I thought of her, young and beautiful, walking along the road in her short-shorts with her thumb out for any asshole to pick up. A Brett-type who seemed friendly as hell on the surface, but underneath…
“What’s that look for?” she asked, the backs of her hands on her hips.
“I don’t like the thought of you hitchhiking.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“And what will you do about it? Tell my sister?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Liar.”
We stared each other down, emotions broiling in both of us. Her cheeks were flushed, and my hands itched to grab her and kiss that brassy mouth of hers. Both of us daring the other to say what was behind our heated words.
I care about you.
Prove it.
I blinked first. “Fine,” I said. “I wouldn’t tell her. But I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Thea’s arms dropped and her voice softened.
“And I don’t want to waste away in a box. Blue Ridge is bigger than the little prison I was trapped in for two years, but it’s still a prison.” She stepped closer to me. “An invisible clock is hanging over my head and the minutes keep ticking away. I lost two years. Now every second I’m not out there, doing what makes me happy, is just more time lost.”
She moved closer. I could feel the warmth of her skin and the scent of her perfume—something flowery and light—mixed with the harsher scent of acrylic yellow paint all over her hands.
“I want to live, Jimmy. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know what that means,” I said, my own autopilot existence feeling like a prison too; one I’d made for myself.
“Really live,” Thea said. “Not just exist.”
I nodded.
“You should have it, Jimmy.” She tilted her head up. “Go out in the world and…” Her hand came up between us, on my chest, over my heart. “…take what you want.”
Her breath caught as my arm slipped around her waist, pressing her to me. Taking her to me. My head bent down to hers, drawn by an invisible force I couldn’t stop. The tiniest smile tugged at her lips until they parted, ready for my kiss. My eyes drank in every detail of her exquisite face, while my other hand slid into her hair that was softer than it’d been in my fevered imaginings. I made a fist, pulling gently, eliciting a little gasp from her. Her lips parted wider, inviting me in.
I never wanted anything in my life like I wanted Thea…
“Yes, Jimmy,” she whispered.
Take what I want…
Inhale. Like a diver ready to submerge into her depths. Exhale.
Our lips touched.
“What the hell is going on?”
The air shattered at the intrusion. Our bodies jerked apart, my heart thumping.
“Jesus, Delia,” Thea said breathlessly. “None of your business, is what’s going on.” Her eyes were still locked on mine. “Jimmy, don’t,” she said, when I started to pull away.
But I let her go, my hands instantly feeling empty and cold without her skin and hair and vibrant life pulsing beneath them.
Not here, I wanted to tell her. I don’t want this here.
“It’s n-n-not… professional,” I managed.
“For once I agree with him,” Delia said, glaring at me. “He could lose his job for inappropriately touching a resident.”
Thea clenched her jaw. “Delia, I love you, but you’re crossing the line. Every line. I can’t even look at you right now.” She turned to me, almost pleading, her voice a whisper. “Don’t give up on me, Jimmy. Please.”
She ran out of the room, and Delia and I were left alone. She slowly turned to face me, her expression stony.
“My sister is impulsive and emotional after being woken a few days ago from what was essentially a two-year coma,” she said, speaking slowly, her voice low and hard. “If you think she knows what she wants under these circumstances, then by all means, put your hands on her again.”
“Ms. Hughes…”
“This was your first and last warning,” she said. “Emphasis on last.”
She strode out, leaving me alone with Thea’s painting. Not word chains but another kind of cry for help.
I finished my shift and left the sanitarium that night without changing or talking to anyone and rode my motorcycle at unsafe speeds down the winding road from Blue Ridge. I leaned into the turns, feeling the thrill of the danger coursing through me. Trying to recreate the potent feeling of Thea in my arms, her gorgeous face turned up, waiting and ready—wanting—me to kiss her.
At home, in my small, dark house, I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Then stared at the dripping reflection in the mirror.
I was still wearing my uniform—plain white shirt and pants. But now the white was slashed with yellow along the right side of my waist, where Thea touched me. And in the middle of my chest—Thea’s handprint in stark yellow, small and delicate, fingers splayed like a star over my heart.
Chapter 25
Thea
“Dr. Chen said a month, minimum. Maybe two,” I said when Rita came to bring me my morning dose of Hazarin.
“The procedure is so new, they’re scared if they declare victory and something happens, they’ll lose face,” she said. “Or worse, funding. The patients in Sydney are in lockdown too.”
“It’s not right,” I said. “Giving us the awareness of our freedom and then keeping it from us.”
“I don’t like it either.”
“Then help me bust out of this joint, Rita.”
A short silence descended. She knew what I meant. Give me the Hazarin.
“You know I can’t do that,” she said.
“I know,” I sighed. “I don’t want you to lose your job.” I took the one pill she’d brought with her from the locked medicine room and downed it with water.
“Try to make the best of it,” she said. “In a few weeks, you’ll be free to go.”
“And if the medicine stops working before then? What will I have to show for it?”
“I wish I knew how to answer that,” she said.
She left and I stared at the ceiling. The walls. The tiny window. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. I needed to be outside, even if that outside had fences too.
It was early yet; a little after seven. The heat and humidity hadn’t yet taken hold. Morning light slanted silvery and gold over the grass. I walked the circumference of the grounds along the fence and came to the side that fronted the parking lot. The rev of a motorcycle’s engine sounded, and I watched a man ride up.
He wore jeans, a black leather jacket, and boots. He maneuvered the bike with a casual sexiness that glued my eyes to him. I knew who it was even before he took off his helmet.
“A motorcycle, Jimmy?” I murmured. Heat flushed through me when he removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Not fair. Not fair at all.”
He plays guitar, sings like Eddie Vedder, and rides a motorcycle. A girl’s ovaries can only handle so much.
“Hey,” I called from my side of the fence, stopping him in his tracks on his way to the front of Blue Ridge. “What is that? A Harley?”