Undressed At Sea: A Psychological Thriller (Drew Stirling Book 2) Page 4

  “Chip! Get the fuck up!” His father shook him.

  He had no idea how long he’d been asleep.

  “Get up. I need you out here.” His father stood back with his hands on his hips.

  Chip sat up. He could tell they hadn’t driven away from the lake. He was worried that his dad had caught him watching, but nothing was said about that; instead his father told him that he needed his sleeping bag.

  Chip got out of the van. “I have to pee,” he said.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” his father said. “But hurry up. I need a hand.”

  When Chip came back from the bushes, his father was putting rocks into the sleeping bag. Lots of them.

  “I hit a dog. Stupid fucking bitch ran right out in front of me,” his father said. “I’ll get you a new sleeping bag at the Salvation Army. We’re going to chuck this one out into the lake.”

  Chip watched his father put a large rock into the sleeping bag, and then he tied it shut with fishing line.

  “Fucking big dog, too. Come here and help me drag this bitch to the water.”

  Chip did as he was told. He grabbed a corner of the sleeping bag, and helped his father drag it to the water’s edge. His father took over and waded into the lake. They weren’t far from the damn, and there was a drop off into deeper water, just beyond where his dad stood. Chip had been in the water here once in the summer during a heat wave, and he remembered how the drop off suddenly created the impression that the lake had no bottom.

  “Hand me that branch over there.” His father pointed.

  Chip handed his father the branch and then watched as he pushed the sinking sleeping bag further out into the lake.

  “How come we didn’t bury it?” Chip asked.

  “It’s like chum now. The catfish will eat it. It’s going to make some whopper catfish. If we had buried it in the dirt, you’d only get fat worms. Get it?”

  “Okay.”

  ...................

  Randy Hawkins looked at his client.

  Chip’s tone had become cold and emotionless while he told the story of catfishing.

  “How does that feel? Talking about this today?” Hawkins asked his client.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know or don’t want to express it?”

  “I guess both,” Chip answered. “I’m not sure how I feel. I mean, I was a victim, too. So I feel bad. I’m not sure how much is for myself and how much is for her.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance that you’ve mixed up memories? Maybe your dad did hit a dog while driving? Maybe he was telling the truth?”

  “Maybe.”

  It wasn’t part of his profession’s ethics to judge clients or condemn them. He was there to facilitate healing and believed that Chip could heal from his past. If it weren’t for this conviction, he’d have to find another profession.

  “It wasn’t your fault, you know? What happened to her.”

  “I know. But it doesn’t seem to help my guilt. I dreamt about her again two nights ago. That’s what gave me the determination to talk about this today. I was a boy again, in my dream, swimming in the lake. I dove into the water and saw a face. It was a woman with long black hair and large breasts floating under the surface. She embraced me. I felt a sexual urge in my dream, but as I embraced her, she started strangling me. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to scream, but I was under water. I panicked and then woke up.”

  “Sounds like a good place to start next week. Time’s up for today. You did well, Chip. Honestly. I know this is hard.”

  Randy Hawkins stood, and Chip handed him folded bills.

  “Thank you,” Chip said. “I’ve never told a soul that story. Not even my wife. It’s good to get it off my chest.”

  “I’m here to listen.”

  “I don’t want to become my father,” Chip said as he left the office.

  Hawkins said a little prayer as he watched him leave. I hope not either.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Masturbation (1) is a grave matter and (2) I think, based on your post, that you know it was a grave matter.

  ~ 1love (handle at Catholic Answers online forum)

  One thing I’m absolutely sure of is that masturbation is normal, healthy, and fun. I know my nudes got a lot of use, and I don’t have the slightest regret or shame about that. The judgmental control freaks can go fuck themselves. Oh, shit, I see the irony there.

  ~ Drew Stirling

  ...................

  Hawkins greeted Chip as usual but told him he needed to get some business out of the way before they began their session.

  “Sure,” Chip said. “I guess last week’s revelation about my father was crazy. I regretted talking about it all week.”

  “No,” Hawkins said. “Don’t regret talking about the past. It’s the right thing to do. We heal that way. That kind of stuff kept bottled up will kill you. Sometimes literally. I wanted to make sure you were aware of how the law works in these situations. It’s designed to protect confidentiality between the therapist and client, but it’s also designed to protect any third party that might be at risk including minors.”

  Hawkins went on to explain how the law worked and under what conditions he would be legally and ethically obligated to break the confidentiality of a patient.

  “In your father’s case, it’s not much of a quandary. I have no obligation to protect him because he’s not my client. On top of that, he’s been dead for over twenty years? Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, so while there’s no statute of limitations on murder, there’s nobody to charge with a crime. And the victim is unknown in any case. On top of that, you were still living in Oklahoma at the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “So even if I felt there was a reason to follow up on this, who would I even call?”

  It was a rhetorical question.

  “So, in this case, I wanted you to know there was nothing for me to follow up with. But that might not be the case if you were to mention further victims by name. I have no obligation to your father here in your therapy sessions. However, I do have an obligation to you, and I wanted you to know exactly what the rules are. Just to be perfectly clear. You’ve signed forms that explain all of this. But since that was back when we first started I felt an obligation to be sure you understood. Is that fair?”

  “Yeah. I guess. I’m confused a little. You think there are more victims?”

  “I’m pretty sure of it. Don’t you think that makes sense?”

  “I suppose.” Chip looked down and slumped his shoulders.

  The last thing Hawkins wanted to do was cause a client to stop talking. It was his job to help people heal. That’s why he’d become a therapist in the first place.

  “I thought we were, basically—you know, like a priest and a confessor here?”

  “We are for the most part. However, there are a couple of exceptions. The first exception is the victimization of a minor. Whether by a sexual or physical assault, I’m a mandated reporter. That said, it only applies if a specific victim is mentioned by name. I cannot speak to the authorities if a victim is unnamed, in fact, it would be a violation of my professional code of conduct if I did. You understand that, right?”

  “I’ve never hurt a child. I never would. I thought you understood that about me.” Chip sounded upset.

  “I believe you. I’m merely explaining the law. The second exception is a specific threat. If for instance, you told me you were going to kill the President, that would be a case in which I’d have to call the authorities if I believed it was a credible threat. There’s some wiggle room here. If you simply said you felt like killing the President, that would be different. Usually, the cases that come up in these situations are domestic violence cases. If you told me you were going home to kill your wife and you rushed out of here, I’d be obligated by the law to call the police immediately.”

  “You know I love my wife very much? I hate violence. Really, I do.” Chip l
ooked less defensive to Hawkins.

  Chip looked up, eyes to the ceiling, and then asked a question. “So. You’re saying that if I told you I was raping a kid and I also was planning on ax murdering this guy that had pissed me off years ago, you’d be obligated to keep confidentiality? But if I said I was raping my neighbor Jim Smith’s kid and going to kill the star quarterback from my senior year at high school, a prick named Jason Dove, on Wednesday night with a baseball bat, you’d be dialing the cops? Is that about it?”

  “That’s about it. Known minor victim or known threatened person. That’s pretty much the key. I want you to understand; I’m not advocating keeping secrets or hiding the victims of abuse. But my professional and ethical obligations are to you. I want to see you heal and become a whole and healthy human being. Is that clear?”

  “I get it. Just for the record, I haven’t hurt anyone. Nor do I plan on it.”

  “Fair enough,” Hawkins said. “Why don’t we pick up from last week? We left off with your father apparently killing a woman. How did you feel about that then?”

  “I’m not sure. I thought we’d dumped a dog into the lake. I really did. I never thought about it any differently until years later. I guess I put it out of my mind and forgot about it.”

  Hawkins continued to ask him questions about that period in his life: living with an abusive father, being poor, not fitting in, not having a mother around, and other things that they had touched on briefly in past sessions. Sometimes in therapy he dodged around things he assumed were true because it wasn’t so much about him discovering the truth about his clients, it was about them discovering those truths themselves.

  “You’d mentioned to me before about how you had your first sexual contact with a woman when you were about twelve. We’ve not really talked about the specifics of that time. I was wondering if you are comfortable explaining that in more detail today? In light of how during a couple of years before that time you’d discovered sex with yourself and pornography?”

  “Okay, I’ve thought about this a lot. I know it had an impact because I still think of it sometimes. She was my best friend’s mother. From her perspective, it wasn’t sexual at all. She was just being nice.”

  Chip told the story. He’d been twelve years old when his father told him they were moving to California.

  ...................

  “I don’t want to leave,” Chip said. He rarely spoke up to his dad, but this was huge. California? He’d be totally alone and lost.

  “Doesn’t matter. You have no say in this. Goddamn! If I’d have talked to my father that way—holy fuck—I wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.”

  “Sorry.” Chip stood up straight. The last thing he wanted to do was show any weakness. “It’s just, I thought...”

  “What the fuck? Boy! Spit it out.”

  “I thought if we stayed, she might come back here. That’s all.” He knew it was a mistake to mention his mother as soon as he spoke. But it was true. At least his father didn’t strike him this time. He beat him with words instead.

  “Goddamn it. You’re being a pussy again. Your mother left because she’s a cunt. And she knows you and I were no fucking good. She’d have left us anyway, even if she was a good woman. But she wasn’t and she left us cause she’s a cunt through and through. You better put the idea out of your mind that you have a wonderful fucking mother out there like some goddamn show on the fucking TV. You got that?”

  Chip remained silent. He didn’t want to cry, so he ignored his father’s question. He stayed still for a minute and then spoke.

  “Dad?”

  “What? Speak the fuck up! Nobody listens to weak little pussies; you’d better learn to talk like a man.” His dad walked towards the kitchen, going first for a beer, and then the television remote. Chip figured it was as good a time as any to ask.

  “My friend from school, my best friend, he invited me over Saturday, a sleepover. Dad, can I go? Before we leave? So I can say goodbye?” He tried to ask in the most grown up and logical sounding voice he could. He figured if he made his request sound reasonable, his dad would say yes simply to not appear crazy.

  “Sure. What the fuck do I care?”

  ...................

  On Saturday afternoon Chip went to his friend’s house to swim, eat barbecue, and spend the night. He didn’t own a bathing suit, so his friend loaned him one, and they swam for hours. It was the best day he’d ever had so far in his short life, and he felt as if he was on a fancy vacation. Joan was his friend’s mother, and his father went by Buck. His friend’s father only drank three beers while sitting at the pool, and only said shit a couple of times, after which he usually added excuse me. His friend’s mother said things like call me Joan, honey and let me know if you need anything to drink.

  Chip thought his friend was the luckiest twelve-year-old in the city, maybe the whole state.

  When it got close to dinner time, Joan brought out hot dogs and hamburgers and spoke first to Buck. “You get on the grill, and I’ll handle the rest.” Then she looked down into the pool. “Boys, time to get out.”

  “Aw, Mom. Another half hour. Okay?”

  Chip froze. His heart pounded. He mourned the fact the evening was about to be ruined, and he wondered if they’d make him go home.

  “Fifteen more, boys. Fifteen and that’s it.”

  He was shocked and elated; he smiled at her and realized she looked pretty. She was wearing jean shorts and a bikini top that revealed a spattering of freckles on sunburnt breasts. Chip dove to the bottom of the pool, surfaced, and then jumped out. He followed her into the kitchen.

  “I’m ready to change... Joan,” he said.

  While she explained to him where to find a fresh towel, his friend burst into the room and ran past them.

  “Dibs on the shower!”

  “Goofball,” Joan said.

  She looked at Chip and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Come along, follow me, you can use my shower.”

  He grabbed his dry clothes and followed her like a wet duckling.

  She took him upstairs, handed him a towel out of the linen closet, and pointed towards a door in the master bedroom. “The shower is through there, go on, make yourself at home.”

  Chip looked at her and turned red. His eyes watered, and he struggled to keep his composure.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  Her voice sounded like a movie star. He didn’t want to cry in front of her, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “I don’t want to go to California.”

  “Oh, boy. I’m so sorry.” She pulled him into her arms.

  He sobbed, tears ran down his face, and she placed his wet cheeks into her chest.

  He could feel her breasts. It didn’t feel like the faint memories he had of being embraced by his mother, and he had no other memories of being held by a woman.

  She spoke comforting words to him, but he wasn’t listening. He could feel his tears on her skin, a lubricant produced by his pain; and he became aroused. He fought to keep his waist away from her; he would die if she saw, or felt, what she’d done to him. But he didn’t want to leave the sensation of her skin held tightly to his.

  She withdrew, kissed him on the forehead, and walked away. “Go get cleaned up, honey. Dinner will be ready soon.”

  Chip exhaled after he’d made it into the bathroom and locked the door. He looked into the bathroom mirror. His face was still red and wet; his body skinny, lanky, and white. He was just a boy with hardly any hair, barely any muscle, but with an erection caused by a grown woman who’d showed him a bit of tenderness. He wiped his eyes and turned on the shower. He placed the swimming trunks into a laundry hamper because it seemed like the right thing to do. And then he a saw a bra. He stared, reached in, and touched it. It was her bra. It had touched her breasts. He pulled it out of the hamper and touched it to his face. Chip felt ashamed and scared, but also enthralled; his erection was impossible to ignore.

  Then he noticed panties in
the hamper: Her panties, black panties, clothes that had touched here there.

  He couldn’t stop himself from touching them, in spite of the shame he felt, and the fear that he’d be discovered. He thought he’d better hurry, the water was still running, and they’d wonder what was taking him so long; but he couldn’t drop her underwear back into the hamper. He saw himself briefly in the mirror, he turned away, embarrassed. He used shampoo and masturbated while feeling her panties against his face. He knew then that he’d never find anyone in California as nice as Joan, and he recalled the softness of her skin during the short moment of joy before his guilt returned.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Serious affairs and history are carefully laid snares for the uninformed.

  ~ Dejan Stojanovic

  Complex mathematical problems are easier to solve than the mysteries of love, sex, lust, dating, women, and relationships. The rules don’t change in math. The only constant in relationships is that the rules change.

  ~ Ryan Mills

  ...................

  Drew met Kyle for a quick lunch on campus. They’d been seeing each other for two weeks, and Drew knew that she was in danger of falling into deep infatuation. That scared her. It wasn’t that she didn’t like having a steady man in her life, but experience had taught her that really nice guy meant oh fuck at some point.

  But not wanting to jinx their budding relationship, she stayed positive and hopeful.