by Fox, Logan
I look up as she enters the dining hall. She’s impossible to miss with her red hair and an outfit meticulously selected to highlight not only her hair’s brazen color, but every curve on her body. She even has lipstick on—something I didn’t expect to see. Although she’s far from a shrinking violet, I assumed she would hang back tonight as she gradually adjusted to the concept of a party that doesn’t involve her firing up some china white.
She takes a few seconds to scan the room before she moves to the bar—as I anticipated she would.
My apologies, Vos. There will be no alcohol for you tonight. I need you to have a clear head.
Chapter Three
Clover
“I guess we should go to our tables, right?”
I look up at Michael. I’d almost forgotten he was sitting beside me, that’s how busy I was trying to sort out my train wreck of a life. I’d been going through my phone book, hoping to find a name on my contact list that wasn’t a dealer or a fellow junkie. See, I don’t just need a couch, I need a couch in a house without drugs.
I’m strong, but fuck my life, I don’t want to risk everything just to catch some shuteye. I’d rather sleep under a piece of cardboard. Or a bridge. Both, preferably. It’s fall, so the nights can get pretty—
“Which table are you sitting at?”
Fuck, now I’m zoning out. What’s wrong with me? Oh, yeah—my life is fucked. I almost forgot.
“I have no idea.”
Michael’s hand zooms towards me. I watch it coming. Brave man, wanting to fondle my tits in the middle of—
Nope, he’s going for my lanyard. He lifts it up, turns it over. “Table five.” His eyes flash up to mine. “Me too.”
That’s odd. Or is it? I can count the times I’ve been to rehab graduations on one finger. Maybe it’s standard procedure to be paired with one of your caretakers, despite the fact that he’s handsome, and sweet, and is willing to look past the fact that you called him a motherfucking cumdumpster and threw a tray of scrambled eggs at his head.
“Lead the way,” I say, sounding a fuck load cheerier than I’m feeling.
As I wait for him to get up—seems there this whole ritual surrounding the buttoning of a suit before and after sitting that I wasn’t aware of—movement catches my eye. The guy next to Michael walks away from the bar, leaving behind a folded fifty-dollar bill.
I’d like to think that I struggled with myself for longer than like one second. I didn’t. That crisp bill found a new home in my clutch.
A girl’s gotta eat.
Michael walks straight to our table without looking around. I guess he scoped it out before—okay, who cares? I’m starving, and I blame him entirely. I never used to have anything approaching an appetite until I started my program at the Hill Institute. Before I began rehab, I was stick thin and used to eat maybe twice a week. True, on those days I’d pig out, but that’s beside the point. Michael thought it would be good to introduce me to the concept of good nutrition. Green things. Fresh things. Raw things. He tutored me on how bad processed food was. Sugar. Caffeine. All the things I loved, he took away from me.
Including heroin. Grass. Barbies.
Which just about sums up my entire six months in this hell hole. Everything good in my life was stripped away from me. I was led to believe everything I’d thought good in the world was an evil equal to Lucifer himself.
Guess I’m a convert. Go figure.
And now, at a time of night where I’d usually be in orbit around our blue marble, I’m ravenous. Seriously, I could eat a small goat. Raw, if necessary.
Michael unexpectedly pulls out my chair for me, which means I end up perching on the edge like a moron before he can push it in again.
Yeah, real smooth, Clover. Go wait in the back with the staff. You have more in common with them than these hand-tailored twenty-thousand dollar suits and Armani gowns.
I down the rest of my mocktail, hoping its demonic dose of glucose will send dopamine to my brain so I can stop stressing the fuck out.
I hate Michael for that too. I didn’t even know about dopamine or what the fuck a glucose was until I met him.
I glance in his direction. He’s watching the stage with a faint smile on his face, all expectant like. Is this his first graduation, or does he know what’s coming?
“Do I have to go on stage?” I ask, leaning in so I don’t have to raise my voice. I don’t want the old biddies across the table to hear what I’m saying. A teenager with bad skin and vacant eyes is sitting next to them—one of the girls I was in rehab with.
Juliet? Julia? Eloise?
Personally, I don’t think she’s gonna make it. The relapse demon is breathing over her goddamn shoulder, and no surprise with two uppity parents like hers. The mother’s even wearing pearls, for fuck’s sake. No kid can handle—
“Just to collect your chip.” Michael’s hand slides onto my leg. Or am I imagining it? After all, I imagined plenty of shit when I was detoxing—that’s the official name for this place getting you off of heroin—and it was much more erotic than Michael’s hand up my leg.
Between my legs, sure. And not just his hand, either.
I shift in my chair, torn between politely pushing him away and tugging his hand higher.
And here I thought he was this reserved guy, possibly even someone who went to church every Sunday. Maybe the four shots of brandy he has in him is breaking down his brick wall of inhibitions.
“It’ll be over in no time.” He turns to me, brown eyes as inviting as chocolate fondue. “You don’t have stage fright, do you?”
I laugh too loud and cover my mouth with my hand. “Me? Never,” I lie.
If there were fifty people here, then yeah, no problem. But there’s like a thousand and I feel like I’m on display even though no one’s looking my way. And, pretty soon, I’m gonna be all they’re looking at.
I pick up my glass, but it’s empty.
Shit.
“Can I get you another?”
“Not unless it has something stronger in it,” I say.
“Clover…”
“I’m not a fucking drunk,” I mutter, glancing around to see if they have waiters in this joint, or if I have to walk back to the bar to get a refill. I have money now. Maybe Mr. Holier Than Thou Bartender will slip me a shot.
If not, then I’ll get a soda. Fuck, the sugar or the caffeine will get me through this. Maybe I can sneak outside and find someone with a smoke. I would literally decapitate Michael for a cigarette.
Fun fact: six months in rehab for heroin addiction does nothing for craving nicotine. Just so you know.
“What do you drink?”
I jump. Michael whispered that question right in my fucking ear. If I turn, I could kiss him. Instead, I stay still for a second. “Double Jack on ice.”
“You promise you’ll behave?”
Again, I almost turn. I give my lips a quick swipe with my tongue. “Promise,” I mumble.
He stands up, buttons up his suit—I think it’s a Tom Ford or something, but I’m not hundreds—and weaves his way through the crowd as he heads for the bar.
Well, fuck. That was unexpected.
I sit back, both relieved and suddenly anxious that I’ll finally get something to drink. It’s only been what, six months? Pfft.
“Excuse me, Clover Vos?”
I put a crick in my next as I spin to face a waitress bending over me, a hand on my shoulder. “Yes?” I manage, although the word barely makes it past my throat.
In reply, the girl hands me an envelope. I take it with numb fingers and watch her depart as a deep frown pulls on my eyebrows.
I look down at the envelope. It’s an off-white color, thick card stock. There’s an old fashioned candle-wax seal on it, pressed with what looks like some kind of Celtic symbol.
Breaking the seal with my thumb, I slip out the note. The message is hand written in an elegant script.
Your presence is required in the den.
Dr. H. Hill
> Chapter Four
Hunter
It would appear Vos struck up quite an animated conversation with Michael Brooks. Not in the least surprising. Of all her caretakers during her six months at my institute, she and Michael had the best chemistry. I’d even say they ‘hit it off’. Placing him at her table was a good decision—it should make her more comfortable having a friendly face around.
Why is Pamela taking so long with my note? I have precious minutes until the ceremony begins, and I don’t want to waste them standing here in the shadows like a modern day Dracula.
Ah, there she is.
Clover takes the envelope, and Pamela leaves. Michael is busy placing an order at the bar.
Good—perfect timing for you to leave, Vos.
She opens the envelope. reads the note. Casts a quick look around. I’m too far away to make out her expression.
Clover puts the note away, looks up as Michael returns, and speaks to him.
I clench my jaw and draw a calming breath. There was a possibility she would reject the instruction, but I was hoping our relationship wouldn’t start off on such a bad foot.
For every negative, there is a positive. I have a few minutes at my disposal to study my subject in her natural environment. From my reports, Vos relied on weak-minded men to keep up her lifestyle. I guess if you have no talents beyond an hourglass figure and an unforgettable smile, then you had to rely on others to get you through the day.
Unforgettable smile?
I let out a huff and consult my watch again. Just a few minutes to go before my speech. Vos has a table near the stage, but the lights will be in my eyes. No way to gauge her response to my speech or my presence.
It will have to wait for our meeting, then.
At least she’s enjoying her freedom while it lasts.
Chapter Five
Clover
Something akin to an army trampling over my future grave rattles up my spine. I keep rereading the words, thinking they’d make sense the fourth, fifth, twenty-seventh time around.
Why the hell would Dr. Hill want to meet me? I’m assuming he’s the owner of this rehab facility—it would be a fucking hilarious coincidence if this place is called ‘The Hill Institute’ and it has nothing to do with him. Does he want to thank me for enrolling in the program? It was a fuck load of money, sure, but I never paid a red cent.
I swallow a throat full of guilt and, luckily, Michael arrives as I feel a gag come on.
Snatching the drink from his hand, I down it. He pauses as if he’s reconsidering every decision leading up to this point. What is it, Michael? Worried you’re gonna get fired because you got a thirty-day chipper drunk as a skunk?
“Sorry,” I mumbled as I set the empty glass on the table. The ice cubes rattle, and the sound makes Dead Eyes look up in longing.
And now I feel like shit. Thank you, Dr. H. Fucking Hill.
“What’s that?” Michael asked, pointing to the note as he takes his seat.
“Nothing.” I shove the note back into its envelope, fold it in half, and ram it into my clutch.
Michael lets out an awkward little laugh, and I know I’ve blown it with him. If anything’s going to happen tonight, it might be a fuck against the back wall where they bring in deliveries and shit, but there’s no way this guy is taking me back to his place.
My phone is too heavy in my hand as I take it out and stealthily go through my messages.
Nothing from Gail. Guess I won’t be wearing out her couch tonight.
Fuck!
I guess I could try to find a shelter somewhere? Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve had to do.
I shudder and hastily push the thought away.
Now I want another drink if only so I’ve got something other than my goddamn phone to fiddle with.
“So, Michael, you seeing anyone?”
And, of course, he changes the subject as if he hasn’t even heard me. “I think they’re starting.”
I slump in my chair, pout, and press a hand against my stomach when it lets out a nasty little growl.
Fuck you, Michael. My metabolism was fine before you came along.
True enough, the lights in the dining hall dim, and everyone heads for their seats. Another two parent-kid parties crowd our table, one as dead-eyed as the girl who’d been here all along, the other looking like they’d just found Jesus.
Fuck, that was me this morning. Clover Vos, ready to take on the world.
Now I don’t even know where the hell I’ll sleep tonight.
Your presence is required in the den.
I won’t lie, I’m a little creeped out. Not only because I’ve never met this Hill guy, but because who the fuck does that? I shiver, and Michael sends a smile my way as if he wants to warm me up with it. It almost works, but then I remember the expression on his face when I downed my drink.
A smattering of applause breaks out like a virus, and I look at the stage. A woman walks up, but I don’t recognize her.
“Welcome, one and all, to Hill Institute’s Fall Graduation. Please remember that we have a zero tolerance—”
And that’s right around when I zone out. I glance at the tables while everyone’s focused on the stage. They all look so hopeful—well, the parents and significant others, anyway. I recognize some junkie’s faces, and I feel for them. Only a little though. They got themselves into this mess. Just like me. Sure, they can feel sorry for themselves, but that ain’t gonna help no one. Specially not them, in the long run.
“…holding the prestigious title of Mallhaven’s Most Eligible Bachelor three years running, it’s my privilege to introduce the founder of the Hill Institute, Dr. Hunter Hill!”
The previous polite applause has nothing on the ruckus this announcement creates. There are even whoops and whistles as the announcer chick steps back from the podium and claps toward the side of the stage.
What a fucking dog and pony show.
I roll my eyes, lean forward, and put my chin in my palms. At least I get to see what this creep Hill looks like. What the hell did he want to see me for, anyway? We would have had like five minutes before he’d have to come up for his speech. Which I hope isn’t some hour long thing—I just want my chip so I can fuck off and try to find somewhere to crash tonight. If everyone wasn’t so focused on the stage, I’d have abandoned Michael and worked the room. Maybe I’d have found some other guy to—
The spotlights dart around the stage and focus on a man stepping from the curtains. In response, my gaze flickers to him too.
What. The. Fuck?
My lips part, and I lift my chin from my palm.
Is he Dr. Hill?
* * *
My brain scrambles as I try to remember what the announcer chick said. Was it Dr. Hill, or did she—?
“Thank you, thank you.” Hill raises a hand, and the crowd cuts off like they’ve been practicing this whole week.
I squirm in my chair. When I glance around to see if it’s just me or if this guy’s having the same effect on everyone in the room, I realize I’m not the only person of female persuasion who’s suddenly paying more attention.
Dead-Eyes just came to life. Michael looks like he’d turn gay for the guy on stage.
Thank God. It’s not just me—Dr. Hill’s hot as fuck.
My eyes are drawn back to him, and I take a moment to absorb everything the spotlights highlight; from his crisp, immaculately tailored suit to his sparkling eyes. He’s too far away for me to figure out hair color or anything like that, but I don’t care—he’s the male equivalent of a bombshell with that chiseled jaw, strong nose, and thick, almost unruly, eyebrows.
I touch the envelope inside my purse, and my mouth goes dry.
This guy wanted to meet with me? Why the hell didn’t I go?
Oh, right—I’d assumed he was a sixty-something lecher with nothing better to do than feel up his rehab patients as soon as they weren’t his patients anymore. Also, that he’d have his admin team send him patient files so h
e could jerk off to them.
Oh god, I fucking wish this guy would jerk off over my file.
I shift on my chair, uncomfortably aware that this debaucherous line of thought is starting up mechanisms inside me I’d thought rusted shut months ago.
Get a grip, Clover. He’s just a guy. Maybe it’s the lights or something. He’s obviously loaded, so he can afford diamond-dust night cream and shit. Of course he’ll look good.
And yet, as good as he looks—fuck it, as drop dead gorgeous as he looks—there was the faintest hint of unease.
Not quite anxiety or nervousness. He was uncomfortable. Like he had something in his shoe, and couldn’t wait to get it out when no one was looking.
Fuck, that double Jack went straight to my head, didn’t it?
I happen to glance across at Michael—more to break eye contact so I can concentrate on anything except sex—and catch his eye. Michael grins at me. “I love these things,” he says, and he sounds seconds away from drinking the blue Kool Aid. “He’s such a good speaker. So passionate.”
Grrr, Michael. Now I’m imagining just how passionate Dr. Hill can get with his lackeys, and that’s a bad train of thought for someone like me to have. I grab a fork and distract myself by stabbing it into the swan-like napkin filling my empty plate.
“For those of you that don’t know me, I’m Hunter Hill. When I first founded this research institute, it was with the sole purpose of creating a rehabilitation facility that could guarantee a one hundred percent recovery rate in every single patient that completed our program.”
Hundred percent recovery? Pfft. Poor Dr. Hill has no idea how preposterous his statement is. I mean, if anyone could guarantee—
“But I soon realized that was a pipe dream.”
Bang on, Dr. Hill. Now you’re getting it.
“Addiction cannot be cured—”
Can I get a hallelujah?
“Until the addict identifies the exact cause of their addiction.”