Lots and lots of nothing.
I’m not sure exactly where I am—I fell asleep halfway into the drive here. I know we’d been headed east from Los Angeles, and when we’d arrived, the sky had still held the barest touch of sunset. Somewhere past Palm Springs, maybe? Or the Mojave?
Wherever we are, it’s secluded and fortified. With the sun now shining heavily on the bleached land, I can see the high fence I missed under the cover of darkness.
“What are you doing, Goldie?” asks an amused voice.
I glance behind me at the owner, a tall man with mussed auburn hair and a teasing grin.
I match his ironic smile. “Whatever I want.”
He laughs and walks forward until we stand side by side. “Think it’s an electric fence?” he asks, squinting.
“Nah. It’s probably just to keep the paparazzi off your ass.”
The man beside me, Callum Rivers, happens to be one of the highest paid models in the world.
He huffs. “This place is like Area 51. No way they’d find me. I’m on an Indonesian retreat, anyway. Soaking up spiritual vibes.”
I laugh, but it feels forced. Born with the gene for aggressive curiosity—read: nosiness—it’s growing increasingly difficult not to ask why he’s here. But digging into each other’s pasts is a big no-no. It was drilled into me during my orientation six days ago, and is reinforced constantly by the facilitators of our group therapy sessions.
No questions or specific comments about the past. If we veer toward any topic other than the right here, right now, they interrupt or call on someone else.
Only Dr. Chastain knows our secrets.
“How was your session?”
“Transformational,” I answer flatly.
He smiles knowingly. “I’m telling you, just dump all your baggage. It’s all he wants, and you’ll feel better. He’s a magician. The shit he picks up on… It’s worth it, trust me.”
I give him the side-eye. “You’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid.”
He bumps my shoulder with his. “Better than vodka.”
My head turns sharply, but he dismisses my interest with a wave of his hand.
“Just messing with you. It was cocaine.” His head tilts. “Or was it porn?”
I shake my head chidingly. “Tease.”
He smirks, hazel eyes glittering with magnetism. I recognize it as the trademark, panty-melting expression that made him famous. When I roll my eyes instead of swooning, Callum finally smiles like he means it, wide enough for me to see his slightly crooked bottom teeth.
“I like you, Mia.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say dismissively. “You only like me because I’m the only one here who hasn’t tried to get in your pants.”
He says nothing, but I can tell he wants to ask why. Not because he’s interested in me sexually—though I know he finds me attractive—but out of simple curiosity.
To a man used to having women of all ages and walks of life fawning over him, I’m an anomaly.
In another life, I’d probably be first in line to tackle him naked. Callum is physically breathtaking, smart and charming, and has a great sense of humor. But this isn’t another life, and the crude fact of it is I don’t fuck men I like. Not for years. Not since Kevin.
Callum, responding to the prickly mojo I’m giving off, asks, “Wanna go for a swim before lunch? Nix and Kinsey are already out there.”
“Sure.” I don’t actually want to be around anyone else. Callum is the only resident here who doesn’t get on my nerves.
“Great. I’ll get my trunks and meet you there.”
His footsteps fade, but I stay at the window a few moments longer, staring across the dystopian landscape. In the bright afternoon sun, the distant fence looks like a mirage, blinking in and out of existence.
A weird sense of disassociation tingles through me—I’m that fence, visible one second and invisible the next. Impossible to pin down. Impossible to reach.
The muted sound of footsteps breaks my trance. I turn, thinking Callum is back already and I’ve been staring at the fence for minutes instead of seconds. But it isn’t Callum.
Dr. Chastain strides across the Fish Tank toward the opposite wing housing the kitchen, dining room, gym, and various rooms for meditation, group therapy, and art. He walks with his chin down, glasses hanging from his fingers while his other hand rubs a spot on his forehead.
Still resonating with the feeling of invisibility, I watch him, appreciating his smooth stride, the cut of his suit, his perfectly combed dark hair, and the way his starched white shirt sets off his strong, tanned neck. His last name, Chastain, is French, but besides the blue eyes the man is all Italian. His mother, maybe?
He’s steps away from disappearing into the adjoining hallway when he comes to an abrupt stop.
I’m invisible.
He speaks to the empty room. “Did your mother call you Mia or Amelia?”
I blink back into existence but can’t open my mouth. My legs are solid wood, rooted to the floor, my heart a trapped and pounding presence in my chest.
“Amelia,” he says softly, nodding to himself.
Then he’s gone.
3
the mystery of glaciers
day 6
We aren’t allowed to share with other residents why our loved ones shipped us to this place, but I still have a brain.
Callum isn’t the only famous person here, and while his presence is a mystery, neither Kinsey Kemper nor Jason Nixon have the luxury of even a sliver of anonymity.
Kinsey is a former teen pop star turned cokehead and viral sex-tape victim. If my limited recollection of trash culture is correct, she’s twenty-six or seven, on her third round of treatment for drug addiction and/or plastic surgery addiction and/or sex addiction.
Reports vary, but align in one respect: Kinsey is a train wreck. A living, breathing stereotype of a good girl gone wrong, with dark roots beneath long platinum hair, perfect fake breasts, unnaturally plump lips, and jaded eyes. If she hadn’t consistently been a bitch to me since I arrived, I might feel sorry for her.
Jason Nixon—who only answers to Nix—is Kinsey’s rehab boy-toy. He’s an indie movie star known for his off-the-wall antics, drug use, and run-ins with the law. His angsty persona is almost as canned as Kinsey’s sex-vixen one. I’m convinced neither one can find their own consciences, much less authentic personalities.
I’m a bit of a hypocrite, but at least I can admit it.
The final two members of our motley crew are Preston Williams and Tiffany Beauchamp. Preston is a wisp of a man, thin in every way from his face to fingers to lips. He has the most incredible eyes I’ve ever seen—an undiluted emerald that catches ambient light as well if not better than the actual gemstone.
My guess is he’s in his early thirties. By his soft, concise voice and inability to maintain eye contact with anyone for more than a second or two, I figure he makes the big bucks from behind a computer screen. When he shares in group sessions, the predominant themes are isolation and depression. That, coupled with his penchant for long sleeves, have led me to the conclusion that he either practices self-harm or tried to commit suicide.
Unlike Kinsey and Nix, Preston plucks a chord of sympathy inside me. I want to bundle him up and carry him around in my armpit to keep him safe.
“You’re heartless.”
The snarled words come from Tiffany Beauchamp, our final misfit. She’s speaking to me, as I’ve just told Preston of my impulse to shelter him.
We’re working on interpersonal relationships today—our moderator, Frank C., asked us to say something nice to another member of the group. It was the only thing I could come up with.
“How is that heartless?” I ask, mystified.
She rolls her eyes and sniffs, her pert, freckled nose upturned in disdain. “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”
Ugh. Such a sanctimonious pain in my ass.
I’m half-convinced Tiffany has multiple personali
ties; she changes moods more than she changes clothes—which is at least four times a day. No more than eighteen or nineteen, she’s petite and cute, with a smile that lights up a room. Right before she sets it on fire.
I imagine her as the daughter of a senator or a billionaire CEO. A debutante drowning in designer duds and fancy cars. Maybe she got a DUI or wrapped her car around a tree. Or maybe she slept with one of her father’s friends, or stole her mother’s Norcos and accidentally OD’d.
Whatever landed her in this prison for broken people, she’s seriously messed up.
I don’t feel sorry for her—I feel sorry for Dr. Chastain.
“It’s okay,” whispers Preston, those beautiful eyes darting to me and away. “Thanks.”
I nod, shifting. My skin must be itchy from the chlorine I didn’t have time to wash off before group. His gratitude doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t.
Our moderator Frank, who looks like a tenderhearted biker in his sixties, nods approvingly. “Good sharing, Mia. I like how you really owned your emotion.”
I barely stop my eyes from rolling.
“How about you, Kinsey? Can you share something about Mia that you appreciate?”
Here we go.
Kinsey’s dark blue eyes latch onto me. Her mouth moves around for a minute, as if dealing with a bad taste. Finally, she grumbles, “She has long legs.”
“Oh, Jesus,” mutters Callum.
Frank clears his throat. “What about her as a person? Something you appreciate about her personality, or anything else that comes to mind.” After a pause, he adds, “Something complimentary.”
Kinsey picks at the split ends of her bleached hair. “I guess she, um, seems pretty normal. Like, well adjusted.” She looks at me, eyes narrowed and burning. “You’re fucking normal. You don’t belong here.”
I blink, floored.
Seated in the folding chair beside Kinsey, Nix stirs. “Yeah,” he seconds.
For a minute, no one speaks. Even Frank looks flummoxed. Finally, he offers, “We all belong here. We are all exactly where we should be.”
The itch on my skin is now in my bones. I think of Jameson and his twitching eyelid, and then about our sixteenth birthday party—I gave his best friend of five years a blow job in the garage while everyone ate cake. Jameson blamed his friend, not me. It ruined their relationship.
“I’m a horrible person,” I say flatly. “I use people. I eat them up and spit them out. I don’t care about anyone. I love my brother, but that’s it. Everyone else can burn.”
“Tell us how you really feel,” murmurs Callum.
I glance at him, an eyebrow raised. “Did you think we were friends? I’m sorry. The only reason I talk to you is because you won’t leave me alone.”
Hurt flashes across his face before he turns to look out a window. I don’t feel regret.
I don’t feel anything.
The door opens. Everyone looks except me. I already know who it is. Some sixth sense warned me of his approach, like an aching joint before a storm.
“Amelia. Come with me.”
Someone being pulled from group isn’t uncommon. It happens almost every day. We all know Dr. Chastain watches and listens to the afternoon sessions from the sanctuary of his office.
This is the first time I’ve been summoned, though. I’m kind of proud it’s taken almost a full week.
“You got it, boss,” I chirp, jumping to my feet.
By the time I reach the doorway, it’s empty, Chastain’s suited frame dwindling down the hall.
Lengthening shadows creep along the walls as I cross the Fish Tank, vacant but for a staff member watering plants. Outside, the sun hangs low to the west. Atop the smokey blue canvas of the sky are angry streaks of orange and magenta, broken in intervals by gleaming white clouds.
I turn from the sight and walk into the hallway that houses offices, medical exam rooms, and presumably, a security monitoring station. The only room I’ve been in is the one I now approach, its open doorway a portal of light against a backdrop of shadowed walls.
Pausing on the threshold, I allow myself to feel the hammering of my pulse. I don’t want to be here.
4
puzzle pieces
day 6
Across the room, Dr. Chastain stands with his back to me. He removes his suit jacket and hangs it on his desk chair. His movements, as always, are elegant and precise.
Standing just outside the glow from several lamps, I watch him loosen his tie, then unbutton his cuffs and roll the fabric up his forearms. The skin revealed is muscled and bronze, dusted lightly with dark hair.
With the long fingers of one hand resting on the desk, he lifts his head and turns until his profile is visible. Stern mouth that, in brief moments of repose, softens to sinful fullness. A nose almost too long for his face, but that perfectly complements the sharp lines of his jaw.
The muscles of his back bunch as he shifts again, just enough to glance in my direction. “If you’re done with your examination, I’d like to speak with you.”
That he knows I was ogling him doesn’t embarrass me. He’s fully aware I think he’s hot; I told him so in our first session. His only response was a scowl and a stern command to sit.
Dr. Chastain sighs. “Amelia.”
Pleased to have elicited a response—a sigh from him is the equivalent of another man’s scream—I smile and flop into his usual seat during our private sessions. Throwing my bare, tanned legs over the arm of the oversized leather chair, I examine my fingernails.
“Was it the comment about being a horrible person?” I ask idly. “I was just trying to dig up some sympathy from my fellow inmates.”
The rustle of his pants brings my eyes up. Chastain leans against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. Perfect black hair gleams in the light from a nearby lamp.
I really, really want to scratch my fingers through those thick strands and pull them into disarray. I also want to shave him bald. Maybe get rid of his eyebrows, too, which are currently drawn together in a frown.
“Why do you think you’re here, Amelia?”
I groan. “Must you call me that? It’s so predictable, trying to make me think about my mother by using that name. I expect more from you.”
He shifts again, hips lifting slightly before settling back against the desk. I manage to stop myself before my eyes veer to his crotch.
It’s disturbing, the effect he has on me. The last man who flooded me with need by merely existing was… Shit, it’s been a long time. Maybe Kyle, the hockey player from Canada.
“What are you thinking about?”
Angry for a reason I can’t digest, I tell him the truth, “The hottest fuck of my life.”
Dr. Chastain’s expression doesn’t change. Calm. Contained. “Did you have a relationship with him beyond sex?”
“Nope.” And because I’m annoyed, I add, “And we didn’t have sex. We fucked.”
There.
Finally, a physical response. His lips have thinned. Behind his glasses, his blue eyes remain sparkling ice. “Have you ever fucked someone you love, Amelia?”
I widen my eyes dramatically. “You just said a dirty word, Dr. Chastain! Shame on you.”
No smile. Nothing.
I concede defeat, admitting, “My high school boyfriend, maybe.”
“Donovan Vicks?”
I squeeze my eyes closed. “Jameson is getting castrated when I get out of here.”
Chastain ignores my muttered vow. “You were together during your junior and senior years, correct?”
My skin starts to itch again. “Yes,” I grind out.
I listen to his footsteps coming closer but don’t open my eyes. My nose catches a subtle waft of his light, expensive cologne and the muskier scent beneath. Desire dances from my breasts to my belly.
“Why do you think you’re a horrible person? A user of others?”
I open my eyes, finding him where I expected—in the chair across from me. His tie is gone, and the p
atch of golden skin at the base of his throat teases me. Begs me to lick it.
“I’m sick,” I whisper, trying to make him understand something I don’t really understand myself. “When I see people, I don’t see… people. I see puzzles to solve. Weaknesses to exploit. Answers to find. I like watching people break.” I shake my head. “No, I love watching people break.”
“What you love is making them feel,” he says, that deep voice fluttering between my legs.
I tense. “What? No.”
His head tilts, pale eyes floating over my features, leaving frostbite behind. “You shock and hurt people because their responses tell you they care. More than anything, you want people to care.”
My eyes burn. My throat aches like I just smoked a cigarette to the filter. I laugh—it’s more of a croak. “Whatever you say, Doc. You’ve got me all figured out.”
Chastain pulls off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with two fingers. “What you do—the pranks, the manipulating, the lying—you’re in search of human experience. And believe me, you would thrive just as easily on happiness and gratitude as you do on hurt and surprise.”
I have no pithy response. His words scratch and rip into my gut, tossing soul debris left and right.
I want to curl into a ball and sob. I want to leap off my chair and scream, You don’t know me! and throw a lamp at his head. Or slap him, then kiss him.
But I do nothing, fighting impulse tooth and nail. I breathe through the itch in my bones, the maelstrom inside me. And I stare at him.
He finally blinks, younger looking without his glasses, the blue of his eyes more stunning against thick, inky lashes and olive skin.
“Tell me what you want to do to me, Amelia. What punishment have I earned for making you feel?”
I can’t. Won’t. And I don’t know why. Maybe because although I don’t like him, I respect him. Envy him a little—his control and maturity. Or I don’t want to disappoint Jameson by getting kicked out of here.
The Fall Before Flight Page 2