Where would a psychiatrist be without patients? But what if the client is nocturnal? Most doctors don’t have hours after dark. This scene has Josie being awakened from a dream by her would-be client.
“Doctor.” The man reached a hand toward her. “Doctor, I need to talk to you.” Hoarse and husky, the whisper intruded on her dream. It faded, and she became aware of her bed around her, the sheets on her skin and a hand on her shoulder.
Fully awake, she jumped and searched for the lamp on the bedside table. With a click, its amber glow illuminated the room and the man standing by her closet.
“What?” She scrambled and crouched on her pillow. All at once, she smelled charred flesh and remembered the man from the deli the previous afternoon. “You?”
“Yes, Doctor, my name is Jared. Please, you must help me.”
“What are you doing here? You can’t just come into someone’s house, into their bedroom.” She grabbed the portable phone from the receiver on her nightstand. “My bedroom.”
“I need your help.” He backed up and sat in the little recliner situated in the corner of her bedroom. With the drape pulled shut, not even light from the street lamps filtered in.
His face was clean-shaven and pale, except for red welts where burned skin had healed. He dressed in black jeans and a black hoodie sweatshirt. His wide eyes and half-open mouth made him appear sincere. Clasping his hands on his lap, he leaned forward earnestly.
He was compelling. So compelling she wanted to climb out of bed and onto his lap. Or come closer. He really should come a little closer. She eased off the pillow and pushed her hair back. He should see her neck. She had a very nice neck. “Anything you want,” she breathed.
“Oh, damn, I thought being a doctor…” He raised the hood of his sweatshirt, removed a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, and slipped them over his eyes.
Those beautiful eyes lost to her, she wanted to weep.
It took another moment before she realized she had dressed for bed, a T-shirt and no bra. Incredibly uncomfortable, she pulled the comforter up to her chin. “What sort of help?” she asked.
“I’m a vampire.”
Does she believe him? Why would a vampire need a psychiatrist? You can pre-order Once Upon a Couch here and find out.
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