Vicariously Yours,

Terrorizing Yours Truly

Marcelo rubbed his jaw as he read her email once again. A smile hinted at the edge of his lips.

To whom it may concern,

Regarding our in person therapy consultations, I have come to deeply regret to inform you that our sessions will no longer continue due to impersonal exigencies. I have attached several five star reviews of references you might benefit from. Do hope you continue to seek to get better and healthier.

Regards,
Dr. Isabella Pressly

The whole email gnawed at him, making him want to throw his head back and laugh but also grit his teeth. Only she had such an abysmal effect on him as this. She didn't even have the courtesy to write his name in the salutation. Was she too busy that she couldn't write Dear Mr. Marcelo DeVille? Or was she just doing it to annoy the crap out of him?

Rolling his tongue inside his mouth, he clicked on the compose circular bar on his laptop. Fingers flying across the keypad, he mentally thought and typed out his reply.

To Baby doll,

'Why you gotta be so rude? Don't you know I'm human too? Why you gotta be so rude?' You know I'm going to keep coming anyway.
And stop with the formality, you are making me blush. Oh wait, you were the one blushing and riding an arm of the couch. (Winky emoji)

P.S. all the references are male. Care to comment?

P.S.S. You know my name.

P.S.S.S. I'm coming this Friday, keep the couch warm for me.

Remember,
Marcelo (The man who watched you orgasm)

Marcelo rubbed his hand gleefully after he sent it. Who knew emailing was fun with Isabella? Her modest proper email was like a flush of spewed nonsense, trying to make him leave.

Not going to happen.

Although, it bugged him. Why was he doing this? What was the point of it all? When he told her he needed her, he hadn't realized he was speaking the truth in some way. He did need her but for what?

His life, his mistakes, his terrible mistakes only which he had to suffer. Even though his father was no help, like he was ever, still.

His eyes latched to the painting across him, hating himself for his stupidity.

He pressed his face into his palms, digging his elbows into the desk. Honestly, he should just run away. He could see himself doing it. A small rucksack with all the essentials, airplane ticket booked to....where could he go? Where do people like him tend to go? Mexico? Nah, too predictable. Russia? Further away the better. Then, bitterly he skimmed through the thought of Italy. That'll be the first place to start looking for him and then before he knows it, his father will come and take him away.

Oh, why bother? Was he a man to run away from his problems? He should be saying no but a soft whisper of a yes resounded in his mind.

A knock was heard and he didn't lift his head on hearing the footfalls of the person who was part of this mess in the first place.

"Marcelo?" Nothing happened for a while and he kept his face tucked away, not wanting to look at her face.

"Marcelo." A cold touch jarred him to gaze up, openly staring hatred into her grey eyes.

"What?"

She flinched from his tone as she removed her hand. He took some sweet relish in that. Sometimes, he wondered if she knew anything about what her own father and his father and what they cooked behind her back. It would have been devastating if Pamela actually loved him but he knew she didn't.