Rachel and Connor's Little Black Book: Volume One (Rachel and Connor #1) Read online

  © 2014 K.T. Mara

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Edited by Raelene Green of word·play by 77peaches

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  Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs

  Cover photo by Casey Boyett

  Cover models: Courtney Boyett and Willie Totten

  Formatted by Tami Norman of Integrity Formatting

  To my sister,

  the funniest and most conniving person I know.

  “Connor, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes.” Partly. I’m sure I heard the word flee.

  “What did I say?”

  Old Gus sat back in his shrink’s chair, his way of indicating he was waiting for my answer. He fixed his glasses that never seem to stay on his nose. I’ve suggested he use some tape many times, but I have been rejected every time. He claimed I was purposely trying to make him look like a nerd. Practically speaking, if he wanted to wear sweater vests with his pants pulled up to his fucking belly button, he should complete the look.

  “I got another call from your HR department. Did you know about this?”

  I vaguely remembered some threats, but I didn’t think they’d go through with it. Who rats on people to their shrink?

  “Connor, this is the third time this year, and it’s only March!”

  “That’s not a big deal.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m more concerned about the livelihood of my dick. Frankly, Gus, I’m worried it may shrivel up and cease to exist.”

  For three months I haven’t gotten off on anything but my fucking hand. Between all the hours I spend programming, and my recreational activities my poor hands are starting to cramp. My doctor even warned me that I might get tendinitis if I didn’t stop overworking them.

  Gus let out an uncomfortable cough. “Are you having a problem finding women?”

  I gawked at him like he was on crack. “Fuck no. They swarm around me like bees.” I frowned. “My dick is the problem. It won’t respond.”

  Gus’ eyes widened. “Do you mean erectile dis—”

  “Shut up,” I snapped, cutting him off. “Not even in my most fucked up nightmares will that ever happen.”

  “Okay then, what do you think is the problem?”

  “I thought that was why I pay you. So you can do the thinking for me.”

  Gus sighed, “You have to give me a place to start.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “I think the issue is my environment. Ever since Nathaniel promoted me to COO, I’ve been working seventeen-hour days. And when I get home, I’m so fucking exhausted, my bed looks sexier than a Victoria’s Secret model.”

  “That is a problem.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  He shot me a glare before continuing, “I hate to say this, and it goes against all of my ethics and…”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just spit it out, Gus. My conscience doesn’t even know what ethics are.”

  He coughed again. “Have you tried doing it at work?”

  “Hey, Gus,” I smiled, “since when did you become captain obvious?”

  “So I’m guessing you already tried?”

  “Again, no shit. Every time I get a girl into my office, I get interrupted by some jackass who needs me for God-knows every stupid reason there is to need a person. Just last week I sneaked someone into the conference room for a quickie. It was going great until she started giving me a strip tease using Scully Sully’s chair. Then bam. Dead dick.”

  “The same Sully who’s always scratching his bottom?”

  “Yeah, and the same Sully who has a gas problem. And guess who had chili that day?”

  “No,” Gus’s mouth dropped open.

  “The cleaning staff has to fucking fumigate his chair every day. And the girl was just rubbing her body against it. When she offered to give me a blowjob, I thought I was going to throw up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Connor, but you really can’t be picky in your situation.”

  “Tell that to my dick.” I bit on the inside of my cheek. “Do you think Viagra would help? How’s it working for you?”

  His pale face turned different shades of bright red. His head looked like a fucking pimple that was about one risqué comment away from popping.

  “Now remember what we do when we’re embarrassed? Count to ten, and breathe. Slowly, in and out.” I reminded him.

  His chest heaved in, and his shoulders tensed. “Kind of like that, but you got to breathe out as well,” I added.

  “Sie sind ein Dummkopf!” He released all of his pent up air in one go.

  I immediately covered my nose. Someone didn’t use mouthwash today. I dug into my bag and pulled out a pack of gum and extended a piece to him. When he didn’t respond, I tossed it on his desk.

  “I was waiting for you to ask me properly,” he said.

  And I was waiting for him to admit he called me a dumb head in German. A few weeks after our first session, I hired a tutor whose sole purpose was to teach me how to piss someone off in German. I was in possession of a very extensive list of phrases fit for a sailor – you know, if the sailor was German.

  I shrugged my shoulders, unsure why any elaboration was needed. “It’s a piece of gum. It really speaks for itself, but some gratitude from you would be nice. I did offer you my favorite gum.”

  He let out a huff of air. “The social convention is to ask. You can’t shove a piece of gum in someone’s face. It’s considered rude.”

  “It’s rude to talk to someone when your breath is rancid enough to seep through a fucking HAZMAT suit,” I countered.

  I pointed again to the gum I left on his desk. He raised an eyebrow at me, unwilling to move until he got what he wanted. He was trying to be stern, but I couldn’t take him seriously with those caterpillar brows. They were like two mustaches on his forehead, which would give him three in all, if you count the one already under his nose.

  In case it wasn’t already clear, he has a freakishly funny face.

  “Well?”

  I stared outside his window, hoping my silence would get him to move on. Gus’s office was on the twenty-first floor of an old high-rise. As the tallest building in the area, it has an unobstructed view of the Hudson River. From here, I could see the boardwalk was crowded with various people on their lunch break. A handful of suits scramble about, trying to get a meal before trudging back to their offices. A little boy holding a snow cone in one hand and his mother’s hand in the other caught my eye. The mother bent down so the little boy could whisper into her ear. She must have said something funny, because they both laughed.

  “Connor?”

  Gus turned toward the window, trying to follow my gaze, but I averted my eyes before he could.

  “What were you staring at?”

  “Can’t a man stare outside
a window and watch children without being interrogated about it?” I replied.

  “Connor!”

  “I’m kidding!” I snapped. “I was people watching in general. Take a fucking joke.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me, and let out an exaggerated sigh, “Connor, I need you to concentrate. I want you to pay attention for once.”

  I nodded my head a few times to show I was listening.

  “Moving your head doesn’t mean anything.”

  I nodded two more times.

  Gus sighed again. That was twice in one minute. I think it was a new record for us.

  My eyes slowly roamed to the wall clock. Unfortunately I wasn’t discrete enough this time, because Gus also turned to the clock.

  “12:45?!” His eyes widened. “It’s almost time for you to leave!”

  My smile lit up. “To leave early?”

  Gus narrowed his eyes at me. “Another session gone, and still no progress.” He shook his head in defeat, “What am I going to do with you, Connor?”

  “Letting me go early would be nice.”

  He leveled his eyes with mine. “You are wasting my time,” he said sternly, his voice a few notches below seething.

  I didn’t understand why he was so upset. At least he was getting paid for his time. I was the one losing money, not to mention my fucking lunch hour. If anyone deserved sympathy, it was me.

  Gus chucked a black notebook at me. Not pass, not throw, he actually chucked it.

  “Hey watch it!” I yelled. He almost hit my head. If he didn’t throw like a girl, it might’ve actually hurt.

  “Good! Finally an emotion! I was beginning to think you didn’t have any.”

  I rolled my eyes at his comment. He knew that while I treaded on both sides of the personality disorder line, I was still on the side capable of expression…just a very limited amount.

  My fingers ran across the cover. It was made of cheap synthetic leather. “Considering the small fortune your services cost, you could have sprung for real leather.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t go to the dollar store,” he snapped.

  I looked up. “Really? Because it looks like you did.”

  He dismissed my comment with a wave of his hand.

  So he did buy it at the dollar store. What a guilty old fart.

  “I have an assignment for you.” He grabbed the notebook from my hand, and turned to the front page. In big block letters were the words This Diary Belongs To with a blank line for a name. “Tell me, Gus. Do I look like I have a vagina?” I glared at him. “I may like fucking them, but I do not have one.”

  Gus cringed. “Since I’ve tried every other approach, and you’ve failed them all…”

  “Isn’t there a rule that says you’re not supposed to blame the patient?” I cut him off.

  “No.” He stood, towering over my sitting form. He did this a lot. It was the only way he could pretend that he was tall. Gus was a very short man, five-foot-four tops. If we were both standing, he wouldn’t even reach my shoulder.

  “This is completely your fault,” he stated. “I have used psychoanalysis, psychodynamic, and cognitive behavioral therapy. It’s a never-ending list. Do you want me to go on?”

  I really hated rhetorical questions. I only liked them when I was the one using them.

  “Aversion, aquatic, aroma, art, information therapy…”

  “How about we try hire-a-new-shrink therapy? I hear it’s all the rage right now.”

  That shut him up. “Connor,” he sighed.

  “Gus,” I mocked him with a head tilt.

  “What I’m trying to say is we’ve run out of options. At this point, getting you to keep a journal is our last resort.”

  My forehead creased. “I’m not a prepubescent girl. I don’t have the kind of problems that disappear just because I fucking write about my feelings in a diary,” I ranted, the last word leaving a nasty aftertaste in my mouth.

  Gus ignored me and continued, “I want you to keep a daily log of your day. The things you do and the people you talk to. Whenever you feel anything, be it happiness, anger, or sadness, I want it recorded.”

  I put on my best poker face. “No.”

  Surprise flashed across Gus’s face, quickly replaced by anger. “This isn’t an option. You don’t get to choose. I’m your thera—counselor,” he fumbled.

  “Nice save,” I quipped. “I’m refusing because it creates an unnecessary amount of work and effort on my part. I already do more than enough by coming here.”

  “Connor you have been seeing me for sixteen years now, yet I’m not confident I know you any better than when we first met.” His shoulders dropped as he shook his head. “Maybe I’m the one who’s failing you,” he whispered.

  This was the first time I’ve seen him look so dejected. He was usually angry with me. I could handle angry.

  “Listen, Gus…”

  “But it’s not my fault is it?” He bolted out of his chair unexpectedly. “It is yours.” He pointed an accusatory finger at me.

  I raised my hands up in mock surrender. “You caught me.”

  “You are the one who never shares,” he walked closer to my chair, “you are the one who never talks.” He and his finger were inches from my face when he bellowed, “You are the one who won’t listen to me!”

  Okay, this has gotten out of hand. I pushed Gus and his finger out of my face. “I’ll write in the book, okay? Just get out of my face,” I acquiesced.

  “Really?” His entire demeanor brightened.

  He just went from sad, angry, to happy within three fucking minutes, yet I was the one in fucking therapy?

  I grabbed the book from his hand and looked at the clock. Five minutes and fifty-two seconds left. “Now can I go?”

  He nodded his head. “Thank you for agreeing to the diary. I have a good feeling about this.”

  I frowned at the word diary. “Again, not a preteen girl. Can we call it something that won’t give me nightmares about shitty Lifetime movies?”

  Gus shrugged his shoulders. “A diary is a diary, Connor. It’s not a little black book.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  That…didn’t sound half bad. I lacked an actual black book, or even a general-purpose address book – surprise, surprise – I live in the fucking twenty-first century, but Little Black Book did have a certain charm to it.

  “I think I’m going to take the second option; it sounds better.”

  “Connor, I don’t care what you call it. As long as you write in it, you can call it a holy scripture.”

  “Wow,” I whistled. “I know my inner musings contain paramount revelations, but to suggest such a thing…you must think more highly of me than I thought.”

  Gus looked like he wanted to throw his ugly lamp at me, effectively signaling it was time to leave.

  Before I made it out the door, he called after me, “Promise me you’ll try, Connor. Please.”

  I nodded my head and smiled. “You know I don’t believe in promises, Gus.”

  Once I was in the elevator, I reached into my bag and pulled out a ballpoint pen. I turned to the first page of the notebook, crossed out the word diary, and scribbled in:

  Then I quickly crossed it out, because I didn’t want people to start looking for my missing dick.

  “Rachel, are you listening to me?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You asked, ‘Rachel, are you listening to me?’”

  Gus Jefferson’s smile widened. If only he knew I truly wasn’t listening. He always asked the same question when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, so I just assumed. Nine times out of ten, I was right.

  “So how about you tell me the good parts of your week?”

  I frowned, “I can’t.”

  He frowned back. “Why not?”

  “Nothing good happened.”

  “Rachel.” His disapproving tone bothered me. He thought I was lying, but what I said was the truth.


  For the majority of the week I was at the docks, preparing for the arrival of my father’s latest shipments from the East. Spending my days surrounded by his cigar-smoking associates was not my idea of a good time, but telling this to Gus was out of the question, so I gave him something else to fixate on. “My father is making me get a job at ShawTech.”

  Gus sat up straight in his chair, suggesting I only now had his full attention. Considering his lavish billing, I should’ve had his full attention the moment I walked through the door.

  “Why ShawTech?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know, but that’s not even the worst part. I’m going to be the personal assistant of a trust-fund baby.”

  “Pot calling kettle,” he quipped.

  “I’m not like him. His family is from old money. He became the COO of one of America’s largest corporations right out of college. It’s obvious he didn’t earn the position; he just got it because his dad owns the company.”

  “Green is an ugly color on you, Rachel.”

  “Kermit the frog is green. I don’t know about you, but I think he works it very well.”

  Gus rubbed circles along his forehead, mumbling under his breath, “Why do I always get the sarcastic ones?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Moving on.”

  It probably had to do with his other clients. I’d wasted my time asking—he wasn’t telling. Gus Jefferson was very protective of our privacy. It was the only reason my take-your-secrets-to-the-grave parents allowed me to see him. It might be his only redeeming trait as a psychiatrist. The rest of the time he was a pain in my ass.

  “So do you know anything about Connor Shaw?”

  I frowned again. “How do you know that it’s Connor Shaw? I never mentioned his name.”

  Gus’s eyes moved back and forth. “I—I uh, read about him in the papers.”

  No doubt in the gossip section of People. Shaw was a first class man-whore. And by first class, I meant the quantity of miles he has ridden, not the class. He has no class.

  “So what do you know about him?” Gus said.

  I let out a snort. “More than I care to. We’ve been in the same class since preschool, but I’d bet you anything the bastard doesn’t know who I am.”