“Two hours. I don’t want to rush.”
“No problem. Take all the time you need.” He smiled, knowing exactly what I was about to do. All the crew knew because their boss liked to go swimming at odd times and strange places.
Middle of the Pacific? Sure, why fucking not.
An hour before sunrise when the world still slept? Shit, yes.
I’d swum with humpbacks, dolphins, even a whale shark or two. I wasn’t afraid. I’d hover on my back, cradled by seawater, and watch the sun blink awake.
That was the beauty of sailing.
“I’ll visit again once I’m done.” I turned to leave.
“No need, sir. I’ll send up a lackey to make sure you’re safely onboard. It’s too deep, so we won’t set anchor but will hold position with the engines.”
I understood what he was telling me. “I won’t go to the back. I’ll use the side ladders and avoid any chance of a riptide caused by the propellers.”
Martin chuckled. “I know you know that, sir, but it’s force of habit to warn, I’m afraid.”
I threw him a tight smile. “Nice to know you take your job and my life seriously.” I headed back outside and didn’t bother going back to my quarters to change.
My black boxer-briefs would do. After all, in the pitch black yonder, who was there to see me?
Walking to the side of the vessel with its thirteen floors to the unforgiving blue glass below, I unbuckled my belt, kicked off my shoes, and tore off my shirt.
The moment I was free from human costume, I opened the railing and dove off the side.
YESTERDAY WAS BRUTAL.
Once I let go—once I allowed my soul to take over and weep for everything I’d been through, I couldn’t stop.
All night, I sobbed.
All day, I wept.
And by the time the sun rose and then set again, my face ached, my tongue throbbed, and my head howled with dehydration.
Staff members had tried to get me to eat, ignoring my naked form sitting on the floor amongst a destroyed suite to ply me with cake and feel-good food.
I didn’t want a single crumb.
Feathers from the pillows fluttered around the space thanks to the sea breeze. Curtains hung haphazardly on their rails, side tables rattled on their sides as the boat rode gentle waves.
I hadn’t been able to flip over most of the larger furniture—bolted in place for high seas or hungry storms—but the soft furnishings hadn’t escaped my wrath.
I knew I was only harming myself by exuding so much energy in tears and refusing to eat or drink. But I needed to hurt myself. For the first time, I was the one in charge of the pain and the discomfort suffocating me.
I took ownership of that. I controlled that. It was liberating to be the brute for a change, even if it was me, myself, and I who I hurt.
Exactly forty-eight hours after Elder had left me, the only other male I was allowed contact with entered my annihilated room.
His kind eyes widened, taking in the destruction before pressing his lips together and crossing the space to the bed where I huddled beneath a salvaged sheet.
“Hello.”
I squeezed my eyes, knowing exactly why he was here and ready, but not quite ready, to accept his help.
“I hear you’ve had a rough couple of days.” Standing close, he rubbed the mattress beside me. “May I?”
I didn’t open my eyes or give him permission, but he sat anyway, carefully keeping his body from touching mine. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Such a simple question but loaded with far too much. My gaze flew wide even as my tongue stung from where I’d bitten it by accident two nights ago. Even if I did want to talk to someone, to remember what it was like to hold a conversation and purge this filth inside me, I couldn’t.
Not yet.
Not until my tongue was knitted back together.
Dr. Michaels nodded in understanding. Looking at the tumbled bedside table and the scattered items on the floor, he pointed at the notepad and pen strewn haphazardly. “I meant, do you want to write it down? We can discuss it that way?”
I merely stared.
He cleared his throat after an uncomfortable minute. “Okay, we’ll leave therapy for another day, how about that?”
Therapy?
I wrinkled my nose. Was that what he thought I needed? Was I mentally ill? A basket case who needed rehab from life?
Wouldn’t my mother love that?
She’d jump at the chance to be my psychologist. The more screwed up her patients, the better.
He held up his hands. “Wrong word. Sorry, professional habit. You don’t need therapy in the normal sense. But I do think you need to talk to someone. You’ve been alone for so long—or at least I think you were alone.” His face whitened. “Were there others? Did Mr. Prest save more than just you?”
His questions fell on appreciative ears that he was willing to chit-chat, but I had no interest in replying. I hadn’t even had the energy to write to No One during my crying purge. The thought of others living what I had hollowed me with grief. I rolled over, tucking the sheet tighter against me.
What happened to the girls I was sold with at the Quarterly Market of Beauties? Were they still alive or mostly dead by now?
“Okay, I know when a social call isn’t wanted.” Michaels rubbed his thighs. “However, before I go, I must ask you to sit up. I need to inspect your tongue and discuss a few other medical issues.”
I looked over my shoulder. Now I’d stopped crying, all I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep for decades and wake up a better person, a saner person, and someone who had no aversion to speech so she could blurt out her story and move on.
“Please?” The doctor motioned for me to sit, even grabbed a pillow from the floor (only half unstuffed), and fluffed it against the ruined bedhead. “If you don’t mind, we’ll get it done as quickly as possible.”
Not wanting to disappoint him, I slid upright and settled against the pillow. The sheet fell around my waist. I didn’t think anything of it.
Michael’s gaze flickered to my chest for the barest of seconds. He cleared his throat then resolutely locked eyes with me. Any sign of a normal hot-blooded man vanished under the authoritative presence of a doctor who had seen patients in all stages of undress.
“May I?” He scooted closer, hoisting a bag I hadn’t noticed onto the bed beside him.
I didn’t nod, but he must’ve seen approval in my eyes because he reached forward, running his hands over the glands in my neck and gently prying my mouth open.
I allowed it, holding my breath as he inspected my stitched tongue.
I watched his face carefully, wanting to catch any worry or concern he might have on the status of my healing.
His face tensed.
I stiffened in response.
“You have a cut on the left. Did you bite yourself while eating?”
If there was a time when I should start answering questions, it should be now, but my body language remained silent.
He let me go, grabbed a pair of rubber gloves, and put them on. Once hygienic, he gently opened my jaw again and touched my tongue, running expert fingers over the hack job Alrik had done, and hopefully, the stitch job that would ensure it would be as if it’d never happened.
“The swelling has gone down but not as fast as I hoped.” Michaels drew back, his face softening. “Not coping is understandable after everything you've been through, and it’s best to get it out. I’m glad you gave yourself time to do that. If you want help sleeping, I can prescribe you something, and if you have intolerable pain, I can help with that too. However, what I can’t help with, and it’s entirely on you, is how fast you wish to recover by eating well and resting often.”
A fatherly scowl illustrated his face. “You need to eat if you’re to regain your strength.” His eyes tracked to my belly, ignoring my naked breasts. Black and purple painted my skin; bruises disappearing under the bandage still wrapped around my ribs. “You’r
e underweight, undernourished. To put it frankly, you’re dying.”
I froze solid.
To hanker after death was one thing. To be told it was creeping over me without permission was entirely another.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He tried to soothe. “I meant, you’re in a bad way and need to help yourself. I can only do so much. It’s up to you to decide if you want to stick around. And if that decision is yes, then you need to start taking better care of yourself.”
I swallowed, tasting the faint rubber of his gloves.
But what if I don’t know what I want? What if I’m still afraid that if I accept life, Elder will steal it from me in some other way?
Michaels didn’t wait for me to answer him. He took my broken hand, inspecting the plastic splint and bandage, making sure it was still secure. “Now you’re coherent and not in a hospital bed straight out of surgery, I’m going to be honest with you. Do you think you can handle that?”
A huge exhale exploded from me.
Truth.
Honesty.
Yes, I want that.
I need that.
It was frank truth I was missing. Wrapped up and given my own space with no rules or expectations wasn’t good for me.
“That’s what you want? No matter if it’s scary? You want the truth?”
Do I do it?
Yes, that question was worthy of breaking my silent oath.
I nodded just briefly.
Michaels beamed. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” His face fell a second later. “Not that I should be happy to tell you bad news, of course.”
Bad news?
What bad news?
I shuffled forward, clutching the sheet in my lap.
He sighed. “I’m going to be frank and not sugar-coat it, okay?”
What the hell? I’d nodded once. Another wouldn’t hurt.
I tilted my chin down then up.
“All right then.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Your body has been through a lot. I don’t need to tell you that. Even with you eating and resting like you should be—” he gave me a commanding glare —“you’d still have months’ of recovery before you’re on the mend.” He pointed at my mouth. “Realistically, your tongue is the least of your worries. That will heal as long as you keep it clean and don’t bite it again. Your hand will heal now it’s bound, and your ribs will be fine as long as you don’t ransack your room every night.”
His head turned to survey the damage but didn’t make a comment on the mess. “What won’t heal quickly are the injuries you never had tended to. Older broken bones that mended but incorrectly. Your feet, your fingers, your leg. The bumps and abnormalities will only become more troublesome as you get older.”
I swallowed again, feeling smaller and smaller, more and more fragile.
“Some of your teeth are loose from being struck. Your blood-work shows a few vitamin deficiencies. You need your eyesight tested along with many other examinations to ensure you’ll be okay.”
He patted my knee almost subconsciously over the sheet. “The body is a miraculous thing, and if you give it time and patience and the tools in order to knit itself back together, it will. Even with the other things I’ve mentioned. If you agree to let a dentist look at your teeth, and an optometrist to ensure your eyes are good, even a neurologist to check your nerves and brain function, then any future complications can be managed.”
Silence fell.
Somehow, I knew that wasn’t the end of the lecture. Slowly, because I knew it made him uncomfortable, I raised the sheet, covering my breasts and tucking it under my arms.
He gave me a half smile. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve seen enough human forms not to be embarrassed. Although, you’ve just proven your biggest injury to overcome.”
I waited for the awful verdict. A verdict I’d already realised after turning into mayhem and demolishing the lovely suite Elder had given me.
“Your mind,” Michaels murmured. “Your mind is going to be…messed up for a while.”
Tears clawed the back of my eyes as someone finally acknowledged what I feared. It shouldn’t make me so relieved to have confirmation that I was going mad. Having him understand…God, it was as if I had permission to give into the psychotic breaking inside. That I could somehow swim to the other side and still be whole when I got there.
Michaels held out his hand, palm up, as an offering of support.
The urge to take it—to have someone squeeze me in comfort rather than in pain—was overwhelming. But I didn’t reach out. I hugged my sheet and myself, drawing comfort from my body the way I’d done for so long.
He nodded, linking his unwanted hand with his other. “I understand why you trashed your room. I understand why you haven’t eaten. I’m not saying I’ve ever been in your situation, but I’ve done papers on how the mind works and want to tell you whatever you’re feeling…the explosive anger, the deplorable rage, the unexpected grief, even the hopelessness and looking for a way out, let me tell you…it is normal. You’re allowed to be topsy-turvy. You’ve been through hell, and your brain is only now coming out of protection mode and starting to sort through the past, try to make sense of your present, and figure out if it should be afraid of your future.”
Yes. Exactly.
The tears I fought won.
They spilled over my cheeks, stinging a little from old salt tracks from crying all night. To be told I wasn’t going insane—that I was allowed to feel this way…it helped. So much. Even though I’d known everything he’d said. I’d studied such conditions. I was a textbook case for people suffering an emotional breakdown.
But he delivered the news in a way I could accept rather than run from.
Michaels reached into his pocket and handed me a clean tissue. “Let it out. Don’t hold it in. I’m glad you gave the decorating team something to do. If it made you feel better, do it again. I’m relieved you cried and let yourself be sad. You should be sad. You should be in mourning. A part of you was stolen, and you might never get that back. But what you will get in return is someone so much stronger than the rest of us. Someone who has lived damnation and survived.”
He grinned, almost vicious with conviction. “You, my girl, are a warrior, and even warriors are allowed to be afraid.”
My neck bowed, tears splashing onto the sheet despite blotting them with his tissue.
“What you aren’t, though, is a girl who can afford not to eat. Okay? You need to give your body time to heal while your mind does, too. Will you promise me you’ll try?”
When I didn’t look up, he nudged my knee. “Nod for yes. I’m not leaving until you do.”
It hurt this time. The third time.
But I obeyed and nodded.
“Good.” Standing, he patted my head. It could’ve been condescending, but in an odd way, the weight of his hand on my scalp was…nice.
Clutching his bag, Michaels added, “There is one more thing.”
My jaw came up; my eyes making him fuzzy with tears.
“I know you’re afraid of him. That you expect him to be like the others who stole you.” He lowered his voice. “But don’t judge a man just because he has a past he can’t outrun. Don’t expect the worst because, by expecting the worst, you’re inviting it to come true.”
He took a breath, pondering how to phrase his parting wisdom. “You don’t need to know what the future holds. No one does. After all, no one can truly know or predict what their next day will include. All you need to know is right now. Can you survive right now? Can you survive today? If the answer is yes, then keep going. Who cares what other people’s agendas are? You can’t control that. You shouldn’t weaken yourself by worrying. Accept that you are strong enough to endure the present. The rest doesn’t matter.”
THE OCEAN WAS cool.
The water wet and welcoming.
For an hour, I powered through the gentle swell, circling the Phantom, giving the back end a wide birth. The low hum of the e
ngines keeping her bulk in place added depth to the sea-silence, infiltrating the wave’s licks and laps against the hull.
My arms burned, my lungs shredded.
But I didn’t let up my pace.
I needed to feel the pain because it kept me centred, kept my thoughts on me rather than on her. Rather than on the manic, debilitating urges I constantly lived with. Urges I’d learned to control but had broken multiple times since I’d brought her aboard my home.
Just this morning, I’d found myself repeating the same thing over and over because I became fixated on an idea. The previous night, I’d returned to the dining room after leaving Pim in her suite, ignoring my unwanted erection by cleaning up the mess of pea soup and baked potato.
The staff had tried to help, but I’d turned them all away. The desire for cleanliness and order overrode my normal ability to let it go.
And it’s all her fucking fault.
The reports of what she’d done to her room yesterday made me storm to her quarters. I’d wanted to punish her for bringing pandemonium into my world and force her to fix what she’d damaged. I was half-way there before I’d ordered myself to turn around. If I saw her again—before I got myself under control—it wouldn’t end well. Plus, I’d meant what I said. I didn’t want to see her again until she stopped watching me as if I was that fucking bastard.
Waiting for me to strike her.
Expecting me to kick and fuck her.
The fact she wasn’t wondering if I would but when fucking gutted me. I was many things. I wouldn’t deny I had impure urges when it came to her, but I would never hurt her as bad as that motherfucker did.
My intentions were…different.
Slowing my stroke, I rolled onto my back and let the ocean cradle me. The engine hum echoed underwater louder than in the sky. A shooting star blazed overhead, bright and unapologetic, burning to death in its moment of absolute freedom.
Pim was a shooting star. She wasn’t free, but she was beautiful in her quest to find peace. I’d hoped once I’d stolen her, the thoughts of suicide would fade from her gaze, but they remained.
What the hell was I doing that was so bad? Why did she cry for twenty-four hours straight when the only things I’d done were give her medical attention and a bedroom to call her own?
Dollars (Dollar #2) Page 9