“Why are you doing this?” I mumbled, throwing my arm around his neck. In doing so I felt his dark, silky hair brush against my knuckles. The steady, rhythmic beat of his jugular vein throbbing against my palm as the blood passed through it was comforting in some sick and twisted way. My forehead creased.
Warm.
Peaceful.
Laces pressed his lips to my ear, sending a shiver coursing through my body.
“Because I owe Dr. Young, and you’re going to owe me, stray.”
I jerked my head away from his warm breath so fast, almost knocking both of us out with my delayed reaction. “Owe you what?” I grumbled like a child. The meds were attacking my senses full force, but I still had some wits about me, thank God.
We started to move, arms-to-backs, toward the cafeteria exit. With the exception of a few patients being forced to eat from a straw, everyone else had already raced to where community group was being held. At least I have this going for me, I thought, fewer witnesses to testify to my shame of allowing Hannibal Sketcher to take care of me.
Once we’d made it safely to the hallway, Laces’ mouth was back at my ear, his words a dark promise. “I haven’t thought about what you’re going to owe me, but don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”
“I’m not having sex with you!” I all but spit out as we passed the nurses’ station. Laces mumbled something to the nurse on duty about assisting me for the day, and despite her reluctance and curious eyes pinned on our physical contact, she said nothing and allowed us to move along, no questions asked.
My eyes widened. No, hey you! Can’t you see I need your help!
“This may come as a shock, stray, but you’re not exactly my type.” Laces smoothly said once we were ten feet away, and I damn near tripped. What?! It was in that moment, right there, staggering past the bathrooms with drool dripping from my lip, that I realized I was in a lot of trouble. A LOT. Because instead of feeling relieved by his casual dismissal, I was disappointed.
Which made absolutely no sense at all. His favorite pastime involved sketching butchered women, for crying out loud.
“I like my women submissive, quiet, and obedient.” Laces did a slow perusal of me and grinned, “And you are none of those things. Pity.”
“Lucky for me.”
“Lucky for you.” Through the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Laces twirling a strand of my hair around his index finger. The mesmerized look in his eyes when he bent his finger and watched the auburn curl strain against his skin, like it was a precious jewel that needed twenty-four-hour security surveillance, left me reeling. I wasn’t sure if I should get a restraining order, or swoon…
Damn.
Maybe Judge Wexler was right? Maybe I really did need help?
And it was that thought that brought everything to a head and forced me to take a good hard look at the path I was going down. Laces was attractive. There was no denying that. However, his favorite pastime involved sketching dead women—which was a deal breaker in my book. No one, not even Mr. Depp, could justify sketches like that and still maintain his sexiest man alive title.
Nope.
Dropping my arm from his shoulder, I gave Hannibal Sketcher’s taut body a hard push and staggered toward the door labeled COMMUNITY GROUP. The drugs were still flowing strong, but I was feeling a little bit more in control than I had been. “This doesn’t change anything!” I proclaimed over my shoulder. “You’re still an 80’s serial killer— wannabe—with an infatuation for butchering women!!!” That’s right…
Hands clasped behind his back, he came to a dead stop a few feet behind me and said, “Do you have any idea what I just saved you from?” He looked over one shoulder, then back at me, eyes lit with rage. “I did you a big favor back there, and I generally don’t do favors unless my dick is involved.”
I waved him off with an unsteady hand. Yes, he was truly gorgeous, but he had a messed-up mind which really took the hot meter down to negative three. I had just reached the community group door and was preparing to open it when Laces snaked in front of me. His dark, narrow eyes had a sinister glow that made me shiver. He propped his hand against the door and held it shut to keep me from getting inside. “Dr. Folton likes to experiment with his scalpel after giving it to someone in the ass.” he said in a sarcastic tone. “I’ve seen girls come out bleeding in places you wouldn’t imagine—necks, arms, thighs—he likes to make his own entrance.”
Oh God.
“You’re making that up.” I whispered, flushing. Looking at him head on was too distracting, so I glanced away. “I’ve already been alone with Dr. Folton and nothing happened so…”
“That you know of.”
“Are you trying to scare me? Newsflash: it’s not going to work.” I glanced back at him and plastered the sweetest smile across my face. “I’ve spent the last eight years living with the devil reincarnated. If I can survive him, I can survive anything. NOW MOVE.”
Laces didn’t immediately obey my order. His hand remained firmly planted on the door while his curious eyes searched mine, looking for some type of answers, but finding none. Which was the way I liked it. The less he knew, the better. “The devil doesn’t have shit on this place. He wouldn’t last a week.” I thought I saw sympathy flicker in his gaze as he dropped his hand and stepped away, but that would’ve been a foolish notion. People like Laces didn’t embody that particular feeling.
Keeping true to my southern roots and good manners, I mumbled my thanks, opened the door and squeezed inside. Laces followed behind shortly after.
No more meds.
No.
Not after today.
The community room resembled a typical high school classroom; fifteen desks were evenly divided in three rows and aimed at a clean whiteboard. Motivational posters hung all over the walls, along with help ads and 1-800 numbers. A teacher’s desk was off to the side; a young woman, smiling ear-to-ear occupied it.
The young woman put her hand to her chest, “I’m Miss Maroon. I’ll be your advisor for community group.” She nodded at the desks, “you can sit anywhere you like Miss…”
“Evans.” I said. “Gambrielle Evans.”
She wrote my name down on the yellow legal pad on the corner of the desk. “Great. Please take a seat so we can get started.”
Varla waved from the back row and gestured for me to sit beside her. I obliged, taking the seat to her right. The two guys that had been standing with Laces prior to the fight, Reyes and Thorne, took up the two seats to Varla’s left.
And, of course, Laces sauntered into the room like a runway model—earning him a few whistles and claps from the ladies in the front rows. Baring his pearly whites, he made his way to the back and parked his gorgeous derrière in the seat right beside me. Dumbfounded by his behavior, I slowly turned to face him. “Stalker much?” I whispered, stunned at this sudden turn of events.
Laces slouched back in his seat, flashed me a sexy grin, then gestured toward my face. “Is that syrup or drool coming off of your chin right there?”
My jaw set. Syrup, probably. Feeling dizzy, I swiped at my chin and turned to face the whiteboard. Miss Maroon was now standing in front of her desk, arms clasped behind her back. “Alright guys. Let’s talk about last night. How did you sleep?” she asked. Her eyes scanned the room, waiting for someone to offer up a little insight.