Head Case

by Kendra Moreno

  The red returns but I don’t have time to act. I don’t have to. Kenzie does it for me. She snarls, and the plastic fork she’d been using for breakfast slams down between the asshole’s fingers, shattering into tiny pieces as she makes eye contact with him.

  What an awkward moment for a boner.

  The little pieces shoot outward, a few hitting me in the face, but I don’t even blink. Hell, I’m not even worried about the orderly anymore. My eyes are riveted to my own avenging angel, to this gorgeous blonde, insane woman as she glares daggers at our would-be attacker.

  I shift in my seat, and my fingers twitch again, this time the desire to reach for her overwhelming my anger with the orderly. I can always take care of him later.

  Yes, the voice purrs. Kill him and fuck her. Use his intestines around her wrists and make her scream our names.

  For once, I don’t grimace at the imagery.

  In fact, I’ve never heard anything more perfect.

  Chapter 8

  Kenzie

  My eyes are locked on Asshole Orderly’s, daring him to make a move. His chest rises and falls with angry breaths, and something inside me is sickly satisfied by how upset he is.

  “Go to your fucking room, now! You’ll be back in isolation for this shit,” he spits, his face growing redder by the second.

  I shrug my shoulders and lean back into a more casual stance as I see the other orderlies approach. Danny is with them. He puts himself directly between me and Vic and crosses his arms.

  “What seems to be the problem?” His eyebrow arches high on his forehead as he looks first at me, then each face at the table before he turns to his new protégé.

  “Your buddy keeps calling me a slut,” I growl.

  “Yes, he does.” Crane’s voice is cool, icy, packing none of the heat it had only moments ago. My gaze slides to him for a moment, trying to read his demeanor. He seems strangely calm for someone who’d been about to hit a man over the head with a cafeteria tray.

  “And what did you do, Kenzie?” Danny doesn’t even look at me as he speaks. His eyes are locked on Vic’s. I suck in a breath, knowing I’m about to get grounded.

  “I may or may not have stabbed a fork between his fingers.”

  “She tried to stab me, you heard her!” Asshole Orderly shouts over Danny’s shoulder.

  The older man pushes the young orderly away from him, holding his hand out against his shoulder in warning. “Go to your room, Kenzie.”

  I narrow my eyes on them and shove away from the table, clumsily bumping into Crane.

  “Careful, Princess. I’m on your side, remember?” His blue eyes bore into mine, and I suck in a breath, edging around him. Now isn’t the time to flirt, idiot.

  I roll my eyes and march off toward my room with my arms wrapped around my stomach. I’m getting really fucking tired of being called a slut. I slam the door behind me and jump into my bed, glaring at the ceiling. I don’t even feel like reading Wuthering Heights right now. I’ve been obsessed with that book for years, but I’m too upset.

  “Where the hell does he get off judging me? He doesn’t even know me.” My fingers rub back and forth over the frayed edges of my favorite sweatshirt. It’s not standard issue. Derrick had brought it to me a couple of years ago. Blowing out a heavy sigh, I turn toward the window, watching the sky change as the sun sets beyond the gates. The leaves in the trees around the property seem to glow during sunset this time of year. All the orange and red has always drawn my eye.

  After laying there for what feels like forever, an impish thought crosses my mind. If they want to call me a slut, I may as well act like one. The clock on the wall tells me the orderlies are done with their night rounds. It’s too late for anyone to be roaming the halls.

  Excitement zings through my body as I rummage through my nightstand for the tiny set of scissors. They were meant for trimming nails—another thing I wasn’t supposed to have—but I’d learned a long time ago they were the perfect size for opening the locks on the doors in Whisperwood.

  My heart races as I pick the lock for the millionth time and step out into the hall. This place is always creepier at night. The silence is only broken up by the soft sound of my footsteps padding down the hall. “What room is he in?” I whisper to myself, trying to remember if he’d told me. I know he’s in the voluntary program, so that narrows it down at least. I half jog down the hall, my inner child convinced something is chasing me as I make my way to the other side of the manor.

  Skidding to a stop as I pass the common area, I glance down the hallway I know houses the short-term residents. A light flickers above me, and I grumble quietly as I make my way past door after door. My fingers drag along the wall and across the smooth surface of the doors until I pause at one and slide the scissors into the lock.

  “Who’s there?” a voice calls out from inside.

  I peek around the door and see an older man lying on the bed, his hand wrapped around a short, fat cock. “Whoops!” I squeak, quickly shutting the door behind me.

  Jesus Fucking Christ . . . Really? Running to the end of the hall, my sock-covered feet slip against the smooth tile floor in front of another door. I roll my eyes heavenward, wishing I’d asked Crane what room number he was in at some point. It would be helpful right now. My fingers slip over the room number, 333. My favorite number is nine . . . it’s worth a shot, anyway.

  Before I can talk myself out of it–or that fat bastard comes running after me to help him finish off his chode–I force one scissor blade into the lock and twist. The door opens slowly, and I peer around it, hoping to find the man I want this time. I don’t know Crane very well, and I’ve only ever been with one man, but I’m sick and fucking tired of being called a slut without having any fun. Some part of me knows that logic is flawed, but I just don’t care right now.

  Crane sits on his bed, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. His hair is a wreck, like he’s been pulling at it. My eyes fall to the floor where pillows lay scattered among his sheets and blanket. What in the hell happened in here?

  “FG?” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder into the hallway. When I look back, his bloodshot eyes meet mine, and I pull the door closed behind me, stepping into the room.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” His voice is rough, ragged. It doesn’t sound like the smooth, charming one I’m used to hearing in the common area and the cafeteria now. Waving my tiny scissors I take another slow step toward the bed.

  “I have my ways,” I chuckle.

  Crane looks to the scissors and shakes his head. I lay them on the dresser and bend, picking up a pillow as I make my way toward him. As I sit on the bed, he goes stiff, his shoulders tensing as I wrap my arms around the pillow in my lap and cross my legs.

  “What’s wrong?” I’m genuinely curious. He seems really upset. I’ve seen him a little crazy, but this is new. This feels . . . emotional.

  Crane scoots another inch away from me and turns to face me, his leg bumping against mine. “Dreams—er, nightmares.” He shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes. “It won’t fucking stop.”

  I know all about that. I hand him the pillow and stand up, grabbing the blanket and another pillow from the floor before I crawl onto the bed, lying on my side with my arm propped under my head. “I’m all ears.”

  Crane hesitates, his fingers digging into the pillow as he stares at me in his bed. “I’m not good at talking.”

  “Well,” I snort. “Lucky for you, all the therapy you’ve signed yourself up for is going to help with that. A lot. Let’s hear it, FG. I’ll pop your therapy cherry.” I wiggle my eyebrows, satisfied when a small smile curves his lips. Crane crawls farther up into the bed and stuffs the pillow behind his back, sitting up instead of lying down.

  “The voice I hear–” He shakes his head, looking to the side before he continues. “He tells me all kinds of bizarre shit, always rambling about heads and blood and nonsense. It’s getting worse when I sleep, though. I can see it, all the things he t
ells me. I do things in my dreams now and I just–” He stops short, his hand falling into his lap.

  “But you don’t do them, so stop worrying. Dreams don’t make you crazy.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m crazy.”

  “They given you a diagnosis yet?” I purse my lips and wait for the answer, but he’s silent. “I didn’t think so. So, you’re not crazy, not officially. You’ll be fine, just try not to tell me what a pretty head I have anymore.” I can’t help the smile on my face. That awkward comment has been cracking me up since he made it

  “Why does the orderly keep calling you a slut?” Crane slides down a little, not quite laying down, but closer to my level. “I don’t think you are one,” he rushes out, his cheeks turning a rosy shade of red. “It just seems like a theme, and I’m curious.”

  My eyes roll shut, and I contemplate lying to him again. He’s going to hear it from someone eventually if he stays here long enough, so might as well come clean now. This should be fun–not.

  “I was dating an orderly, Derrick.” I glance up at his face in time to see his eyes go wide.

  “Oh . . . that sounds–”

  “Inappropriate? Slutty?” The anger I’ve been carrying around burns in my chest, begging me to lash out. “It’s not how it sounds. We had a connection, and I really cared about him. He really cared about me, too, before you try to say different. But yeah . . . it’s inappropriate. So, he was fired when people found out about us and now–” I groan, laying my hands over my face as my head plops down into the pillow.

  “And now the orderlies are way too comfortable disrespecting you.” He actually doesn’t sound judgy. One point for FG.

  “Pretty much.”

  We lay there for a few moments in silence, neither of us moving, just existing comfortably side by side. My mind drifts between his nightmares and my own drama and back again.

  “What made all this start for you?” I gesture vaguely toward his head, and he snorts, rolling off the bed. I raise my eyebrow as he makes his way toward the light switch and cuts off the lights.

  The bed sinks in the dark with his weight, and a shiver runs up my spine. You absolutely will not fuck this man tonight, I remind myself. He’s upset. I know what that’s like . . . even if I feel way too responsible for having this conversation with myself.

  “I don’t know. I thought it was a hangover, at first, but it just got worse instead of better.” Crane’s arm presses against mine, but he leaves a safe distance between us. He’s respectful, how cute. “What about you? You didn’t try to kill yourself.”

  I swallow, glad he can’t see my face in the dark. Why is it so hard to lie to him all of a sudden? Maybe it’s because he sounds like he’s been crying, or because I know what it’s like to feel like you’re losing control of your life, but something in me wants to tell him the truth tonight. I almost never tell the truth—about anything. It’s one of my symptoms, so they say.

  “I did something when I was younger. I got mad at my parents, in the car, and I made the car wreck. My dad died at the scene, but my mom and I were hospitalized. She apparently told the EMTs what happened, so when I woke up in the hospital and they told me she’d died in surgery, there was a social worker and cops there, trying to figure out what to do with me.” I don’t cry. I won’t let myself. This is the reality of my life, now. One really stupid fucking decision had changed my entire life, and I’ll never be able to change that.

  “They didn’t know what to do with me, really, because I was so young. There was a court date. My aunt and uncle were there, and I think they could have taken custody of me if they wanted because of my age, but somehow,” I sighed. “I ended up here. Forever.”

  A shaky hand slides down my arm, and I try to ignore the tingly sensation it leaves behind. Emotions skitter through my chest like rogue ping pong balls. Grief. Sadness. Excitement. Lust.

  “I’m really sorry,” Crane whispers in the dark. I’m glad he can’t see my face, but I really wish I could see his. What does he think of me? I killed my parents, sort of. That’s what the courts and doctors say, anyway. My teeth sink into my lip as I wait for him to judge me.

  But it never comes.

  Instead, we lay there, his hand rubbing up and down my arm as his breathing begins to slow. Did he just fall asleep listening to me tell him the story of how I murdered my family?

  “FG?” I scooch a little closer, slipping my hand over his side to his back, my face pressing against his chest.

  “Yeah?” he mumbles in a groggy voice.

  “The nightmares don’t go away, but eventually, they’re not scary anymore,” I whisper into his shirt. His chest stills against my cheek for a moment then his arms wrap me up in a hug. This isn’t what I was expecting to happen when I snuck into this room.

  * * *

  /-/-/-/

  * * *

  My eyes fly open. Something isn’t right in the room. My heart races against my chest as I look for the window; it’s still dark outside, thank God. Stretching my arms over my head, my back arches against Crane behind me. Somehow in the middle of the night, we’d ended up spooning, apparently.

  “So wet,” he mumbles in a deep, sleepy voice.

  I roll over, my eyebrows high on my forehead as I look at his face. He’s still asleep, his forehead wrinkled. For a moment, I think he’s having a wet dream, maybe fucking some model in his sleep, but he looks upset.

  “Your blood will paint the walls,” he growls, and his shoulders tense.

  I prop up on my elbow, staring down at him as his lips move in his sleep. I can’t make out everything he’s saying, but every now and then the word “head” pops out.

  “I’ll take that head, too,” he groans, the creases in his brow finally smoothing out as the tone of his voice changes. Maybe he is having a wet dream–of sorts. I bite my lip and slide my hand across his stomach, his abs tensing under the plain blue shirt he wore to bed. Sliding my leg over his, telling myself I’m just trying to get more comfortable, my knee bumps into his hard length, and I sigh.

  Yep. Definitely a wet dream—a weird one.

  “Your head will look wonderful hanging from my saddle.” His voice is barely a whisper.

  I shake my head, trying not to smile as I listen to him work his way through whatever crazy fantasy land he’s created for himself in his dreams. Sweat beads across his forehead, and I run my thumb across it, reminding myself to behave. His hips grind against my knee, pressing his cock harder against me. This really shouldn’t feel so tempting, it’s not even near anything fun, but . . .

  “So much blood,” he whimpers, his eyebrows creasing again even as he rocks his hips against my leg.

  Jesus, fuck. This is hot. I want to know what he’s dreaming about. It’s obviously dark, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t make me want to fuck him even more. Maybe Crane is crazier than I gave him credit for, if he’s having bloody wet dreams.

  I suck in a breath, contemplating getting on top of him regardless of the bad start to his night. Thankfully, the moans and mumbling stop, and I let myself fall back down onto the pillow, quickly rolling over onto my side, the way I woke up.

  The sun is starting to peak over the trees. I take a deep breath and sigh, sliding away from Crane’s arm even though he tries to latch onto my waist. As I push open the door and scan the hallway for orderlies, something in me tells me to look back at the bed. The light from the hall is enough I can see Crane’s eyes are open, tracking me like a predator from across the room. I pause in the doorway, my heart racing. I can’t look away from him.

  “You might be sneaking out of my bed tonight, Poppet, but soon, you’ll be begging me to make love to you in the blood of our enemies.”

  I blink. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the rest of the world. Swallowing, I force myself to back out of the room and into the hallway. His eyes never leave mine, even as I push the door closed.

  I lean my forehead against the closed door, soaking up the cold against my skin. My cor
e clenches as his words wash through me again. That didn’t sound like Crane. He probably wasn’t actually awake, I reason as I begin picking my way carefully down the hallway. The last thing I want is to get caught outside my room. He probably wasn’t awake. The words are a mantra in my mind, but they aren’t loud enough to drown out the promise he’d made me.

  I’ve never had a blood fetish, but the man sitting on that bed, looking at me like I was a meal . . . he can fuck me wherever he wants. Even in the blood of “our enemies.”

  Chapter 9

  Crane

  I had every intention of spending the day with Kenzie like I had the previous days when I woke up. Whisperwood likes consistency it seems, and that led me into a false sense of security. The days before, it was wake up, go to breakfast and eat shitty food, spend the rest of the day watching Mitzy accuse me of being a spy and Kenzie attempt to stay out of trouble, fight the attraction I feel toward her, and go to sleep with a massive hard-on at night. Of course, if she sneaks into my room again, maybe it’ll be a different story.

  We should have claimed her when we had the chance.

  “Chill, asshole. We can’t just go around claiming people like objects,” I mumble, keeping my head down as I enter the cafeteria.

  We can do whatever we want. No one can stand against us.

  “Superpowers, huh? Would be a nice time to bring those out to impress the lady.” Somehow, I don’t find it odd that I’m having an actual conversation with the voice in my head for the first time. Typically, he makes one-off comments to get under my skin and piss me off. That, or he’s trying to convince me to murder someone. Either way, I don’t even flinch when his voice seems stronger today.

  It is not time yet. Soon, Crane Woodward.

  “Nice to know my impending breakdown is right around the corner.” An older lady looks at me as I speak, a tilted grin on her face. I don’t engage, knowing by now that it’s probably not the best idea. I haven’t met her before, not yet, but I have a feeling she has a lot of stories to tell. “You never did tell me your name,” I remind him . . . myself? Who fucking knows at this point?