? Why was I tossing and turning all night, thinking about how she was sleeping in the next room? I feel deranged, and I’m almost certain I’m going to fuck this all up.

The worst part is, I don’t care if I do.

She’s here now, and she’s not going anywhere.

I’d lay the trap, spin the web, and wait for her to walk into my lair.

If I am the devil, then she is an angel—and I’m going to corrupt her.

And if hell is my home, I’ll very happily drag her to the depths of the inferno, all for one taste.

March 5th

Finally, after all this time, she’s right here.

I can barely breathe thinking about it.

I watched her yesterday, just for a moment too long, but she didn’t notice—or maybe she did, and just pretends not to. Christ, I hope she does. What does she think of me? Does she see it? This thing between us?

She said something about the meeting with Dr. Lawrence, a colleague attending this conference with us, but I can’t remember a word she said. Her voice is like a melody, so soft, so soothing, but it makes me anxious, restless. How does she do that? It’s not normal. I’m not normal. Nothing about this is normal.

I’m a fool to be thinking these things. A fool to want her like this.

Or am I?

She smiled at me—was it for me? It felt like it was just for me, like she knows how I feel. But does she? How could she? I have to be careful. I can’t let this get out of hand. She’s my assistant, my subordinate, but more than that… she’s mine. No, that’s wrong. She’s not mine.

But she could be.

She should be.

She belongs in my life.

We fit together so perfectly.

She doesn’t even know it yet, but she will.

I’ll make sure of it.

One day, I can tell her everything—every twisted thought, every desire. Will she be disgusted? Afraid? Or will she smile that smile again, and tell me she’s been waiting for me to say it?

I can’t stop thinking about her.

Fuck, I don’t want to stop.

I’m losing control. I can feel it slipping, and I don’t know if I want to hold on or just let it go. Maybe it’s already too late.

She’ll be near me all day long. I’ll see her again. I have to be careful.

But how can I be calm when she’s so close, so perfect, so⁠—

Everything.

I have to play it cool. She’s too important to fuck this up.