Blood Therapy: Blood Therapy, #1

By JK NEVE

A couple with secrets. A scam therapist. A serial killer. The session is about to start.

 

Ollie Jones is a couples therapist. At least, that's what it says on the door.

 

In reality, he has his own agenda, so ends up dishing out useless advice to loveless couples.

His assistant, Jess, is convinced Ollie wouldn't know love even if it stared him in the face. She might be right, but so far, things are working out just fine.

Couples fight, he strings them along, they split up. He gets his hourly rate plus a little extra from the divorce lawyer.

 

Easy.

 

That is until he receives a murderous threat: Unless Ollie succeeds in keeping his couples together, they will die.

He is semi-okay with relationships going to their grave. Less so, with actual people facing a similar fate.

 

So now, despite not knowing what he's doing, Ollie has to keep alive, not just his couples, but everyone that matters to him.

 

Blood Therapy is the first book in the Blood Therapy romantic thriller trilogy.

 

If you like slow-burning suspense, thrilling twists and the heartache of love, lost and found, then you will love this instalment.

Pick up your copy of Blood Therapy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Saldanha Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781915232007

Book preview

1

Needs must

What is love?

The woman sitting across from me wore a pathetic expression of gooey-eyed hope and optimism. She looked as if at any moment she would explode in hearts and butterflies, regarding me with that particular wide-eyed dopamine daze, so common to the common folk. She appeared for all intents and purposes to be a woman in love.

I couldn’t stand it.

Whatever love was, this couldn’t possibly be it.

Their therapy sessions had all been going so well until this moment. Not much was going on behind her eyes, lashes caked in mascara, and her husband wasn’t particularly clever either. This was one of many reasons I’d been able to string them along—keep them on the verge of reconciling, then feeding them just enough to watch them fall apart again.

I couldn’t quite believe what I’d heard, so had to make her say it again.

"So, just to be clear. You want to stay together?" I was pronouncing the word with a good degree of venom, but couldn’t help myself.

Yes, she answered, beaming. Her husband looked as bored as he had for most of their counseling sessions. Boredom that turned into outright discomfort as she leapt up from her chair and enveloped him where he sat, stiff as a mannequin. She kissed him all over his face: an exhibition I’d seen before and one that filled me with the same revulsion it always did.

I sighed not too softly, pushed my chair back and stood, working hard to keep the disappointment from my face. I turned and retrieved my golf putter, enjoying the handle’s soft leather in the palm of my hand.

My consulting room wasn’t the most fashionable. Not even the most… anything. It was, without argument, wanting in its interior design. Economical but functioning furniture. Paintwork that only semi-successfully hid a multitude of sins.

Faded letters on the front door weren’t fading because of age, but because the man I had paid to put them there was a jackleg. If I’d paid someone professional to do the simple job of affixing a name to a door, one would be able to read Oliver Jones Counseling and Therapy. Instead, the letters were in doubt, unsure of themselves. It was a wonder people knew where to knock.

Though my clients would argue, I still felt my place of business had some redeeming qualities. The red lava lamp on the corner of my small desk often proved a welcome distraction from the inane uttering of my clients, shedding a preposterous crimson light on their problems. Right now, the husband stared at it over his wife’s shoulder, his mouth slack. For him too, the movement in the lamp seemed to provide a welcome hypnosis, helping him recover from his wife’s outburst of affection.

And as plainly as my practice presented itself, so smooth was the green felt carpet that stretched from under my desk towards the back of the room. It was one of the first items I had installed. Priorities.

I adjusted my grip, lined up the golf ball and took the shot with care, watching with morbid fascination as it rolled wide of the mark.

Mr. Jones, the woman said.

I looked up to discover she had mercifully released her husband and was back in her chair, both of them regarding me with an odd mixture of pity and discomfort. They never had gotten accustomed to me practicing my golfing putt while ‘thinking.’

She cleared her throat and shot her husband a glance. You don’t seem to be happy for us. You realize we’re going to try and make this work… because of you?

That hurt. It was one thing that I’d spectacularly missed my intended goal. Quite another that this floozy credited me for her relationship’s continuation. Really quite painful how she, in one sentence, could remind me I didn’t know what I was doing.

I decided I’d had enough of the both of them.

Mrs.… uh… Watson? I tried.

Angel. My name is Angel. She was visibly annoyed I’d forgotten her name again. Understandable, I guess.

Right. Angel. I’m happy, of course. It’s just that I want you to know that life’s going to throw some things your way and your love needs to be strong to survive… those things. The time the two of you have spent here will stand you in good stead and if this is where the journey ends for us, I wish you nothing but the best.

Not bad under the circumstances, Ollie. You almost sound like a professional.

I leaned the putter against the desk, stepped forward and offered my hand to the husband, but she was the one to take it and pump it with childlike enthusiasm. Convinced from day one it wasn’t the only thing she’d been pumping with enthusiasm; it astounded me her husband did not appear to share my suspicion. Even so, he’d hardly moved during her overt display of affection and, in fact, had said little over the time I’d been seeing them. He now regarded me with a curious expression. Unlike his wife, he must have detected a big disclaimer and even bigger double-meaning in my goodbye—I actually had to give him credit—but I guess he was as fed up with these sessions as I was, so he too got up and shook my hand.

I lightly shepherded them out of the room, pulling a face at Jess behind their backs. Jess worked as my assistant and from within reception, I could just about see her through the small rectangular window of her office. She watched on with an amused expression, but managed to say nothing. She was being professional.

I returned to my consulting room, sat back down in my chair and glared at the certificate hanging on my wall. The one that wasn’t worth the thin paper and cheap ink it was made of.

I pressed a button on the desk phone. Sure, it was a device sometimes used to make and receive calls, but in this case it was mainly there to allow Jess to listen in on therapy sessions. The little red light blinked, showing we had an open connection.

What do you think? I asked.

About our delightful Mrs. Angel Watson? Or about the ethics of me listening in? She had the playful tone to her voice. The one that made listening to other’s people’s inane troubles a bit more pleasant.

Mrs. Watson. We’ve covered the other one.

I think… Jess struggled to hide her obvious delight. I think you’ve helped them back towards each other and you should be happy.

But?

She sighed. No buts.

So you don’t think—

Ollie, not everyone is a cheating liar.

I didn’t say anything, I said, trying to keep the smile from my voice.

I know you’re about to.

Well…

And there it is.

Jess, you don’t really believe them, do you? She said nothing in response and I glanced up at her through the windowed wall. You’re upset.

She shook her head. That’s ridiculous.

Okay.

I just wish you wouldn’t be so smug about it, she said.

Who? Me?

I don’t see any other smug therapists around, do you?

I clutched my heart in mock pain, and Jess stuck her tongue out at me. The intended effect was somewhat lost through the small window between our offices, but I grinned anyway.

So, assuming you’re right and there’s more to uncover, what are you going to do then, Ollie? Jess asked.

About lunch?

About the Watsons, she said, and I could see it was her turn to try and hold back a smile.

Well, nothing. It’s my task to help them work on their marriage, right? Despite my cynical misgivings, it seems as if that’s exactly what the Watsons are planning on doing. I’d say my job is done. Just make sure they come in for a final… er… debrief session.

I didn’t wait for a reply; hit the button that severed the connection and picked up my putter again. Time to think.

This hadn’t quite gone to plan. I was losing my touch. I’d played the couple fairly well, but the woman’s speech this morning about love and commitment and God-knows what else had caused me to drift off for a while—I think I might have missed a key moment before she announced they were not going to split up after all.

Shit.

Roger.

Roger, the divorce lawyer, would be less than pleased. He never really appreciated the nuances of the job, despite our many conversations on the subject.

I really had no choice.

It was time I went to phase two.

---

Phase two is what puts me smack bang into my profession’s ethical shady area. Sometimes, I needed a little help figuring out where my clients had gone wrong; where they might have left out a bit of information, or where they have been a touch shy with that slippery and nebulous concept called truth. Sure, we could talk ‘til the cows come home about trust, identity and the redeeming power of true love, but sometimes you just need to know a guy with good surveillance equipment.

Mike was that guy.

The best thing about Mike? I’d never met the man. He’d had a hand in my past—I knew that much—but apart from that and what I could glean from our regular phone banter, I knew nothing about him. That was just fine with me. What was important was the quality of his information and so far, our dealings had been top notch.

Yet, despite what I believed to be a perfectly comfortable working relationship, Mike frequently threatened to spoil things by extending an invitation to one thing or another, and I just couldn’t understand it. A man in his line of work should stay invisible. Better for all concerned.

The absolute worst thing about Mike was that it was Roger who passed on Mike’s contact details years ago. A fact Roger loves to remind me of.

Mike picked up on the second ring. Oliver, my dear fellow, what an exquisite pleasure it is to hear your musical tenor.

Hi, Mike, I—

"It is a pleasure, not just because I can partake in the delight of your witty and intelligent conversation, but also because I sincerely look forward to the news of my impending reimbursement."

I have no idea what you just said. Can you spit it out, please?

Oliver, you have yet to pay me for the last job, Mike said quickly, this time wasting none of his big words.

Ah, yes, I cursed silently as I remembered. Well, you know how it is, Mike. The cash flow of a small business… that client has not paid me either, but when he does, you know it’s coming straight to you.

A silence followed as Mike considered. Well, dear Oliver, it’s because of my undying gratitude for your continued custom and the strong bond we have forged that I will forgive your callous neglect of my bank balance. Now, what can I do for you?

I sighed with relief. Based purely on our phone calls, I had to say I liked Mike. I didn’t like not paying him. Things were just a bit rough at the moment. Another reason for me to employ somewhat questionable methods in my pursuit of money—I beg your pardon—my pursuit of happiness for my clients.

I need you to put eyes and ears on a couple for me, I said, and hated myself for saying it. I didn’t take pride in this sort of thing, but figured that if couples came to me with their problems, the least I could do was look into it. Literally.

Ah, Oliver, is there a metaphysical question to which you need the answer? A conundrum of the heart you need to solve?

Sure. Whatever. Can you do this for me? I need it done yesterday.

Mike sighed a heavy sigh of great importance, as if imparting sage-like wisdom to an apprentice. Patience, dear Oliver, patience. The answers you seek will come to you sooner than you might imagine.

In my imagination the answers arrive in two days. Can you do that?

Have I ever failed you, Oliver Jones? It grieves me you should query my expertise and professionalism.

Mike’s sing-song tones made me smile despite the slight anxiety that had come to roost.

No, Mike. I sighed. No, you have not.

Well then, it is settled. I shall be your knight in shining attire once again. Despite your shortcomings, Mike said, sounding pleased with himself.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Your shortcomings. Aspects in which you fall short of what is reasonably expected—

I got up and started pacing the room. Yes, I know what the word means, thank you very much. I am just unsure of what the hell it is you are blabbering on about.

Mike wasn’t in the least phased by my response. Oliver, my friend, he said. I cannot help but suspect that you would find yourself infinitely more successful in your current endeavors if you would but only… believe. You need to allow yourself to embrace the possibility that this thing you despise, this thing you so actively hunt and destroy, might actually be a veritable force. A force for good, not just a bedrock of mistrust and betrayal upon which you make a living.

Am I being charged by the hour for this unwanted advice?

"No dear fellow, that is your modus operandi."

We both chuckled. Mike was always lecturing me, and somehow, it didn’t bother me in the slightest when he did. It had become a ritual between us, something reliable and familiar.

"Look, Mike. I believe just fine. I believe that the commitment of couples is only as strong as the initial infatuation. In that way, ‘love’ is as dependable as they say it is. And yes, it is a way for me to make a living, and may I remind you, it’s also the way you make a living."

Oh, that is without question, dear Oliver. I was merely pointing out that this phenomenon called ‘love’ has a side to it you must not yet have encountered.

I felt I’d had enough of this line of conversation. Okay, so… thanks.

It is no inconvenience, Oliver. There is, however, one thing I ask as renumeration for the speedy nature of your request.

Here it comes.

What?

Come join me for a delectable beer one night—after your latest adventure is over. We can converse about life, love and lemons.

Sounds fascinating, Mike. I, unfortunately, don’t drink beer.

Wine then. It is a lady’s drink, but I will not judge you too harshly, for we all have our embarrassing habits. For instance, during intercourse, I sweat a particular—

Okay, I’ll stop you there. I’ll come out for a drink, though I might have a thing on. I’ll let you know.

It was Mike’s standard invitation. It was my standard disclaimer. I heard him sigh in a way that suggested he knew I had no intention of going for a drink with him.

Quite frankly, I’d thought about it. It could have been considered a healthy thing for me to have a friend, but I just couldn’t get past the fact that Mike was a poor candidate. My dealings with a private investigator—or whatever he classified himself as—did not exactly endorse my skills as a therapist. So our relationship needed to stay clandestine. There was no way I’d let anyone else know about phase two.

Farewell, dear Oliver. I will be in touch shortly, Mike said, and hung up.

---

It wasn’t as if I called Mike the moment a client walked through the door. He was a last resort; I always tried to figure things out first. And in my defense, my early sense of the guilty party was more often than not proven correct. Jess thought my ability was something genius-like, while the truth was probably more to do with the fact that I was so full of lies myself, I could spot another liar easily. What was the saying again? Takes one to know one?

I looked at my phone, wondering, not for the first time, how long it would be before my methods landed me in trouble. This wasn’t how I’d imagined my life to turn out. At all.

Back before I got myself into a bit of trouble, I was on a simple and fairly innocent quest. I wanted to be a couples therapist as a way to dig for answers; to aid my understanding of human nature and, above all, help me make sense of my own tumultuous past. But certain events collided over time, resulting in the position I found myself in now. A skilled charlatan, albeit a reluctant one.

In some ways, I got what I wanted. I was a couples therapist. Unfortunately, just not of the caliber I’d set out to be. My current position required me to play pretend with ideas of empathy and sympathy. A way of earning a living that was always just one case away from a malpractice suit.

There was irony in this I suspected a psychologist—a real one—would have had a field day with. I was drawn to couples and their problems the way passersby were drawn to a car crash. The same wonder at its intimate detail. The same interest in its violent end. A patronizing look at something that happened to other people.

Mike was right. I had never believed in this thing called love. I had my reasons, but I think that even on an intellectual level, I could make an excellent case that love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, I’d seen its power at work, but in my opinion, love does not do good work. It renders people weak. Rips them apart. Makes them vulnerable. Love is dangerous, and it’s probably to this danger that I am drawn.

Nothing philanthropic or saintly about it. Not a life calling. Just me, a witness to car crashes.

Through my open door, I spotted Roger standing in reception and I made sure not to acknowledge I’d seen him. I made it my life’s mission not to feed Roger’s ego, considering the role he played in my history. Not that his ego needed any feeding; Roger’s own opinion of himself remained undiminished over the years. Given his healthy self-image was undermined by being a short man that scurried rather than walked, talking through a large nose that was permanently blocked, there was perhaps something to be admired about the man for his unwavering confidence. I would just leave the admiring to others.

The phone on my desk rang, and I let it ring for a good five seconds. Jess knew I wasn’t doing anything so important, and I could feel them both looking at me through the windowed wall while I stared at my laptop screen, pretending to type before I picked up.

Ollie, Mr. Khan is here to see you, Jess said, the phone’s limited audio bandwidth doing nothing to diminish her sultry tones. Still, I detected a note of irritation in her voice. Knowing Roger, he’d have spent a good deal of time letting Jess know what a beautiful woman she was, how she was wasted in a place like this, what on earth was she doing working for Ollie Jones, and so forth.

All good points, really.

Problem is, Roger would have said this with a back held straight by self-importance and a wink that was as delusional as it was lewd. Jess never stood for it; gave him an earful that would make most men run with their tail between their legs. But not Roger. He was missing the part of the brain that could tell when it was a lost cause. Probably what made him a good divorce lawyer.

Please send him in, I replied.

Roger entered the room the way he’d no doubt read somewhere was the way a man should enter a room in order to establish presence. Chest out, with purpose, as if he belonged. Thing is, Roger came around so often, he kind of did belong. The way some cats belong to your house because you throw them scraps from your kitchen window.

Ollie. Roger extended a sweaty little hand. This was a proper meeting. We were professionals.

I ignored him and got up for a practice putt.

They have decided to reconcile, I said, concentrating on keeping my shoulders relaxed, head still over the ball. I took a shot. Too hard. It bounced right out of the turned-over coffee cup I used as a target.

There was silence as Roger digested this news. I didn’t favor him with a look, but knew him well enough to know his neck would be flushed red, as if he were about to explode.

Dammit, Ollie! This was a sure thing! What happened?

Love happened, Roger. True love.

"Love? What the—Ollie, you better start being serious. You know you won’t get a penny from me this