My head is already fucked up, so it’s pretty much a no-brainer that my worry for King extends to our relationship too.But because I’m spiralling my thoughts naturally jump to what recently happened with Tyson and Maverick too. And then I’m questioning my ability to decipher fact from what I wanted to happen.
The likelihood of a panic attack intensifies as I continue struggling to trust myself.
Searching for a place less ‘public’ to fall apart, I lock my sight on a sign for the ladies’ bathroom. I fixate on counting the steps to it as a way of stalling before losing it completely. Racing through a busy visitors’ room with my eyes locked on the sign, I dodge chairs and people, rushing inside at the last moment.
The bathroom is empty, and I take the last stall, falling to my ass as soon as the door closes.
“Five things I see,” I say. I feel my lips move but don’t hear a sound. I say it again, and again until what I can see registers. “The loo. The light. A shoe. A row of tiles. And my broken fingernail.”
I lay my head back against the closed door and look at them again, study them until the whoosh in my ears abates.
“Four things I hear,” I say, searching for something to focus on. I know it’s not a good sign that the only thing I can hear is my heavy breathing. I search for something outside of myself, eventually a dripping faucet gives me another lifeline before my awareness spreads further to include someone talking over the PA system.
Slowly but surely the fear of being sucked into a bleak hole doesn’t become the only thing I think about. And while I’m feeling mildly better, I don’t stop going through the list in my mind.
“Three things to touch, but not the floor.” I grimace when I realise being stuck in the bathroom of a busy public hospital is going to have consequences. I skip the rest, moving to focusing on the power of smells.
“Please let it be bourbon,” I pray. But of course I don’t get even the smallest hint, instead it’s the stink of stress that is the first thing to register.
The toilet door opens, and I leap off the floor feeling better but still shaky. I just hope they didn’t see because I don’t need questions or pity, I think it would have me spiralling again. Flushing the loo I didn’t use, I keep my head down low as I step out of the stall, walking into the other person.
“So sorry,” I mumble, not looking at them, I’m still feeling out of whack.
But they make it impossible for me to ignore.
“Go home.” She snarls and it comes from nowhere. My eyes jump to hers and my stomach plummets to my feet when I see she’s wearing a Fallen t-shirt, her black jeans so tight they look painted on her sexy curves. She’d be half pretty if she wasn’t full of poison—it pulls her lips together, making her mouth look like a cat’s butthole.
She knocks my shoulder with hers to use the tap in front of me in an overly intimidating move. “You’re pathetic and definitely not welcome here.”
“Pardon? Do I know you?”
“You miss the part where I said you weren’t welcome?”
I shuffle back against the door, trying to not piss her off because I don’t trust the look in her eye. “Okay, but I still don’t know who you are.”
“Yet I know who you are. King told me this morning he didn’t want to see anyone. I thought it was weird but now I guess what he was trying to say to me is he didn’t want to see you. Fuck off to where you crawled from because newsflash, if he doesn’t want you here, no one else will.”
Instead of leaving, she takes a step closer and gets up in my face, so close I can smell the cheap perfume she wears. Then the nasty bitch shoves me out the way, and I spin so fast andunexpectedly I nearly crash to my ass. Her laughter rings in my ears long after she’s gone.
And for a few moments I can’t do anything but stare after her while I waver between bursting out laughing or breaking down in tears, because what the actual fuck?
My phone buzzes in my tracksuit pants drawing me out of my funk. The instant I read the message I’ve been desperately yearning for, all the bullshit and angst that’s been consuming every part of me calms.
Killer, first time I’m out of ICU. I’m getting some fresh air. I need to hear your voice.
I race out of the bathroom, desperate for more of the balance King brings, nearly smacking into Big Tom who’s lingering protectively down the hallway.
“King’s in the carpark,” he says, barely moving his lips.
“I know!” I laugh, tearing past him and he rolls his eyes before breaking into a jog to follow. And because I’m sometimes the world’s most impatient person, I nearly break the fire exit door in my haste, but I am not wasting precious time. My feet fly down the stairs but not as fast as my heart races.
But then I’m down in the carpark, and all I can smell is bourbon. King’s scent is saturated in the air. I could close my eyes and find him. I dash through cars and around people walking and leap at him. As desperate as I am, he is the same though and he nabs me out of the air, squeezing the absolute bejesus out of me. Before we’re hiding in the dark corner, his mouth is on mine.
With each lick of his tongue, I whimper against his lips, so fucking thankful for this time with him.
“I needed to hear your voice. But this is fucking a million times better, killer,” he growls his words when he pulls backslightly, his eyes are bright as always, but you can see how tired he is. Except, I can also read that he’s been making plans. My heart breaks out into a gallop the more I search for answers, and he pushes me up against the wall so he can drop his palm over it.
“You can hear me having a heart attack?” I ask, obviously impressed.
