Touch Therapy

Rachel leaned back into the overstuffed couch, stockinged feet tucked up underneath her, and tried not to fidget nervously.

Dr. Griggs was doing that thing that psychiatrists and cops do: ask an open-ended question, and then let the room fill with a silence that stretches out endlessly. Rachel recognized the technique as one designed to nudge a subject into unguarded discourse, to push one into prattling carelessly and spilling secrets.

She supposed Griggs' motivations were pure enough, but she resented the approach anyway, and was irritated at being pushed in that way. But Griggs was a practiced expert, and sat with a relaxed patience that clearly communicated that Rachel, after all,

must

continue. That it was as inevitable as the change of seasons.

Finally, Rachel could stand it no more.

"No," she blurted, defensively. "No, I don't feel like I'm just making up justifications to make myself feel better. He really

isn't

my brother, after all. Not by blood, anyway."

She waited for Griggs to jump in and refute her, but the doctor just smiled that infuriatingly detached, professional smile, and flicked her heavy gold pen in a 'go on' gesture. Rachel sighed irritably, and continued, "I don't feel guilty about it," she insisted, "not at all. I mean, he's a guy. I'm pretty sure he's just happy he got off."

Griggs sat forward at that, her expression becoming more intent. "Is that," she asked, "really what you think? I'm not saying your assessment is incorrect, mind you, as I've not actually met Greg, but do you really believe that's his perspective on what happened?"

Rachel dropped her eyes to the pattern on the Persian rug, brow furrowing. She tried not to sound petulant when she answered, "Maybe not, but he's a guy, and I just can't believe he's all 'conflicted,' or anything."

She looked back to Griggs, who had sat back in her chair, and was letting the silence stretch out again. God that was irritating.

"Okay," Rachel admitted finally, "Okay, I don't really believe that. He's a bit of a boyscout, so I think maybe he's a little freaked, but I think he's also glad that he's helping me get better."

Rachel paused then, meeting Griggs' professional gaze with her own as she earnestly insisted, "and he

is

helping me. Everything has gotten better since he moved in. Everything."

Griggs nodded, tapping a gold pen on the legal pad she held in her lap. She looked, Rachel suddenly realized, like Lindsay Wagner in a pantsuit. 'My bionic therapist,' Rachel thought, struggling not to laugh out loud.

"I understand," Griggs said, "that you're actually making some friends at school." The doctor gave Rachel a small smile, adding, "Why don't you tell me about that?"

"I joined yearbook," Rachel said, happy with the change of focus. "I've got all my college requirements out of the way, so I just needed some elective units." She shrugged, "and some of the girls in there are alright. We sort of talk while we work. Tilly's teaching me how to take decent pictures with a digital camera, and Sherri's a bit of a goof." Rachel's eyes gazed off into the middle distance, and she smiled at something only she could see, saying "she plays French horn, you know. And she makes us laugh."

"That's good," Griggs nodded approvingly. "That's a very healthy development. Would you consider them close friends? The kind of friends you could, say, trust for advice about personal issues? Do you ever talk to them about how you feel about your step-brother?"

Rachel's eyebrows shot up in shocked horror at the thought. "God, no," she sputtered, "Are you nuts? If anyone found out about what happened to me, or what I'm, you know, doing. . ." She shook her head, her pale hands coming out of her lap, slender fingers spread wide, as though the possibility was one she could literally push away. "No," she insisted, "no, I'm never going to tell anyone about this."

Griggs' face remained professionally neutral, but there was a hint of disappointment in her voice when she responded. "Rachel, I think we need to explore that further. You seem very resistant to the idea of forming close relationships with people beyond your mother and, now, your brother. This troubles me. The end goal has always been to enhance your social function, and your comfort with other people."

Griggs paused to jot a brief note, and continued. "The social withdrawal, the social stigma that you felt after your abuse. . ."

"My brother didn't abuse me," Rachel interjected coldly.

Griggs impatiently waved one hand, as though batting away a fly. "Nevertheless, you experienced trauma due to the nature of your relationship with him. You felt ashamed, stigmatized." The doctor's steely blue eyes met Rachel's dark gaze with a disconcerting directness. "Setting aside the issue of who was responsible, the end result was a social isolation that you're still struggling with. Is this not so?"

Rachel nodded in weary acknowledgement of issues they had already worked through, and Griggs continued, saying, "and expanding your social circle beyond your immediate family, building healthy relationships with others," Griggs paused, slowing her speech to emphasize the import of her words, "healthy relationships that include the key element of

trust

, is the end goal here."

Griggs sat back, once again tapping her gold pen on the legal pad. "You have to do the work, here, Rachel, if you want to reach the end goal. I think we both know that you've been playing a little fast and loose with the advice I gave you."

Leaning forward, Griggs waited in silence until Rachel reluctantly met her gaze. "I

told

you," Griggs admonished with sudden, grim severity, "that your step-brother Greg was

not

a suitable surrogate. You've been wildly irresponsible with the research materials I lent you."

Confident that she had Rachel's full attention, Griggs leaned back again, her tone softening, although the rebuke was still evident. "That's not to say that you haven't made progress, or realized any benefits from your interactions with him, but from what you've told me about recent events," Griggs trailed off, shaking her head. "Well, there may be associated costs that we can't even begin to estimate yet."

The concern in Griggs' voice was apparent, but Rachel could feel her own stubborn side welling up, rejecting what the doctor was telling her.

"Our priority now," Griggs continued, her demeanor becoming professionally brusque, "is to de-escalate the intensity of your interactions with Greg, and transfer some of that context onto more acceptable objects. A good start would be to further cultivate your friendships with the girls in your yearbook class and, if possible, attempt to make some male friends as well."

Griggs preemptively waved off Rachel's objection, saying "I know. I know. You still have problems with forming those sorts of relationships, but you know that my clinical method is heavily informed by dialectical approaches. As always, you need to

practice

the behaviors you want to become proficient at, and you need to remain

mindful

of your own emotional responses during that practice, so that you don't self-sabotage. So make an effort. Reach out to some other people. Establish some relationships beyond your brother, and cultivate those."

Griggs paused, then, emphasizing her next words. "You may have realized some benefits in terms of enhanced emotional confidence, but your relationship with your brother is still, at its root, maladaptive."

Griggs jabbed her pen against the legal pad at each syllable, underlining the seriousness of the situation, as she repeated, "maladaptive."

Rachel nodded in reluctant assent, "Yes doctor."

But in her mind's eye she saw Greg, head thrown back, face tight and distant with strained focus.

In her mind's eye, she felt his hand under her own, strong and warm, as she pressed his fingers against the straining, working softness of her tongue and palate.

In her mind's eye she felt his fingers moving inside her, and the warm crush of his lips against hers as she surfed along the swift, surging flux of her climax.

"Yes, doctor Griggs," Rachel said, striving to convey enthusiastic sincerity, "I understand how important that is. I'll really work on that."

"Good," Griggs said. "Very good. Now, did you want me to speak with your mother? As always, the content of our sessions is privileged, and I won't discuss them with her without your consent. But if you wanted me to reassure her about your progress, or convey some other information to her, I'd be more than happy to."

Rachel shook her head slowly, "No," she said, as though giving the matter careful consideration. "No, I think for the moment that we're doing okay. If something comes up, though, I'll have her call you."

"Excellent," Griggs said, beaming, "well, that's our time! Focus on the homework, practice mindfulness, like we discussed, and we can talk further about your progress next week."

"Yes, Doctor."

/Break/

Rachel stood in front of the full length mirror in her room, checking her reflection. She eyed her breasts with a critical glance, wishing they were a bit larger, fuller, and then turned slightly to eye herself in profile. Her nipples, she thought, were far too small and dark. And that tiny brown mole on the underside of her left breast-- uggo. But at least she had great legs, she mused, and a decent ass, if a bit narrow through the hips.

She turned again, looking at herself straight on, assessing, evaluating. She kept her mound trimmed in a tidy little triangle, and the blackness of her hair stood out starkly against her pale skin. She thought of Sherri, from her yearbook class. Buxom, smiling Sherri, with the golden tan and the hair so blonde it seemed almost white. Rachel sighed. No tan here, she thought begrudgingly, wondering if she'd ever be confident enough to lie under the sun in a bikini.

She glanced at the clock on the wall, checking to see how much longer until it would be dark. How much longer until her mother and Robert would retire to bed. It was only late afternoon, now, which meant that night was an eternity away.

Pushing away the thought, she tried on a couple of her T-shirts, finally settling on one that was soft and form fitting enough to show off her trim figure, as well as a hint of nipple. She fished an old pair of sweats from a top shelf. She never wore these, except to bed on very cold nights, but she liked them because they were worn thin and soft with age. And they fit snugly, hugging her butt and thighs with a flattering immodesty.

She wondered if it would seem deliberately slutty if she didn't wear underwear under the sweats, and then decided it was probably common enough that she could get away with it.

Compulsively, she glanced at the clock again, willing it forward.

Downstairs, she could hear Greg moving about in the kitchen, clattering pans, running water, and periodically busting out in accompaniment to the stereo he had blaring in his den.

Well you beg me to stay, then you tell me to go. All this up and down, well it's wearin' on my soul. I'm wond'rin if our futures gonna look just like our past. Cuz I got one foot in yer doorway, babe, 'nd I got one foot on the path.

Rachel laughed softly to herself as she listened, feeling a slight pang. He was sweet, alright, but he could

not

sing.

He had returned from a run about forty minutes ago, and she had watched him from her window as he huffed air at the door, fumbling with the lock and dripping sweat. She had wondered, idly, what it would be like to wrap her arms around him as he stood there. Probably gross, she thought. Sticky. And yet she thrilled slightly at the thought. And when she'd heard him in the shower, she'd wondered again what he would think if she just strolled in and joined him.

And did it matter? She turned it over and over in her head, remembering what Griggs had said, and then impatiently discarding the thought. Greg had made her a promise. He had said he'd do

anything

, and that word had lodged in her mind like a hook. It drew her, with a constant pressure, urging her again and again to test the promise, to test -him-.

Rachel forced herself not to look at the clock again, instead turning slowly in front of the mirror, eyeing the T-shirt and sweats. They looked suitably casual, she thought. Not overtly or deliberately sexy, but eye catching. She crossed her arms briefly under her breasts, pushing them out so that they looked fuller, and the nipples pushed into visibility. She took a deep breath to still the butterflies in her stomach, then headed downstairs.

Greg spotted her as she swung into the arch that marked the transition from the kitchen to the tiny living room.

"Heya!" he shouted over the blaring music, glancing at her over one shoulder. He fumbled on the counter for the remote and turned the music down to little more than background murmur. "Sorry about that," he grinned. "I get a little excited. Sometimes I forget other people are studying. And with dad out of the house, I figured I could crank it up for once."

"Robert's not here?" Rachel asked, puzzled.

"Nah, he got called in to the plant to cover a graveyard shift. Sucks, but as a supervisor he has to either work the shift himself, or make someone else work it." Greg made a face at her over his shoulder as he chopped more vegetables, "And you know how he is. He's not going to ask someone else to pull a double if he can cover it."

Greg, turning back to the stove, pulled a lid from a steaming pot at the back and dropped a wooden spoon into it to give it a quick stir. Rachel walked behind him and seated herself at the kitchen table, turned one chair sideways so that she could lean against the table, and carefully crossed her arms under her breasts, just as she had upstairs.

"And mom?" Rachel asked, keeping her voice casual.

"Nope," Greg shook his head without turning around, raising his voice. "The company's rolling out that office software package. She's probably going to be herding code monkeys pretty much nonstop for the next few days."

They were alone in the house, Rachel thought. And would be, all night. The butterflies in her tummy exploded into a furious fluttering storm.

He had known this, she thought. Probably for hours. And he was. . . cooking? She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, looking out the other side of the kitchen. The sheet that served as a door to his makeshift bedroom was pinned back, and she could see the futon, folded up into couch form, with untidy blankets bunched up around the edges.

She flashed briefly back to the other night, remembering the feeling of his fingers, pressing into her, stroking along her most delicate flesh. She remembered, and felt a surge of liquid heat at her crotch.

She turned back, frowning in irritation and drumming her short nails against the table while she watched him move about the kitchen.

"So we're alone in the house," she said.

"Yep," Greg replied, giving her a quick grin, and then gesturing with the wooden spoon, "So I'm making dinner tonight!" He stepped back to the cutting board, and started to core out and de-seed some bell peppers with quick, practiced movements. "I'm thinking brown rice," he said, pointing the knife at the pot at the back of the stove, "and veggies, with some lean beef sliced in, and a little garlic and soy-sauce to finish it out."

"Oh!" he said, as if just remembering, glancing at her again over his shoulder, "we've got icecream in the freezer. Elaine picked it up the other day. She called, said we could break into it if we wanted. Dark raspberry and chocolate."

"Dark raspberry and chocolate," Rachel repeated numbly, woodenly, thinking again,

he's known for hours. Hours. I was sitting all alone in my room. He knew. Probably before he even went for a run, he knew.

Rachel stared at Greg's back, feeling suddenly cold. He had changed into a fresh t-shirt after his run, and it clung to his back where he was still damp from the shower. He had also thrown on a pair of grey sweats, legs raggedly hacked off above the knee to form shorts.

Rachel watched the play of muscles around his shoulder-blades as he chopped vegetables, watched the flex of the tendons in his thick thighs and calves as he moved about the kitchen.

He had known, for hours. And he had let her sit there, alone in her room. She saw herself in her mind's eye, checking herself in the mirror, turning from side to side to see how the sweats made her ass and legs look. Worrying about what he would think when he saw her. Wondering if he would like it, if he would think she looked nice, looked sexy.

She looked down at herself now, feeling stupid. Her stomach was knotted with tension, and desire. She could feel her wetness slicking her inner thighs, starting to soak into the thin fabric of the sweats, and she squeezed her legs together, flushing hotly as she imagined the dark spot spreading outward from her crotch.

Christ, she was falling apart here, and he was, was just . . .

cooking.

He didn't want her, she thought, with a sudden flash of anger. Not really. They'd been alone in the house for hours, and he'd been down here singing along with his stupid CD. So why had he, that other night. . . why had. . . did he just feel

sorry

for her?

She felt the back of her throat closing up, and she bolted out of the chair, almost knocking it over. She stood there, stiff-legged, trembling, infuriated by how small he'd made her feel without even trying.

Greg had half turned at the sound, alarmed. Now he finished turning, slowly, puzzled by the expression on her face.

"Take your shirt off." Rachel gritted out, fighting back angry tears.

"Rachel?" Greg asked, confused, the wooden spoon dangling, forgotten, from his hand.

"TAKE IT OFF!" Rachel shouted. She stepped forward, her face inches from his own, and yanked the spoon from his hand, tossing it onto the counter behind him. In the tense silence, the pot of brown rice bubbled, and the stirfry crackled gently.

"You said anything," Rachel hissed with stony bitterness. "Anything. Did you mean it or not?"

"Well, yeah," Greg said quietly, staring into her dark eyes. "But," he gestured at the stove behind him, "I mean. . ."

"Take it off," Rachel interrupted, her voice very quiet, and very cold.

Greg nodded slowly in assent, his eyes still searching hers for some clue to what was going on here. He crossed his arms, grabbing the bottom of his shirt, and then drew it up over his head and off.

Rachel eyed his naked torso, her mouth suddenly dry, and pointed commandingly at the kitchen floor, indicating where he should drop the shirt. Greg complied.

"Shorts too," Rachel husked out.

Greg's face flushed instantly, showing pink even through the tan. "Rachel, really," he started, embarrased. But Rachel cut him off with a furious look and a sharp gesture. Greg almost flinched under that look, more confused than ever. "Okay," he said, "okay." Face flaming, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of the sweats, yanked them below his hips, and let them fall. He kicked them over to lie with the shirt.

Naked now, he stood as straight as he could. Staring back into Rachel's eyes, fighting not to look as embarrased as he felt.

"Rachel," he started, "what's. . . "

Rachel was on him before he could finish the question. Greg had several inches on her, and was considerably stronger, but she was driven by an anger she could not express any other way. She locked both fists in his hair and yanked him forward and down. Greg, caught by surprise, stumbled forward, bowed forward, then dropped to his knees, trying to escape the ferocious pain.

The heavy thump of his knees on the tile floor was drowned out by his cry of surprise and pain as Rachel reversed direction, using her cruel grip to drag his head back, tilting it up so that she could look down into his face.