by Smoke , Lucy
I don't want to look at Dean as I speak, so I keep my gaze focused on the doctor. "She's had problems with her addiction for a while," I tell him. "If you release her, she'll just be back at it the next night."
Dr. Morris's lips turn down, but he doesn't look surprised. It must not be uncommon for him to run into drug addicts in his line of work. "I was afraid of that," he murmurs with a shake of his head. "I'd recommend a rehabilitation facility then. We have one—"
"We'll take care of it." My head snaps around at the sound of Dean's tone when he steps up alongside me and focuses his attention on the doctor. "Whatever she needs, we'll take care of it."
My eyes widen. Anger flares to life, and I can tell when he looks down at me, he sees that. "Is there anything else, Dr. Morris?" Dean asks. His arm bands around my back, but I'm seething with rage. Waiting. I won't do it in front of the doctor, but as soon as we're alone, he's going to regret this. "Can we see her?"
"She should be sleeping. We've had to keep her sedated." The doctor clears his throat uncomfortably. "She wasn't too keen on staying, but considering her condition, we couldn't let her just ... I hope you understand."
Dean nods. "Not to worry. Thank you for all of your help."
"Of course," Dr. Morris says, nodding in deference to him as I glare up at the underside of Dean's chin, plotting my revenge.
"We'll be going then." When I don't budge as Dean gently nudges me towards the hallway, he flashes the doctor a smile and nearly lifts me off my feet, half dragging, half hauling me out of the room.
I wait until we're back in the hallway before I unleash the rain of fire in my mind. "What the fuck do you mean we'll take care of it?" I snap at him. "I came to see her, not to take care of her. I don't give a shit what happens to Patricia. She can rot in hell for all I care."
"Hold on," Dean says distractedly as he steps away from me and heads back towards the desk. I turn around, my hands lifting to my hair as I drag them through the dull strands and grab a chunk of it, yanking for good measure. Why? Why the fuck do I have to be here with him?
"Don't do that." I jump when Dean's voice sounds right behind me, and his hand comes up to take mine. He pulls it away from my hair and twines his fingers with mine. I glare down at where his hand cups mine.
"What are you doing?" I demand.
"Acting," he replies as he steps closer, pushing me back into the wall as he releases my hand. "They think we're dating," he says under his breath, just low enough for the two of us to hear. "Let them. You want answers, and you came to see her. Don't worry about what happens after. Just let me take care of it."
"Why?" I hiss.
Dean's lips press to my forehead, and my heart stops dead for a split second. When it restarts, it takes off at twice the normal pace, galloping in my chest like a frightened animal. There's a neon sign in my mind flashing Danger! Danger! Danger! This, I realize, is why I'm here with him. Not because he offered to drive me, but because I can't stay away, no matter how much I want to. It's because when Dean gets close, my body goes on lockdown. Just like my mother, I'm addicted, but my drug of choice isn't adrenaline anymore. It's him.
Dean pulls away from me and looks down into my eyes. His fingers trail down my side, retaking my hand as he lifts it and presses a light kiss to my knuckles. "Let's go, baby."
16
Avalon
Some people don't deserve the luck life deals them. Patricia Manning is one of them. I stare at the careful lines of her face from the doorway as she sleeps, wondering how the fuck she’s managed to last as long as she has. This will mark her second overdose—at least the ones that I’ve known about since I realized how bad she was. The first had been years before, just before I’d started growing tits, and she’d decided that it was my responsibility to bring in some cash. Maybe it was the first one that truly scrambled her brain. I have to believe it’s the drugs that make her the way she is, and I’m not too stupid to understand why.
Fact is, I don’t want to admit that maybe she had been born bad. Maybe because her blood runs through my veins, someday I’ll inherit the evil that lurks within her. I already know I have her addictive personality. The need to find the nearest high ground and jump is like a constant itch beneath my skin. Maybe steal a motorcycle. Get into a fight. Or even … there’s one thing that I could do that would assuage the need for adrenaline, but as I tip my head back and glance out into the hallway where Dean is speaking to a man in a suit, I try to erase that thought from my mind and return my attention to my mother.
Her skin is sallow, pale—much paler than I remember. She looks like she's lost weight. Not that I give a shit. It's just another one of the things I notice as I examine her. Twice now, she’s dodged death. How is that fair? When there are so many people in this world who want to live, so many fighting for the right to keep breathing, and here she is—a woman so far down in the gutter, she can’t even kill herself properly.
I’m not a good person for thinking the way I do, I know. I never claimed to be. But this—her—drugs—all of it—is such a waste. It irritates me. She irritates me and she’s not even awake to see it.
Pulling my gaze away from her, I scan the hospital room. It's better than the trailer, that's for sure, if a bit clinical and barren. At least it's clean. The shades are drawn, the vertical slats blocking out the sunlight, not that there's much left. I stride across the room and pull one to the side as I look out over the parking lot. The sunlight is fading, twilight changing from a kaleidoscope of pinks and oranges into a deeper blue, preceding night's eventual arrival.
In my pocket, my phone buzzes. I sigh as I pull it out and answer it without looking at the screen. "What?" I snap into the receiver.
"Avalon?" Rylie's voice comes over the line. "Where the hell are you? I came back, and your shit was thrown everywhere. Are you okay?"
A strange emotion wells up in my chest, slithering around my heart and squeezing. It takes me a moment to work past the feeling to answer. "Hey," I say. "Yeah, I'm fine. I … uh, there was a family emergency thing. I had to leave in a hurry."
"But you're okay?" she restates, clarifying. “What about your exams?”
My lips twist, and though she can’t see it, I shake my head. “My exams aren’t going to be a problem,” I tell her. “It’s taken care of.”
“Oh.” Silence stretches between us, and something tells me this isn’t the only reason for this phone call.
I sigh. “What is it?”
I can practically hear the cogs of her brain turning. Much as she tries to disguise it, Rylie isn’t an idiot. She’s smart. She lays low. I’d like to believe that she called out of pure concern—but no one would do that for me. Not even her. “Spit it out,” I huff when more seconds go by without a response.
She groans. “Okay, fine—shit—I didn’t want to tell you, but she’s being fucking persistent.”
I frown at that. “Who?”
“Corina,” Rylie mutters the name as if it’s a curse. Coming from her, it seems to be.
“What about Corina?” I ask.
“Haven’t you checked your phone?” she asks. “Apparently, she’s been trying to get ahold of you for the last several hours. Somehow, she got ahold of my number.” I try my best not to chuckle at the hiss of irritation she releases. She sounds as though Corina having her number is a crime worse than murder. For Rylie—and her need for privacy—it probably is. “She’s been calling and texting me nonstop trying to get in touch with you. Please, for the love of all that is holy or the sake of all the fucks in this world—just call her. If I have to listen to another rambling voicemail from her, I’m going to stab my eardrums out.”
I can’t help myself. A small chuckle escapes. “I wouldn’t do that,” I advise. “She can still text.”
“Fucking call her!” Rylie yells into the phone. “Or I swear, I’ll put Nair in your shampoo. I’ll put itching powder in your bed and all your clothes. I hate cockroaches, but don’t fucking test me, Avalon. I will go to great
lengths to make you pay if you don’t just give that stupid—”
“I got it,” I say, cutting her threats off midstream. “Don’t worry. I’ll give her a call.”
“Good.” A soft growl comes through the phone, but this time, I don’t think she means for me to hear.
“I’ll be back in a day or two anyway,” I say. “Don’t wait up.”
“Fine, just, uh, call or something when you’re on your way back and if you need anything…” I can picture the discomfort on her face as she starts the offer.
"I got it, thanks." Dean's head pops in the doorway of Patricia's hospital room. His gaze meets mine and his brows raise when he sees the phone. "I'll talk to you later, bye."
Rylie doesn't get a chance to say anything else as I hit the end button. I pull the screen away from my face, and sure enough, there are dozens of missed calls and text messages, the last one having come in nearly an hour ago just before we'd gotten here. I shove the phone into my pocket and cut around the end of Patricia's hospital bed, casting a glance her way, but as I suspected, she's still out cold. The doctor had said they'd sedated her—she must've been pretty fucking bad when they brought her in because as far as I knew, most doctors tried to avoid sedating drug addicts.
"Who was that?" Dean asks as I push him back into the hallway.
"No one," I snap. "Who were you talking to?" I glance down the hallway, but the man from earlier is gone.
"No one," he mimics me. "You ready to go?"
"Go?" I look up at him. "Where are we going?"
"Hotel," he says, looking over his shoulder as a pair of nurses turn the corner and make their way towards us.
"Hotel?"
Dean turns back and arches a brow. "What are you? A fucking parrot? Yes, a hotel. They aren't going to let us stay in the ICU."
My fist flies out at the parrot comment and slams into his gut. He releases a breath and doubles over slightly, reaching up to rub the spot even as I pull back my now aching knuckles. "Fine," I snap. "Let's go."
Dean shakes his head and chuckles as I shove past him and head for the exit. A hotel is better than the hospital anyway and it's not like I'm paying for it. We hit the parking lot and as I climb back into the SUV, I stop and turn back, looking at the hulking behemoth of a building, scanning the upper floors. Of course, Patricia doesn't look out. She's not awake. She probably won't ever even know that I showed up. This wasn't for her, anyway. It was for me.
"Are we coming back tomorrow?" Dean asks as he cranks the engine.
My fingers linger on the buckle as I yank the seatbelt across my chest. "No." The word comes out hard, final. He doesn't say anything to that, doesn't even acknowledge my tone. Instead, he just nods and backs out, and I realize that this is it. This is the last time I'll probably ever see Patricia Manning. If Dean wants to take care of her—set her up in some rehab center somewhere—fine. But I'm done. If she wants to kill herself, let her. I don't care.
* * *
It was stupid to think that Dean would just take me to a regular, highway hotel with a flashing sign out front and a pimply-faced perv watching old 80s porn on a box television set in the office. I should've known better than to expect something normal from him. No, instead, nearly twenty minutes after we leave the hospital, we pull into the wide parking lot of a massive structure lined with windows that look like mirrors from the outside.
My head whips to the side. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Dean doesn't even glance up as he pulls into valet, and a man dashes around the front of the SUV to take his keys. "You're not sleeping with the rodents anymore, Ava. Deal with it."
Deal with it? Like it's just that easy? I grit my teeth and grab my bag, slamming out of the car and stalking towards the shiny glass doors. I don't even need to open them myself. The second I get close, they slide open all on their own, and I dart a look at Dean as he glides past me, his own duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
Marble tiled floors. Gold filigree detail on the pillars. Pristine white lounges and perfectly stacked magazines on waiting tables. This is a place for the rich elite of the world. Not me. I feel itchy.
"Checking in under Carter," Dean tells the front desk clerk as I walk up behind him. My foot taps impatiently against the perfectly waxed floors. "I asked for the honeymoon suite."
I choke and nearly stumble over my own two feet. My head shoots up, and I glare at the back of his head.
"Yes, sir," the clerk says as he types in something on his little computer screen. "Here you are, Mr. Carter." A small credit card-sized envelope is handed over along with a pamphlet. "The internet code is in there as well as the number for our help desk. Please let us know if you need a wake-up call or room service, and we'll be happy to assist you."
"Thank you, we appreciate that," Dean says with a smile. I'm going to strangle him.
Ugh, barf. I turn and head for the elevators, belatedly hearing Dean's chuckle as he thanks the clerk and follows me. "Why are you so angry?" he asks as the elevator doors slide shut.
"I don't know, Dean," I snipe sarcastically. "Maybe because I feel like you're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what? It's just a hotel."
"It's a fucking skyscraper," I shoot back. "And the fucking honeymoon suite?" I want to strangle him. Wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until he turns a nice shade of purple.
"You're overreacting."
Did I say strangle? I meant maim. I want to maim him to death.
We get to the floor, and I trail behind him as he heads down the hallway. Curiously enough, for such a big hotel, there aren't a lot of doors. Dean stops in front of the last room and inserts the keycard. When the door opens, and we step inside, I realize why. It's not just an average hotel room. No two double beds and a bathroom. That would be too common for someone like the King of Eastpoint.
A giant flat screen television spans one side of the suite, taking up a quarter of the wall space and on a platform across from it is a single king-size bed with red and white rose petals scattered across the surface. I drop my bag where I stand and turn on him. "I'm sleeping on the fucking floor."
Dean rolls his eyes and moves farther into the room, tossing the duffle from his shoulder next to the nightstand and then whips off his shirt. My jaw drops. "Don't be a drama queen, baby. You're sleeping on that bed. With me." He says it as if it brooks no argument, but he's going to get an argument.
"I will skin you alive," I snap.
He grins, stepping closer. "Kinky."
Without my permission, my gaze skates downward, over the rippling ab muscles of his stomach. My lips part. My tongue feels like it weighs a million pounds, and I can't seem to catch my breath. "I mean it," I rasp.
Dean stalks towards me. My body refuses to move. To either back up or meet him halfway. I can't do this. We can't do this. Not again. Dean lifts a single strand of hair from my shoulder and wraps it around his thick finger—a finger that has trailed across my body in the most indelicate of ways. A finger that's been inside of me and brought me to a mind-numbing, screaming orgasm. And unfortunately, my body remembers it all too well. My mouth is bone fucking dry.
"Dean." His name is a warning on my lips.
"I won't do anything you don't want me to do," he whispers.
Fuck him, I think. Because that promise means absolutely shit when we both know that I want a lot of things I shouldn't.
I'm grasping at straws. I need to say something, anything to get him to take a step back so I can breathe. "My mom's in the hospital," I manage to say.
His body tenses and his fingers stop moving in my hair. He drops the strand and takes a step back. "You're right."
I am? I think as oxygen re-enters my lungs.
Dean's chest heaves up and down as he sighs. "But you are going to sleep in that bed with me, Ava. Even if I have to tie you down."
"Now who's being kinky?" I ask right before I mentally slap myself. I close my eyes and grit my teeth.
He chuckles and reaches o
ut to cup the back of my head. Without even meaning to, I find myself swaying towards him until my forehead presses against his sternum. "I'm going to take a shower," he says quietly. "There're water bottles in the fridge. You should grab one and lay down. Are you hungry?" I shake my head, unable to answer verbally. He takes a step back, taking my shoulders and pushing me towards the mini fridge in the corner of the room before releasing me. "Go on, I won't be too long."
I turn my cheek and watch him head into the bathroom—shirtless. Fuck, I am so fucking fucked. Blowing out a breath, I head to the fridge and yank it open. Water bottles aren't the only things they've stocked up on. Mini liquor bottles. Snacks. Sodas. Jesus, even foreign chocolates. I glare back in the general direction of the bathroom as the shower turns on.
Fucking asshole, I think, snatching up a bottle and a bag of chocolates for good measure.
The bedsheets feel like fucking water—cool, fluid, and smooth as I lay back on them, cracking the bottle open and downing the first half. I don't like it. It's too comfortable. When I sigh, my whole body relaxes with the sound. I stare at the other half of the water bottle, considering it, but now with my back on the bed and it situated on the nightstand, it feels a million miles away.
I should get up and move to the floor. I'm too fucking exhausted. I don’t know what it is, but the sudden exhaustion hits me like a freight train. I never—in a million years—expect that I could fall asleep so quickly, especially in such an unfamiliar place with Dean just in the other room, but as if my eyelids are being pulled down by forces that I cannot control, I relax into the mattress and in less than two minutes, I pass the fuck out.