What happens next is kind of...alarming.

Bryant Colliver points at the couch—and I go. I simply go. As if he has commanded something inside of me I didn't know was there. My feet are moving before I know what's happening and I'm sitting down in front of him, hands clasped together on my folder, my face level with his gold belt buckle. An odd impulse catches me off guard. I want him to cup my face. Stroke it. I want to drop everything on the ground, let my muscles go slack and let his single ...