“Nah. It’ll take a lot more than a stray bullet to kill that asshole.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she says, reaching for her phone across the bed. “You know, I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m almost certain that Diesel might be even grumpier than you.”
A laugh rumbles through my chest, and just as I go to pull Harper back into my arms, she starts madly moving her thumbs across her screen. “What are you doing?” I ask, in awe of the way this woman can go from being fast asleep to full of energy in such a short time.
“Gotta tell Izzy that Diesel got shot,” she tells me. “There’s nothing she loves more than a man who got injured in the line of duty. She’ll be all over that like a rash.”
I shake my head and pull her back down to me, letting her text from her position on my chest, but honestly, I feel . . . off about it. Izzy, Ace, and Diesel are grown-ass adults. They can fuck whoever they want, but this feels different. Usually, when there’s a girl they’re both into, they’ll quickly get her out of their system and move on, only in this case, there doesn’t seem to be any moving on. Neither of them has actually touched her, but neither seems to be giving up. I just hope she doesn’t get between them. They need to have each other’s backs at the very worst of times, and I need to be able to trust that they won’t allow this girl to affect their relationship. They’re brothers before anything else.
Izzy responds to Harper’s text, and whatever she says has my girl snickering next to me, her whole body shaking with laughter. “Oh God. This is going to be messy,” she tells me, tossing her phone toward the end of the bed before looking up at me. “What’s your take on candy stripers? If you had been shot and were wasting away in bed trying to get better, what’s going to get your blood pumping?”
My brow arches, and I grab her by the waist before rolling us across the bed, not stopping until her back is flat on the mattress and my body is hovering above her. “You really wanna know what gets my blood pumping?” I rumble, dipping down and brushing my lips over the sweet curve of her neck as my hand trails down her body and slips inside her sweatpants. “Let me show you.”
And with that, my fingers push up into her cunt, and I watch as her back arches off the bed, the sweetest breath escaping her lips.
10
HARPER-RAYN
Sitting across from Dr. Preston, I awkwardly relax into the too-small armchair. Therapy has been doing wonders for me. At least it was at the start, but ever since finding out that this new stalker was able to get my notes from the hospital and use them as a weapon against me, the idea of opening up suddenly doesn’t seem so enticing.
“Is everything alright?” Dr. Preston asks, watching me through a narrowed gaze, her usually smiley and open demeanor now seeming almost suspicious. “You seem . . . unsettled. Anxious.”
My gaze flicks up to the clock on the wall above her head, counting down the minutes until I can leave. “Oh. Sorry. I hadn’t realized,” I say, feeling a little guilty. Dr. Preston is great. She’s an incredible therapist and has really helped me to start healing and move on from everything that happened. She doesn’t deserve this closed-off version of me. She’s put in too much work to watch me screw it all up now. “I’ll try better.”
“I don’t need you to try better. I just need you to find comfort. Trust. We can’t begin to heal when we are holding back,” she tells me. “I am so pleased with the leaps you have been making. I feel we’ve really been getting to the root of your issues with your mother and the neglect you received from her. However, I have noticed a decline in your willingness to discuss your moments with your masked stalker.”
“I didn’t realize there was a checklist of things I was required to speak about.”
“Not at all,” she says. “It was just an observation that left me curious. Do you not feel as bothered by the events that took place prior to your psychiatric hold?”
“No,” I say. “They still bother me. I think about it every day. Sometimes it leaves me in a cold sweat. But what’s the point talking about it? None of it was real.”
“But it was real to you.”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. My stalker was just some figment of my imagination, and the more I talk about it, the crazier I become. I’m on my meds now, and he’s never coming back, so I don’t see the point in constantly talking about him as though he was somebody worth discussing.”
“You’re right. He was not real, and the scenes that played out in your head were all a figment of your imagination. However, it doesn’t make your reaction to them any less real. The emotions you felt during those times were real. The fear you felt, the pain you unknowingly inflicted on yourself, the grief when you believed your friend had been killed, that was all real. And just like any other trauma that we suffer through, it takes a huge toll on one’s mental well-being, so it’s imperative that we work through it and find a way to overcome and push past the fear that weighs you down.”
“Isn’t that what the meds are for?”
Dr. Preston shakes her head. “If it were that easy, I’d be out of a job,” she says with a slight chuckle. “The medication is helpful, but it can only do so much. If you were to stop taking your pills, these hallucinations would likely return. Our goal is to get you to a place of inner strength so that when the time comes for you to break free from your medication, you will no longer be at risk, nor will you need to fear what your own mind is capable of. And I believe it, Harper. You are young and strong, but on top of that, you are willing to take the necessary steps. I just need you to trust the process and trust me. We can do this. It’s just one step at a time.”
My lips press into a tight line just as the soft alarm sounds through the small office, signaling the end of our session and sending a wave of relief crashing through my body.
“Okay, Harper. You did well today,” she tells me as she collects her notepad and stands from the armchair opposite mine. “Have a think about what we’ve discussed here today, and during our next session, let’s see if we can figure out where this new reluctance is coming from.”
I offer her an encouraging smile, as if to say Sure, let’s do it, when I already know that, for the time being, opening up about the bullshit I endured with this imaginary stalker is strictly off-limits. At least until Knight and Detective Gray can figure out who the hell attacked me in the parking garage. After that, I’m more than happy for Dr. Preston to dig around inside my brain. If she’s really able to make it so that I’m never committed to a psych ward again, that’d be wonderful.
Knowing that Dr. Preston has another patient right after me, I make a hasty exit before checking in with her receptionist and making sure my next session is booked. With everything as it should be, I take off, wanting to get back home and sleep.
This right here is the harsh reality of night shift; every other business only operates during daylight hours. Any appointmentsI have to go to, business phone calls I need to make, even simple grocery shopping, all have to happen during the day, and more often than not, these simple, mundane chores eat into my sleeping hours. It sucks, but that’s the life I signed up for.
It’s a short drive from the therapist’s office, and barely ten minutes later, I pull up into the driveway, my mind already replaying everything Dr. Preston and I discussed. She’s a smart woman, and she clearly knows what she’s doing. I don’t doubt that if I truly stepped up and put my whole heart and soul into therapy, she could help me get better. And I don’t just mean she could help rid me of my mental hallucinations. I mean, she could help me through all of my trauma: the resentment I hold for my mother, the unease I feel from the parking garage attack, the stress from wanting to be exceptional at work, and the fear I drown in at the idea of ever losing Knight.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I cut the engine of my old Honda and make my way toward the front door of the home I share with Knight, and with every step I take, I can’t help but feel how surreal this is. Barely even three months ago, Knight was nothing more than my mother’s brother-in-law, whom I’d occasionally see at ridiculous dinner parties. I never thought things would move past him making me blush like a schoolgirl, but now I have him on his knees every damn night.
My whole world has so drastically changed. One minute I was rocking out in the morgue, slicing and dicing while making my way through my favorite playlists, and the next thing I know, I blinked and am in a committed relationship with my step-uncle, getting dicked down deeper than a conspiracy theorist’s videos on YouTube.
