Well, this isn’t very ideal.

My feet are tapping relentlessly against the floor, and out of sheer boredom, my hands smooth against the wooden arms of the old chair I’m sitting in. It’s one of those chairs that make you feel like you’re sitting back in the principal’s office in school about to receive the punishment of a life time.  Not that I really remember what that was like, since my schooling experience was very limited, but I’ve seen enough movies to spark the memory. I guess that’s the perk of having a show biz career and a stage mom.

The longer I sit here, the more tense I get.  My fingers start to move faster, my foot starts tapping more rapidly, and my breath starts to turn into heaves.  I’ve been waiting in this seemingly abandoned, haphazardly messy office for almost 30 minutes now, but it feels like I’ve been here for an hour.  I can assure you that the restlessness isn’t getting any easier.  Rehab hasn’t done much for my patience, that’s for sure.

Tiring of playing with my seat, I decide to let my eyes wander.  This is an old office, obviously one of the older parts of the rehab facility, and it’s tucked away in a mess of twisted hallways.  I’m not sure if I could remember how I got here, even if I wanted to.  

Taking a bit longer to inspect every inch of the small space, I start to wonder who’s office this is.  The walls are shelves of books, almost resembling a library.  Except in this case, there were books missing, strewn about, and left open here and there.  I guess that probably means the office belongs to a doctor of some sort.  Or a boring administrator.  Either way, they’re messy as fuck.  My mother would highly disapprove.

After satisfying my curiosity for the room, my eyes meander to the desk.  Following suit with the messy surroundings, there are a ton of papers strewn about its top:  a few books, some typical office supplies, and finally, a stack of files.

File folders.  Hmm...interesting.

Deciding to investigate a bit further, I apprehensively look over my shoulder to make sure no one was behind me before I allow my body to lean over the mahogany desk. Peering at the top file folder, my eyes quickly scan the tab.

Timberlake, Justin R.

I feel my lungs start to constrict, and a mixed bag of emotions passes over me.  Part of me is concerned that my private business is so easily on display for anyone to read.  The other part is massively curious about the contents of my ever elusive file.

Should I?

My teeth sink slightly into my bottom lip as my left hand nervously itches at the forearm of my right hand.

I shouldn’t.  

I’m in a position to finally get out of this place, considering Nurse Jackie was a psycho patient that essentially raped me because they weren’t more careful with their security procedures.  Certainly, that’s grounds enough to break myself out.  I could sue them for all their worth if they try to deny my request for dismissal.

But as I stare at the file, I know that I would love nothing more than to know what this “so-called therapy” and these kooky, retarded psychologists have to say about my “so-called condition”.

I really shouldn’t.

Taking another deep sigh, I peer back over my shoulder nervously.  The silence fell around me eerily as I glance back at the file.  I let my neck roll lazily from side to side as the mental debate ensues in my head--to open the file, or to not.  

I finally reach across the desk and feel the course ground paper of the file folder slide against my calloused finger tips--the ones that used to play guitar, but have longed abandoned the musical instrument to make girls scream in pleasure.

Pulling it towards me, I let it drop languidly into my lap.  I sat there for a few moments, the curiosity mounting as I stare intently at it.  The longer I stare, the more I can feel my mouth salivating, like a dog at dinner time.  Finally reaching the limits of my patience, I start to push the front of the folder open.  I can’t contain myself any longer.

“Ahem.”

Just as the folder is about open, I’m startled by the sudden voice echoing in the hallow chambers.  In a last ditch effort to preserve what’s left of my integrity, I jump quickly.  The sudden movement causes the file folder and its contents to spew from my lap and onto the floor.  

“Shit,” I utter.  Papers are everywhere, and what started as an innocent look into my diagnosis, now makes me look like a guilty troublemaker.

Laughter surrounds the empty room, echoing off the walls.  And the laughter is eerily familiar.  Snapping my head back around, my eyes set sight on the beautiful creature that I had run into at Starbucks my first week here, and I’m almost floored at the revelation.

Cadence.  God, is she beautiful.

But, what the fuck is she doing here?

I feel a massive blush creep over my features as I bent down to try and shove the contents of the file back into the folder.  The faster I try to move, the more difficult it becomes.  It feels as if I lost all motor function, and each simple task I try to accomplish takes twice as long as I had hoped.  By the time I finish, I not only feel guiltier than OJ Simpson, but I am embarrassed to boot.  And trust me, that never happens.

“You know, I was waiting to see how long it would take you to open that file,” she finishes, her tone very matter-of-fact while allowing for a hint of sarcasm.

Her heels click loudly as she makes long, confident strides across the creaky, wooden floor towards me and the desk.  Why didn’t I hear her heels before?

I blush a little more, if that was even possible.  Instinctually, I reach for my tie, as if to loosen it, only to realize that it wasn’t there.  I’m still not quite used to the scrubs, quickly missing my business casual attire that made me famous after Sexy Back.  Regardless, I could feel the flushness radiating off my skin like a third degree sunburn.

“Oh,” was all that I could muster.

She smirks a little, crossing her arms over her chest as she stood behind the desk, using it to create a barrier between us.

“Oh is all you have to say for yourself?” she asks again, this time taking a seat at the desk, beginning to fix up the messy file folders into a more straight forward fashion.

My voice creaked slightly as I tried to talk.  “Um. Sorry?”

A long silence passed between us before I found my voice again.  “I guess I’m not really sure what to say.”

“Nothing to say?  That's a first for you, isn't?"  She waited for my response, but I didn't give her one.  "Honestly, I figured the file would have been the first thing you went after.  You know that’s your file folder, right?” she asks as I put what’s left of the folder back on the desk.

I sigh.  “Yes, I’m aware.  I was looking forward to reading it.  I mean, it was left out on the desk in plain view.  That isn’t a violation of my patient/rehab privacy?”  I know, I’m grasping at straws here, but there’s not much else to say to her.

She shakes her head in front of me, as if to iterate her massive distaste for me.  All I can pay attention to, though, is her dark brown curls bouncing a little off her shoulder.  She really is beautiful, and I’m not just saying that because my pole is harder than a block of ice in the North Pole because I haven't had sex in 24 hours.

“Do you ever have anything positive to say, Mr. Timberlake?” she asks, incredulously.

I’m confused.  “I’m not sure I understand the question...  I wasn’t aware that that was negative.”

“Look.  I’ve looked through your file, and it’s obvious that you’re not really into being here.  You’re not cooperative with the doctors.  You’re not cooperative with other patients.  And most of all, you’ve broken several rules while on campus--including sleeping with another patient, and leaving the facility.  You don’t find that a bit on the negative side?” she asks, her exterior changing from her sarcastic humorous tone to a very somber, serious one.

I just sigh.  “I haven’t broken any rules,” I scoff.

“Really, Mr. Timberlake?  There’s video footage.  This is a highly secure facility, even if it may not seem like it to you,” she responds coolly.  “Not to mention, you bought me a coffee at Starbucks.  I was there, in case you forgot.”

“Well, first of all--one of your crazy patients got out and raped me, so if anything--I should sue you and you should release me immediately!”  I really don’t want to be a jerk to her, but I can’t just let her steam roll me like she’s doing.  She acts all high and mighty, as if she knows everything about my situation.

“Again, Mr. Timberlake--you went after said patient long before the incident, while you still thought she was a nurse.  That proves your intent was to break the rules.  While we definitely apologize for the error--you certainly didn’t stop it either.  If anything, I’d say maybe the two of you deserve each other.”

I immediately realize that there’s nothing I can say to her that will save me at this point. She was obviously there when I gave her coffee, and if she has videographic evidence, I'm screwed.  Not even the Nurse Jackie situation will save me at this point. Perhaps some groveling would help.

“It’s not like I want to be here, alright?”

“Then why are you?” she asked, pointedly.

“I was forced to be here, by my 'employer' and my 'friends.'”

She nodded, relaxing back in the chair slightly.  The way she was sitting, I could see her cleavage, and I had to physically shift in my seat slightly so that I didn't get distracted.

“So you don’t think you have a problem?” she finished.

I sigh.  “Of course not.  I’m just another celebrity that has a lot of girls throwing themselves at me.  What would you do if you were me?”  I hoped the logic of this situation appealed to her somewhat.

“I’m not here to judge you, Mr. Timberlake.  I’m here to see you get better.”

Nothing else can escape me other than another sigh.

“There’s nothing to get better from!” I groan, exasperated.

I watch her groan, and pick up what was left of my file.  “No?  You don’t even know how many women you’ve slept with in the past month.  You don’t know how many women you’ve slept with overall.  You’ve never been tested for an STD.  There’s no sexual position you haven’t tried.  You won’t talk about your sexual history.  Should I go on?” she asked, her eyebrow raising in question.

Suddenly, I feel violated.  

“Who are you, and why do you have my file?”  I couldn’t help it.  The only time I had ever seen her was at the coffee shop, and it just felt awkward to me that here she was, intimately aware of all of the details of my sexual history.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I run this place.  And I take it very personally that all of the patients check in here get better.  I’m just a little concerned here that you aren’t even trying.  You seem like a nice enough guy...so what’s holding you back?  No judgement.”

I can tell she's trying to reason with me. Taking another deep breath, I rub my hand frustratedly over my face.  This was not how I planned this conversation at all.

“What’s holding me back?  Probably the fact that I haven’t had sex, and I hate my counselor.  He asks dumb questions, and I don’t feel comfortable talking to him.”

She nods.  “Okay, why don’t you feel comfortable talking to him?”

Another groan passed my lips.  “Jesus, is everything fucking therapy with everyone around here!?  I don’t fucking know, I just don’t like him!!!”

“You know, I really want to help you,” she started, closing my file.  “But if you can’t tell me why he’s ineffective with you, I can’t do anything about it.”

“I just don’t like him, okay?  He freaks me out, and he asks dumb questions.  He just sits there and writes in his pad, and I feel like he judges me.”

Silence ensues, and it makes me feel like she’s waiting for more of an explanation.  I try to hold out, but I’m ineffective.  I hate silence more than anything.

“He doesn’t really care about me.  He just wants to get his answers.  And I hate fat fucks.  Guys bother me, they always have.  I relate better to women, in case you couldn't tell.”

I really hate that she got me to even say that.  Who is this woman, and why does she have so much of an effect on me?

“So, if you had a female counselor, you would feel more comfortable?” she asks, supportively.

I couldn’t help but shrug my shoulders.  “Maybe, I don’t know.”

“Would you be willing to try it?” she asks.

I laugh a little, a hint of sadness in my voice.  “Only if you’re my counselor...”  I'm half joking. I don't really want her to be my counselor because I don't want someone as beautiful as her to know anything about me.  But it just kind of slipped out.

She took a few moments before staring at me, and the way her deep green eyes peered into mine, it felt like they were piercing my soul.

“Okay.  Will you honestly start talking if I agree to be your counselor?”

Part of me was taken aback, and the other part was petrified.  I didn't really think she'd agree.  

“I mean...are you even qualified to do that?” I respond.  I'm still kind of in shock that she would agree to this, and the reality of having to talk about my sex life with her is starting to sink in.

She laughs.  Her laugh is infectious, and under better circumstances, I know I would be laughing with her.

"Of course, I'm qualified.  Would you like to see my degrees from Columbia and Yale?" I watch her point to a bunch of degrees on the wall behind her.  Why didn't I notice those before?

Part of me is stunned.  "R-really?"  That's really all I can mutter at this moment.  I'm not really sure what's happening, or what I'm agreeing to.  She has an effect over me that I'm not quite used to.

"If it's okay with you, and you think it might actually get you to take this therapy serious, I would like to give it a shot." 

 She smiles, and it's like my chest starts to contrict.  Her teeth are a beautiful pearl, and the way her front teeth bite slightly into her bottom lip sends my thoughts into hypergear.  

No.  Come on, you can say it. No.  No, I don't want to do therapy with you.  No, I don't want to tell you about every girl I've ever slept with.  No, I don't want to have to go through shit therapy with my family and friends about what a huge fuckup they think I am.  I don't want you to see the shitty side of this situation.  No, no, no, no, no.  No.

"Okay."

I'm fucking pathetic.

“Promise?” she smiles.  "You'll really give this a shot?"  The hopeful tone in her voice is really endearing.

I sigh.  “Anything for you...”  Part of it was sarcastic, and part of it was in defeat.  She had won, and I had a feeling that this was only the beginning of her dominating my psyche.

"Great!" she smiled.  "I think this will be really wonderful for you."

So much for getting out of rehab early.