Previously...
With their marriage on the rocks, Abby and George turn to a most unlikely source for help. Unbeknownst to George, Abby has agreed to let the incubus, Damian, and his mate, Britt, act as marriage counsellors.
****
George drove his rusted pickup past the university campus where he'd been chasing tenure for the last several years. It was Friday evening and students wandered the lamp lit paths, hurrying to their dorms or to some club or another.
As for George, he had a date.
No, he reminded himself, not a date. A session. A session with a marriage counsellor. A solo session with a female marriage counsellor. An attractive, buxom marriage counsellor who made his heart race and tied his tongue like a pretzel.
Stop it, he chided himself guiltily. It's a session, nothing more, nothing less.
Better concentrate on driving, he decided, as his truck groaned around a corner.
The truck had been a concession to Abby's unreasoning distrust of anything that couldn't stand up by itself without support. Ten years ago, George had been mooning about motorcycles. Hogs. Softtails. Never mind that he'd never ridden a motorcycle before, but by God, he was born to be wild and he could take a course at the community college to teach him how. In the end, Abby had quietly approved of a truck, but one with a quad cab in case they ever decided to have kids. The truck would give George's depleting testosterone room to float about in. Free range hormones. He'd made a great show of reluctantly sacrificing his dreams of roaring down the wide open road to a Steppenwolf soundtrack. The bike was out, the truck was in. Abby had chosen red, which was okay with George. She'd called it his sexy, sexy red truck. Of course, the finance company had owned half of its sexiness at the time, but his testosterone, what there was of it, was all his own.
The truck was now rattling its way to the converted warehouse that housed the office of the counsellors. Abby had insisted on giving therapy one more chance. She'd said that these counsellors were recommended, that they often succeeded where all others had failed. If this doesn't work out, she'd said, at least we'll know that we tried everything. Please, she'd said. She'd practically begged.
George had grudgingly agreed.
He and Abby had met the counsellors two weeks ago, in a meeting that left more questions than answers. As he rolled through town, he replayed that first meeting in his mind.
They'd pulled up in front of an old factory that had been converted to office lofts. The name of the defunct company peeled from the crown of the building.
"Doesn't look like much, does it?" said George.
Abby shrugged and stepped out of the car.
The lobby was spacious and richly appointed, in contrast to the building's shabby exterior. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and light gleamed in the polished marble, burnished metal, and dark hardwood. An office directory featured a dozen buttons, but only a few were labelled. "We want unit four," said Abby, checking a slip of paper.
"What's this business called?" asked George, noting that unit four was unnamed.
"I don't know. All I have is a person's name and address."
George shrugged and pressed the button. For a minute, nothing happened. George glanced around, noticing a closed circuit camera affixed to the ceiling.
"George and Abigail Masterson?" came a disembodied voice.
"Yes," answered George.
"Take the elevator to the top floor. First door on the right."
A buzzer sounded and George hurried to open the door.
At the door stood a man dressed in an exquisitely tailored grey suit. George judged him to be a shade taller than six feet, which was several inches taller than he was. The man had a lean, chiselled face, strong jaw, and body that appeared to be no stranger to physical exertion, which was unlike George on all counts. His dark, wavy hair revealed a hint of grey at the temples, George noted. George himself had almost no grey, for which he was happy, but his hair was thinning. The man was tanned, bespeaking a disdain for the conventional wisdom about UV rays. His face was rugged and weathered, but not unattractively, with a network of lines that radiated out from his eyes. Deep creases bracketed a firm mouth. He was handsome and George immediately disliked him. He preferred his old counsellor, who had the look of an unassuming accountant.
"I'm Damian," said the man. They shook hands all around and Damian ushered them inside the office.
Tall windows overlooked a busy commercial street, but no sound penetrated. The room was dominated by a heavy oak desk set against the backdrop of bookcases. A laptop occupied the desk, but otherwise its surface was uncluttered. Off to one side sat a meeting table with four leather chairs, on the other a low leather couch and coffee table.
From the moment he first stepped into their office, something told George that this foray into marital rescue would be different. The walls of the office were adorned with provocative artwork, striking after the nondescript and consciously neutral office decor of the counsellors he and Abby had visited in the past. One painting was of a woman's hand against a dark red background, palm upraised, fingers slightly curled, caught either in the moment of release or of making a fist. Another was of a woman, done in the style of Caravaggio, bound to a column, light playing dramatically against her lowered head and the folds of white cloth draped loosely around her torso. A sculpture of two stylized figures impossibly entwined stood on the credenza.
So absorbed was George with the decor that he failed to notice the entrance of a woman into the office.
"Sorry I'm late. I was tied up," she said.
"Ah, Britt. We were just getting acquainted," said Damian.
Damian made the requisite introductions, but George scarcely heard. Britt walked towards them with feline grace and shook hands. She led them to the meeting table and sat next to George, opposite Damian. She and Damian exchanged a brief, inscrutable look. Britt smiled at George and idly twirled the stands of her ponytail between slender and expertly manicured fingers. Her hair was light brown and her bangs neatly framed expressive and beguiling green eyes. She wore little makeup, as her clear and healthy complexion would scarcely have benefited from it. Rimless glasses sat on a delicate nose. Her lips curved in a gentle smile as she addressed Abby and George. "I hope I haven't missed anything."
She wore a simple, white blouse. The top buttons were undone, revealing a crucifix nestled in the cleft of her cleavage. A thick leather belt cinched the narrow circumference of her waist, and she wore a short leather skirt. Completing the ensemble were shiny black boots that sheathed her legs to the tops of her calves. Seated and without the advantage of four inch heels, she no longer appeared as tall as she had on her entrance. She crossed her legs and her skirt rode up, revealing an expanse of toned thigh, stockings, and a garter strap. George's eyes widened. She was young enough to have been a grad student, thought George. He hoped that she wasn't; any professor would have been mightily distracted by her presence.
"We were just getting started," said Damian. "I was just about to explain to Abby and George that we are not counsellors or therapists in the traditional sense of the word."
No shit, thought George, sneaking a peek at Britt.
"For certain couples," continued Damian, "therapy works well. It reveals hidden motivations and all that blessedly interesting stuff. But for some couples, those who have undergone, like you, therapy two..."
"Three," offered George.
"...or three times, sometimes a different approach is needed. An approach that is less orthodox."
