Unethical

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Maxim

A n electrical whirring comes from behind me as the door closes and locks. I’m free, even if I don’t really think I should be free at all. Bad people like me shouldn’t walk around with normal people with normal brains. But I’m really good at blending in. I can meld with the worst of the criminals and the most mundane of society. I just made a stupid mistake and got caught this time.

I’ve murdered people, but the law has remained completely blind to those offenses. The stolen car was what hemmed me up. And then I maybe caused a little fight with the officer who tried to apprehend me.

Now they say I need therapy. I don’t think I need therapy for my anger, but it might help with everything else that’s wrong with my brain. The thought of talking about my feelings makes me more homicidal than it should, though.

I study the paperwork once more and follow the directions to the halfway house, where I’ll stay until I finish therapy and get a job, because that’s so easy to do as a felon. I cross through the city on foot, heading toward the building that’s almost guaranteed to be a dump. My gaze returns to the paperwork as I walk, just to keep my mind on something other than the stifling heat rising from the pavement.

Though I didn’t receive a death sentence, this is almost as bad. I can’t drink or do drugs, and I’m forced to check in every night by ten p.m. The random piss tests are just the sprinkles on this shit sundae. The whole thing sounds awfully shitty.

I eye the paperwork again and spot the therapist’s name at the bottom. Dr. Sarah Reeves. I’ve spent the last four years in prison, so I can only hope she’s a gray-haired bat with a sharp nose. I’m not sure how well I can hold myself back if she’s hot. Self-control isn’t a strength of mine. Dangle a hot piece of ass in front of me, and I might fuck the judgement out of her.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I pull out the cheapo phone the prison gave me and type her name into the browser. My jaw tightens when her picture appears on the screen. She is hot. And I’ll have to sit in front of her and pretend I’m not rabid for pussy at this point. More specifically, her pussy.

Fuck, I guess I’ll go. Maybe I’ll even like it. She might not, though. That depends on how much she pries into my mind. I can only hope she has a flashlight if she chooses to venture into a darkness she’s not prepared for. All the schooling in the world won’t help her once she delves into my pitch-black depths. My fucked-up brain.

Who knows, though? Most mental-health providers have a darkness of their own. Their own problems inspire their career choice. No one understands fucked-up like those who are also a bit fucked.

Just a week until my first appointment, and then we’ll see just how well the prison therapy will help me control my impulses. I don’t have much hope, especially considering the impulses I’m getting after seeing her picture.

Maybe a visit with the doctor won’t be so bad after all.