Let him wonder who touched what used to be his.
Exhausted, I close my shades, and darkness swallows the room. I cry while smiling into the pillow.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Red
Rye bread curls at the edges, sitting untouched on the corner of my desk. It's been hours since Blue stormed out. Patients have arrived and left, and now, the city outside my window shifts from sharp daylight to the bruised purple of early evening.
I should have thrown the damn sandwich away by now, but I haven't. Every time I look at it, I see Blue's fingers gripping the paper bag like a weapon, and the hurt flashing behind her anger before she turned and left.
I lean back in my chair and scrub a hand over my jaw. My five-o'clock shadow is rough. It reminds me of Saturday morning when she traced the line of my throat with her tongue and laughed against my skin. That memory should feel warm. Instead, it stings.
Amy knocked fifteen minutes ago to say she was heading out, her voice careful, like she could sense the storm still hanging in the air. I told her to lock the front door behind her and go. She hesitated for a second, then offered, "Good night, Dr. Mercer," and left.
My phone has been silent since Blue's single text about needing space. Unlike her normal obsessive behavior, there's been no follow-up, noexplanation, no emojis to soften it. And those four words were delivered with a slap.
I read them again now, my thumb hovering over the screen. I could call. I could drive to her place, knock until she opens the door, pull her against me, and remind her how good we are when she's not creating drama where there shouldn't be, but I don't.
I set boundaries for a living. She crossed one today and then created her own. So I won't cross it in response.
A pound on the door startles me. I jump up and cross the office, wondering if Amy forgot her keys. I fling open the door, and a courier holds a black envelope. He asks, "Are you Dr. Red Mercer?"
"Yes."
He pushes the envelope toward me and a clipboard. "Sign here."
I scribble my name, take the envelope, and freeze. The hairs on my neck rise. It's Blue's handwriting on the envelope.
The courier spins and disappears down the hall.
What is this?
I shut and lock the door, then return to my office. I sit and stare at the envelope, then turn it over.
A red wax emblem is on the back. I break it with my thumbnail and slide the contents onto the blotter. I pull out five professionally printed, matte photos, and one small card in block letters, the ink unmistakably lipstick-red.
How does this make you feel, Dr. Mercer?
My gut flips.
I turn over the photos and line them up on my desk. A tornado of anger and jealousy hits me.
Bluebird, what have you done?
She's on her knees on a massive hotel bed. Black lace barely covers her body. Chicago glitters through floor-to-ceiling glass behind her.
A man stands at her back. He has dark hair, broad shoulders, and one hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so her throat arches. His other palm rests on the side of her neck, possessively, like he owns her.
His face is mostly profile, shadowed, but the scar on his left forearm is visible.
I know that scar.
I peer closer. Rage spools through me, and I tighten my fist.
Jesus Christ. It's Brax O'Malley.
My pulse kicks hard against my collar. I unbutton it, needing more room to breathe.
