Blood Pressure: Blood Therapy, #0

By JK NEVE

Therapy has never been this dangerous.

 

Ollie Jones has just opened up his shiny new couples therapy practice. 

He is hoping for an easy start. A client case that would ease him into things, maybe even make him a bit of money. He's just hired the beautiful and enigmatic Jessica Lawson, and well… he will most likely need to pay her at some point.

Instead, his first clients are proving to be a baptism by fire, as revelation after revelation threatens to expose his lack of credentials and, worse, put the new girl in danger.

 

Blood Pressure is the riveting prequel to the Blood Therapy romantic thriller trilogy. If you like your thrillers twisty and laced with undercurrents of passion, you'll really enjoy this opener.

Pick up your copy of Blood Pressure today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Saldanha Press
• Release date: Nov 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781915232045

Book preview

Prologue

I have to say that, looking back, my style of couples therapy was always destined to be somewhat closer to that of an interrogator. To illustrate: I’d just opened my practice, had my first client case, and here I was, in a small room, talking to a police officer.

Neither I, nor the man asking the questions would know this yet, but I was to learn on the job, really quick. And, quite frankly, the style in which I was being questioned appealed to me. It got results. None of this feelings nonsense. Straightforward talking. No bullshit.

The officer—I’d paid no attention to his name when he’d introduced himself—glared at me over his glasses. He’d just put them on for the interview; I presumed he needed them to read and write. I wondered if his poor eyesight proved a disability when he was chasing down perpetrators, but judging by the way his uniform buttons strained and fought to keep all of him contained, he probably didn’t do a lot of chasing anyway.

Mr. Jones. Do you find this situation funny?

I wasn’t aware I’d been smiling, and I pulled my mouth straight with great effort. Facial expressions were really something I was going to have to learn to control. My future therapy clients wouldn’t appreciate my being entertained at their expense.

No.

The man stared down at his notes, tapping the desk with a pen he held lightly between two fingers. So, just so I have this straight. You think your client is a serial killer.

I shook my head. That’s not accurate.

It’s not?

I don’t think my client is a serial killer. I know she is.

Chapter One

I should probably go back a bit. To the days preceding my cozy interview with the police.

My name is Ollie Jones.

I say this not just to introduce myself, but also because names carry some significance. They’re annoying in that way.

Certainly, mine was. Both annoying and of some significance.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to start at the right place, so you understand.

I have a gift. Okay, not quite a gift, as in, no one gave it to me. I don’t believe in all that shit. You are the sum of what you’re made of and let’s just say I am full of shit.

Wait, that came out wrong. I mean to say that I have experienced a lot of shit in my life and therefore have a nose for it…

Maybe this analogy stinks, but basically, people can’t lie to me. I’m not a human lie detector like that pompous asshole from the tv show. I just have a strong sense of when people are making stuff up. Not a superpower by any means. I actually wish it was more consistent. It’s certainly not infallible either.

It would have been a great talent to have in say, a career as an interrogator or a detective. Hell, even as a news reporter, my skill would have been a useful one. But for personal reasons, I decided to become a couples therapist. What personal reasons you ask?

I don’t know. Maybe I should go for therapy?

No, in all seriousness, one could sum up my interest in the lives of others under one word: curiosity. Not the kind your nosy neighbor suffers from. The kind of curiosity that starts young, with a childhood lacking in a few basic emotions such as love, compassion and empathy. The kind that grows and grows until it could only be described as an all-encompassing quest for knowledge.

You’re always drawn to the things you’ve never had. There, that’s my excuse.

So, after years and years of trying out various things, I inevitably enrolled to study psychology as an immature-mature student. Things didn’t work out so well for me. Or they worked out brilliantly, depends how you look at it. The result of two and a half years at Uni (you don’t need to be a genius to figure out I was supposed to be there a lot longer) was a fake qualification and the chance to set out on my own.

Ollie Jones, independent entrepreneur.

I have a dodgy acquaintance and a fair amount of luck to thank for that one. The acquaintance’s name is Roger Khan, newly qualified divorce lawyer. See the irony in the contrast of careers? I wish I had. Instead, Roger offered me an opportunity and I took it. Long story.

It surprised me how easy it ended up being. In fact, I was downright disturbed someone could set up a practice so quickly. This meant there surely had to be a significant number of scam therapists out there, but I must insist… I did not consider myself one of them.

Sure, I lacked the necessary paperwork, but I would figure things out as I went. I was nothing if not studious.

I set out and found this run-down office complex in Hammersmith. Inside, on the second floor, and for a rental fee that should have rung serious alarm bells, was a small office space. Just two adjoining rooms, a hint of a reception area.

Banking on Roger coming good on his promises, I signed the lease with my eyes closed.

I already had some pieces of furniture left behind by the previous occupants, an accounting firm that had gone bust. It would have to do, and it did, for longer than I could ever have expected.

I was in there for two days, staring at the walls, when Roger’s first lead arrived for his appointment.

Chapter Two

My first client was Larry Brooks. That’s it. That’s all I knew. When Roger had called, he’d told me Mr. Brooks would arrive at ten the following morning. I briefly considered pretending I had another client booked—just so I didn’t look so eager—but figured Roger knew enough to know that was horseshit.

Instead, I’d waited, checking my email and phone every five minutes, getting up from my chair every so often, walking into reception and back again.

I, unfortunately, had time to reconsider it all. What was I doing? I didn’t have it in me to fake empathy. Not today, maybe not ever. Was this the way to go about my quest? On paper, it’d seemed like a good idea, but would my plan survive its contact with the enemy? Also, did I really have to consort with the likes of Roger Khan in order to make this happen?

By the time Larry was to arrive, I’d talked myself out of a career in couples therapy and was in no fit state to be counseling anyone. I felt frustrated and reckless, a fantastic combination and traits we all look for in a therapist.

In retrospect, I do feel sorry he walked into it, but ten o’clock arrived and so did Larry Brooks.

Welcome.

Already, it felt like the wrong thing to say. This wasn’t a hotel after all, but if the man thought it odd, he gave no sign. I made a mental note to research how therapists greet their clients.

Larry was a large man with a tiny, perfectly egg-shaped head and small eyes; what was left of his hair shaved, and what was left of his muscles, encased in layers of fat. As if he’d possibly been a rugby player a long time ago. Now he seemed to struggle carrying himself around, walking into the practice like an old man. I wondered if he carried an injury.

Mr. Jones. Thank you for seeing me. Roger spoke highly of you, Larry said, his voice pitched too high for his size.

That’s kind of him. Wish I could do the same.

I beg your pardon?

Let’s sit down. Apologies, I’ve just moved offices, our new furniture is in transit and my assistant is running around sorting it all out. The lie came easy and felt smooth on my tongue.

Uh, sure.

We made our way into my consulting room and Larry sat down on a chair that had a reasonably high potential for either breaking or the wood giving him splinters. He waited for me to do the same, licking his lips nervously, his