Indecent Suggestion (19 page)

Becca frowned in confusion, wondering what Dorcas Upton had to do with anything. “Turner, what are you talking about?” she asked.

He inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, still looking over her shoulder instead of at her face. “Becca, when she put us under, she thought we were other people.”

“Other people?” she echoed. “But why?”

“Because we were so early for our appointment,” he told her. “She thought we were
late
for an
earlier
appointment, one she had with a married couple who never showed up. So when she hypnotized us and gave us a posthypnotic sug
gestion, it wasn’t to quit smoking, the way we wanted, it was to help this other couple—this married couple—she thought we were instead.”

“But that’s great,” Becca said. “That explains why we’re still smoking. We can go back and try again.” And then the rest of Turner’s admission hit her. “Wait a minute, though. If she didn’t hypnotize us to quit smoking, then what did she hypnotize us for?”

Turner’s gaze darted back to Becca’s again, long enough for two bright spots of color to blossom on his cheeks, then flickered away again. “Like I said, she thought we were a married couple,” he said, though what difference that should make, she couldn’t imagine. “A
newly
married couple who were having trouble, um, consummating their marriage.”

Becca narrowed her eyes at him. “Meaning?”

He sighed heavily again, and what he said next came out in a rush of words so hurried that it took a couple of minutes for them to register. “Dorcas thought you and I were newlyweds who wanted to have wild, passionate sex, but we were too shy and inhibited and scared to do it, and we needed to get past our shyness, inhibitions and fear so we could do it, so she gave us both a posthypnotic suggestion that whenever we heard the word
underwear
we’d be overcome with desire for each other, and jump into each other’s arms and have wild, passionate sex, so the only reason you’ve been having sex with me lately is because of some subconscious trigger Dorcas planted in your brain, and it isn’t because you…” He paused for just a moment, then concluded, “It isn’t because of anything else.”

Slowly, understanding crept up on Becca until it dawned like a good solid blow to the back of her head. Dorcas
hadn’t hypnotized them to quit smoking, she repeated to herself, which would explain why the two of them were still smoking. But she
had
hypnotized them to be turned on by each other, which would explain why—

No, she immediately told herself. That didn’t explain anything. How could she have been hypnotized to behave the way she had, to react to Turner as strongly as she had been reacting to him? Yes, her response to him had been sudden, and yes, it had been surprisingly strong. But that was just the point. Her emotions and responses to Turner had felt so real. Had
been
so real. How could they have been created by a posthypnotic suggestion?

For the past couple of weeks, she’d begun to suspect she was falling in love with him, and
that
was why she’d been behaving the way she had been. That somehow, she’d loved him for years, but for some reason had only just recently allowed herself to accept it. Who knew what caused people to finally understand something they should have comprehended all along?

Well, in this case, she thought, evidently it was a posthypnotic suggestion that did it. Which meant her feelings for Turner couldn’t be genuine at all. Was that possible, though? Could it really all have been nothing but a ruse? Surely not….

“But that’s…” she began. Unfortunately, she had no idea what to say after that. It was crazy. It was nuts. It made no sense.

But the more she thought about it, the more sense it began to make. The first time she’d felt so drawn to Turner, that night when the two of them had been working late in her cubicle, she’d been puzzled to no end about what had made her come on to him the way she had. One minute
she’d been frustrated by the Bluestocking pitch, and sex had been the last thing on her mind. The next minute, she’d looked up at Turner and wanted nothing more than to be naked with him, writhing on top of her desk, with him buried deep inside her. What could have caused such an immediate and unexplainable change in her? Had he uttered the word
underwear
? Had she? She couldn’t remember now. But it was certainly likely, considering the campaign the two of them had been working on.

Was it really possible? she asked herself again, still unable to quite believe it. Could that be why it had happened? Because Dorcas had given her a subconscious desire for Turner that only came to the fore under the right stimulus?

Then something else hit her. Turner had been there in the hypnotherapist’s office that day, too. He’d been put under the influence the same way Becca had been. He’d heard the same things coming from Dorcas’s mouth that she had. So he must have been making love to her for all the same reasons she had been making love to him, right? He’d only been responding to her because of that same posthypnotic suggestion, right? He’d heard the word
underwear
whenever she had, and he’d reacted to that and not to Becca, right? So he couldn’t be any more in love with her than she was with him, right?

Right?

“But, Turner,” she said, still trying to make sense of everything and not having much success. “You’ve been operating under the same conditions, haven’t you? I mean, we were both under that day, and Dorcas gave us both the same posthypnotic suggestion. So you’ve been making love to me for the same reason, haven’t you?”

In response to her question, Turner did look at her again,
full on. But it was in a way she’d never seen him look at her before, with an expression that was all wistful and poignant and melancholy. And only then did Becca begin to fully understand what was inherent in that look.

Oh, no, she thought. He couldn’t be. Not Turner. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be in love with her. Not in some un-posthypnotic way. Could he?

“Turner?” she prodded again.

This time, in response to her question, he nodded. And, his gaze still fixed on hers, he confirmed, “Yeah, I love you, Becca. Honestly. Truly. I always have. Even before we went to see Dorcas. Back in college. Back in high school. Hell, back in second grade. I’ve always loved you. And I always will.”

His declaration left her speechless. She had no idea what to say.

So Turner continued, “Even though Dorcas did hypnotize me that day, for some reason, the suggestion didn’t take for me. It doesn’t matter what word I hear when I’m around you. I want you. In the most basic, most intimate, most loving way there is. I always have. I just never told you how I feel, because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be around me if you knew. You always said you wanted us to be friends and nothing more. But, then, over the past few weeks, with all the time we spent together, and the way we—”

He halted, closed his eyes for a minute, took another deep breath and tried again. “I started to think that maybe you loved me, too,” he told her, opening his eyes once more to study her. “But it’s all been a Vegas lounge act. It’s all been a big joke. A big, fat, stupid joke. And the joke’s on me. Pretty funny, huh?”

Becca had no idea what to say to that, either. No idea
what to do. No idea what to feel. This was just too much. Too much for her to take in at once. In a few minutes’ time, she’d lost Turner, the love she had for him and any future she’d been thinking might lie ahead for the two of them. All because of something she still wasn’t sure she understood.

When she said nothing in response to his confession, only continued to gaze dumbly back, he nodded slowly, silently, and turned to walk away. Becca told herself to call him back, to tell him that they needed to talk more about this, but at that point, she truly had no idea what to say to him.

So she let him go, watching helplessly as he made his way down the hallway toward the elevator at the end. And she watched, too, as he extended a lethargic hand to push the button that would summon the elevator. And she watched as he stepped aboard when the metal doors slid open. Never once did he turn around, however. Not even to push the button so the elevator would take him down to the first floor. He waited until the doors closed on his rigid figure, because he obviously didn’t want to have to look at Becca again.

Ever? she wondered. Would he never want to see her again after today?

And although she wanted answers to all the questions zinging through her brain, the answer for that last one was the one she feared the most.

B
ECCA SKIPPED OUT ON WORK
the following Monday. She called the office to tell them she’d come down with a bug, completely unconcerned about the lie. Some things were more important than work, after all. And when the receptionist at Englund Advertising told Becca that Turner was out, too, in a tone of voice that more than hinted at her belief that the two absences were connected, it was all Becca could do not to agree with the woman. She just wished the reason really was what the receptionist suspected. That Becca and Turner were together, taking the day off so that they could steam up the sheets and thumb their noses at the rest of the world, including their employer.

She’d spent Sunday trying to sort everything out, had looked at the situation from every way she could think to look at it. And although a lot of stuff still didn’t make sense, there were two things she knew unequivocally. Number one, the feelings she’d discovered for Turner couldn’t possibly be the result of any posthypnotic suggestion. And number two, the feelings she’d discovered for Turner were indeed love. The kind of love that bound two people together forever. As for the rest of it…

Well. That was why she’d taken the day off.

She made it to Dorcas Upton’s office downtown in even
better time than she had on her first visit with Turner, not caring that she didn’t have an appointment. She’d camp out in the hypnotherapist’s office all day if the woman was booked solid. Becca wasn’t leaving until she had some answers. But when she told the receptionist to ask Dorcas if she could fit her in, the hypnotherapist herself came into the outer office to usher Becca inside.

She still looked like a school librarian, Becca thought as she followed Dorcas to her office. Today, though, the other woman was a study in gray, her slim wool skirt stopping at her knees, under a charcoal tweed blazer donned over a pale gray blouse. Her hair was wound atop her head in the same sort of knot she’d worn before, and the black half-glasses sat perched on her nose. Her professional attire was at odds with Becca’s casual dress. She herself had thrown on the first pair of jeans she found in the drawer, along with a slouchy blue sweater and her battered bomber jacket.

“I am so glad to see you, Becca,” Dorcas said as she closed her office door behind them. “I was going to call you myself this morning as soon as I had a free moment. I’m so sorry about what happened with you and Turner.”

“Just what did happen, anyway?” Becca asked.

The hypnotherapist explained exactly what Turner had already told her, but with more detail—and more apology—until Becca had no choice but to accept that her worst suspicions were confirmed. She really had only responded to Turner sexually because of the instructions Dorcas had fed to her while she was in an altered state. Her reaction to him hadn’t been genuine at all. She hadn’t been making love with him because of any honest emotional response, but because she’d heard a word spoken aloud. And it had been a silly word, at that.

So that kinda sucked.

“But, Becca,” Dorcas added quickly after concluding her explanation, “there’s something very, very important that you need to know about hypnosis.”

“What’s that?” Becca asked halfheartedly. Frankly, she didn’t want to know anything more about hypnosis. What she did know had already bummed her out really badly.

Dorcas leaned forward, folding her elbows carefully on her desk and weaving her fingers together. “Whatever has happened between you and Turner since our session,” she said, “it was bound to happen eventually, with or without hypnosis.”

Becca studied her through narrowed eyes. “What makes you say that? Turner and I were just friends before we came to see you.”

“Were you?”

There was something about the way Dorcas voiced the question that put Becca on the defensive. “Yes,” she said tersely. “We were just friends. We’d been friends since elementary school. Nothing more.”

Then she remembered what Turner had told her Saturday, and realized that wasn’t true. Not for him, anyway. For herself, though, it was. Wasn’t it?

“You’d never been attracted to each other before coming to see me?” Dorcas asked. “Sexually, I mean?”

Becca opened her mouth to say of course not, but hesitated. There had been those few—very few—occasions when the two of them had gotten a little closer than “just friends” normally did. But on those occasions, there had been other factors at play. Overactive teenage hormones, for instance. Or too much spiked eggnog. Things that messed with an otherwise rational mind. Had they been
thinking clearly, Becca and Turner never would have fooled around the way they did. And besides, they’d always stopped before they went all the way.

“Well, there were a couple of times when maybe we were attracted to each other,” she told Dorcas reluctantly. “Sexually, I mean. But we never actually had sex. It was just a few kisses. A little groping. It didn’t last long.”

Dorcas nodded slowly, seeming to find this information a lot more interesting than Becca did. “And what made the two of you stop before actually having sex?” she asked.

“I made it stop,” Becca told her. “Because I came to my senses and realized what a bad idea it would be.”

Now Dorcas smiled. The sort of smile, Becca couldn’t help thinking, that indicated she was very pleased with Becca’s answer. All she said, though, was, “I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Becca told her, feeling defensive again for some reason. “What’s been happening between me and Turner the past few weeks never would have happened if I’d been in my right mind.”

Dorcas studied her thoughtfully, long enough that it began to make Becca feel a little edgy. Finally, though, she started talking again. “Just because someone is hypnotized, Becca, doesn’t mean they can be made to do—or feel—something they wouldn’t otherwise do—or feel—if they
weren’t
hypnotized.”

Now Becca studied the hypnotherapist thoughtfully right back. “What do you mean?”

Dorcas leaned back in her chair, obviously feeling more relaxed about matters now. “I mean that the greatest hypnotist in the world can’t make someone do something or behave in a manner that that person wouldn’t normally do
or behave in while
not
hypnotized. While in their right mind, you might say.”

“Go on,” Becca said softly.

“It’s impossible,” Dorcas said, “to coerce someone hypnotically to behave in a way they would find morally, ethically or personally offensive when
not
hypnotized. Which is why a hypnotist can’t
make
someone rob a bank, say, or commit a murder, or be a traitor to one’s country. If the person under hypnosis is a moral person, he or she can’t be made to do any of those things.” She met Becca’s gaze pointedly as she added, “So a woman under hypnosis could never be compelled to have sex with a man whom she had no desire to have sex with in what you call her ‘right’ mind.”

“Which means…” Becca began, feeling both hopeful and fearful. Not to mention more than a little creeped out.

“Which means,” Dorcas finished for her, “if you’ve been having sex with Turner, it’s not because you were hypnotized into doing it. It’s because on some level, you’ve wanted—very much—to have sex with him, anyway. Otherwise, the posthypnotic suggestion wouldn’t have worked for you. All the hypnosis did was help you move past whatever fears and inhibitions have been holding you back. For the past few weeks, all you’ve been doing is something you’ve been wanting to do all along on some subconscious level. If you’re having sex with Turner, Becca, it’s because you
want
to. And you probably have for some time now. You were just too scared to act on your desires.”

Becca thought about what Dorcas said for a long time without speaking, and suddenly, it was as if a little light went on in the back of her brain. Actually, she realized, she
hadn’t
been making love with Turner because she wanted him. Well, not
just
because of that. It was more because
she
loved
him. And she probably had for a long time now. She had just been too scared to acknowledge it.

Her feelings
were
genuine, just as she’d told herself they were. And if her feelings were genuine, then her love for Turner must be genuine, too.

Holy moly, she thought. All this time, she’d been in love with him and had never even realized it. She’d been too afraid to accept it. Too afraid of its strength. Too afraid maybe he didn’t love her back. But she
had
always loved him. Just as he had always loved her. That was why the two of them had ended up horizontal at the office Christmas party two years ago. It was why they’d come close to having sex in college. It was why they’d fooled around when they were teenagers. Even then, they must have been falling in love. And even then, they’d been too half-witted to realize it.

Or at least Becca had been too half-witted to realize it. Turner, she thought, recalling the look on his face the Saturday before, had known all along. But he hadn’t told her, because he’d been afraid he would lose her. She, who had always said sex would mess things up in their friendship.

She was such an idiot. She should have realized that, with Turner, sex would be infinitely more than just sex. It would be love, too. And it would only make what the two of them already shared better. Better than better. Perfect. Because that was how she’d felt over the past few weeks with him. As if nothing in her life would ever be wrong again.

“But the posthypnotic suggestion didn’t work for Turner,” Becca objected. Though why she was objecting when it looked like things were going to be okay, was beyond her. “He told me the other night. And I remember that first time, when I came on to him, he did his best to put me
off. I mean, he did put me off. It wasn’t until later that we actually made love. And even then, he resisted me for as long as he could. So he couldn’t have been responding to the word
underwear
the same way I was. Otherwise, that first time, he would have been all over me the same way I was all over him.”

“If the posthypnotic suggestion didn’t work for Turner,” Dorcas said, “it was only because Turner obviously didn’t
need
a posthypnotic suggestion to put aside any inhibitions he might have. He would have made love with you no matter what the circumstances. All he needed was to know that you wanted it, too. Once he did know that…”

Wow,
Becca thought. Dorcas was good. Forget the hypno part. This was therapy, plain and simple. Becca should have been on a couch a long time ago.

Except it should have been on a couch with Turner.

“Dorcas,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Well, a good start might be not reporting me to the hypnotherapist watchdogs,” she said nervously.

Becca smiled. “Throw in a free quit-smoking session for me and Turner—once we get this straightened out, I mean—and we’ll call it even.”

“Done,” Dorcas said with a smile that showed obvious relief.

Because she and Turner
would
get this straightened out, Becca promised herself. Today. Hey, he was home from work, right? She just needed to stop by her place first to change clothes and pick up a few things. She’d be spending the night with him, after all. The first of many, if she had anything to say about it. And she’d show up unannounced, of course, since that would give him no choice but to open the door to her. And then she’d tell him…

Well. She’d tell him how much she loved him.

No. Better than that. She’d
show
him.

But there was something else she had to do first. “Dorcas?” she said. “I need one more favor from you.”

“Anything,” Dorcas told her.

“I need for you to take away that posthypnotic suggestion about the word
underwear,
” Becca told her. “Because I don’t need it anymore. And I need for you to do it as soon as possible. I need for you to hypnotize me again, right here and now, and clear all the cobwebs out of my brain. Because the next time I make love to Turner, I don’t want there to be anything between us.” She smiled a little tentatively. “No fears, no worries, no inhibitions, no posthypnotic suggestions.”

No underwear,
she added to herself with a smile.

Dorcas nodded. “No problem.”

Good,
Becca thought. That was good. And soon, it would be good between her and Turner again, too. Better than ever, she promised herself. Because the next time she and Turner got together, it would be for the rest of their lives.

E
VEN THOUGH IT WASN’T
a Friday or Saturday night, Turner was lying on his couch staring at the TV—wow, he’d never realized how
Night of the Living Dead
was such a perfect metaphor for romance in the twenty-first century—when he heard the knock on his front door. But he didn’t feel like answering it. Even though it was early afternoon, he’d left the blinds closed throughout his apartment. The bright, cheerful, sunny day outside would have ruined the lousy mood he wanted so badly to nurture. Whoever was at his front door was sure to offer a diversion, and he didn’t want one of those, either.

No, he just wanted to lie here comatose and watch while Duane Jones beaned the undead right and left with a variety of household objects, because it made Turner feel so much better about the way he’d left things between himself and Becca. Hey, maybe he’d lost the love of his life, but at least he wouldn’t be eaten by zombies.

So that was a definite bonus.

Unfortunately, whoever had come calling evidently didn’t appreciate the undead’s influence on cuisine the way Turner did. The banging continued until he figured the only way to shut the person up would be to answer the door, tell whoever it was to shove it, then slam the door in the idiot’s face and return to his couch and his undead.

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Jackknifing up from his prone position, Turner grabbed the remote and thumbed the button that paused the DVD, then felt enormous gratification that the halted picture was a close-up of one of the odious, rotting, putrid zombies. It captured so perfectly the way Turner felt about himself at the moment. Then he shuffled slowly to the front door, caring not one whit that he was dressed in nothing but boxer shorts decorated with chili peppers, and a T-shirt bearing the logo for a notoriously bad brand of beer. But when he pressed his eye to the peephole and saw who stood on the other side, he—