Damaged: The Dillon Sisters

by Layla Frost

  As were mine when I saw the way the couple eyed Mister with disdain—and not just because his name was a stupid play on the singer Pitbull’s nickname. Mister didn’t look too impressed with them either as he stood protectively in front of me.

  Yup.

  Animals are way better than people.

  Sue gestured down the line of cages. “Go ahead and keep meeting the other dogs, and I’ll be right with you.”

  The couple happily moved on, likely looking for a tiny, cute toy breed that came already trained, never barked, and was in perfect health so they wouldn’t incur any vet bills.

  They’d have better luck adopting a unicorn.

  “What’re you still doing here?” Sue asked. “Your shift ended over an hour ago.”

  Oops. Time flies when you’re snuggling dogs.

  “I was just visiting Mr. Worldwide.” Sue opened her mouth, but I continued. “And I clocked out before I came in here.”

  That appeased her enough that her features softened. “Is he doing okay?”

  “Sad and lonely earlier. He just needed a little love.”

  My kindred spirit.

  Sue’s smile was lined with pity, but I wasn’t sure if it was aimed at me or Mister. “We’ve got a visit scheduled on Saturday for him. They’ve already passed screening.”

  That lightened my mood, though my pessimistic brain kept me from putting the cart before the horse. Or the home before the dog. “I’ll be here.”

  “Good. He’s always calmer around you.”

  I scratched behind his ear, just where he liked. “It’s mutual, huh, buddy?”

  “Now, get out of here. You should be off doing something fun, not sitting around work after your shift.”

  “I’ll give him a quick brush down and then go.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m going to circle back in another hour and you’ll still be here?” she muttered before walking away to catch up with the couple.

  I cut it close but was only there for another forty-five minutes before dragging myself away—and that was only because I had a bus to catch.

  When I got to my building, I walked inside and stopped at the entrance of my hall. Even from a distance, I saw them.

  Flowers.

  Someone can’t read addresses or notes. Got it.

  Walking over, I glanced at the door to see the note was gone.

  No wonder they left them, the note must’ve fallen before they got here.

  I’ll add extra tape tomorrow.

  I picked up the vase. The bouquet was even lovelier than the last. It was packed with an abundance of blue, purple, and white flowers, but something niggled at me—well, something beyond the fact they didn’t belong there.

  With each new delivery, the flowers looked progressively… off. I finally realized why.

  The petals were sparser than they should be.

  Weird.

  Why is someone leaving their old, wilting flowers outside my door?

  Except they didn’t look like they were wilting. The stems were strong and green, lined with lush leaves. The remaining petals were velvety soft and bright, not faded and dry.

  I was going to add the vase to the rest in the lobby but I couldn’t force myself to take a step. Despite their flaws—or maybe because of them—they were the prettiest flowers I’d ever seen.

  It’s not my fault someone keeps leaving them at the wrong door. I tried to do the right thing.

  I’ll bring them out to the lobby in the morning.

  I unlocked my door and headed inside with the unusual arrangement. Standing back, I scanned my small space before deciding to put them on my TV stand. They blocked the lower corner of the screen, but that was okay. I liked seeing them.

  On second thought…

  Keeping them this one time won’t hurt.

  Chapter Eight

  Wrong

  Briar

  For hot, unattainable bodyguard eye candy

  “TELL US ABOUT the new apartment, Briar.”

  I’d rather take a long walk off a short pier. Or play in traffic. Or…

  No.

  No, Briar.

  Remember what Dr. Linda and Aria say about snarky, toxic thoughts leading to outright toxic emotions.

  I’d rather eat raw, unseasoned kale.

  Eh, on second thought, that also seems a little too toxic.

  “Briar,” Derrick prompted when I remained silent.

  “It’s good.” I fought the urge to fidget.

  “That’s all you have to say? Tell us more about it. How big is it? Anything interesting or unusual?”

  “It’s… an apartment. I mean, there’s not much to it. One bedroom, a kitchen, living room, bathroom. All the usual stuff. I haven’t had time to do much with the space.” I thought about the weird flowers that sat in front of the TV and added, “Flowers are pretty much my only décor.”

  That must’ve been the right thing to say because Derrick smiled. “Flowers—or any plants—are a great thing to have.”

  “I can’t keep plants alive,” Meghan said with a lot more dejection in her tone than necessary. It wasn’t like the plants found her so insufferable, they killed themselves to get away.

  “Neither can I,” Jenna added before going full-on story topper. “I had an orchid that was so expensive, and I did everything right, but it died. I was out so much money.”

  Jenna was a different story. I could understand plants committing suicide to get away from her.

  “I don’t understand the point of all that,” Jared, one of the newer group members, tossed in. “I went to a girl’s place and it looked like a jungle. She called them her plant babies—instant bon… er, mood killer.”

  Apparently, plant life was a hot topic because the rest of the session was spent in a lively discussion about whether plants were a useful hobby or a messy waste of time. Who knew it would be such an effective diversion, allowing me to sink into the background? I’d have to use my newly gained power for good.

  Maybe.

  It took Derrick a few tries to settle everyone and get their attention. “Okay, time’s up. To build on this topic, I want you all to use the week to think about something that gives you purpose.”

  Easy. The shelter. Bam. Finished my assignment.

  “Other than work,” he added.

  Damn.

  “It could be a hobby. A pet.” He looked at Jared. “Or, yes, even plant babies. Something in your life that relies on you.”

  “My hobby is knitting, but it doesn’t rely on me,” Meghan said.

  “Sure it does. If you didn’t work on it, it wouldn’t get finished.”

  Her head tilted to the side for a moment as she mulled that over before nodding. “You’re right. I never thought of it like that.”

  “We’ll talk about it next week,” he finished.

  Everyone stood and chatted as they grabbed their belongings.

  Meghan looked at me. “Are you coming to the diner?”

  I offered what I hoped was a regretful smile. “I wish, but I’ve got errands to run. It’s my only night off.”

  Lies, lies, and more lies.

  I wished I could flat-out say, I’d never gone before, I wasn’t going then, and I would never go in the future unless hell froze over. But that kind of antisocial behavior wasn’t good for my recovery, mental health, or the supportive bond I was supposed to form with my fellow therapy mates.

  She seemed to buy my bullshit. “Next week?”

  “Definitely.”

  So long as I fall, hit my head, lose my memory, and wake up a different person.

  Well, that or some other life altering experience occurs.

  Since I’d already gotten out of dinner, I didn’t bother to hang back. My mind was on my couch, my TV, and a bowl of cereal as I headed for the door.

  “Briar, can I talk to you for a second?”

  Derrick may have only been five to ten years older than me—his sad, cartoon puppy eyes made it hard to tell his exact age—but
he wielded a lot of power. Power that, unfortunately, included the ability to make my stomach drop with irrational guilt and enough fear to choke me.

  Feeling like a kid who’d been called out by the teacher in front of the class, I did my best to ignore the prying eyes that burned into my skin. It didn’t work, so I settled for just hoping no one could tell I was two seconds away from falling apart.

  I’d done nothing wrong.

  I’d said nothing wrong.

  I’d thought a lot wrong, but he didn’t know that.

  Fighting to get air into my lungs, I blanked my expression and turned to face Derrick. He let the silence hang heavy, each ticking second tightening the vise around my stomach and chest.

  Once everyone was gone, he finally spoke. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m good.” Though the longer we stood there, the further from the truth that was.

  “You didn’t seem yourself when you were telling us about the new place.”

  Relieved I wasn’t in trouble, I nearly wilted like all the old flowers in my lobby. “No, everything is fine. There’s just not much to say about it right now.”

  “Do you need anything? The center offers a lot of assistance, including programs to help get patients on their feet and settled on their own.”

  I shook my head. “I’m really good, promise. I just haven’t decided how to decorate. It’s still bare bones and not very interesting.”

  “Moving can be difficult, especially when you’re getting your own place for the first time. There are a lot of things people don’t think of. Decisions, logistics, responsibilities. All that newness. The unknown and unfamiliar… It can add up until even caring for flowers is overwhelming.”

  His words came from a good place. An understanding therapist trying to ensure his patient knew she wasn’t alone.

  But each panic-inducing word that fell from his stupid mouth sent me closer and closer to the mental edge. Because he was right. It was daunting to go shopping. Even flipping through the countless catalogs that kept showing up in my mailbox was anxiety inducing. Beyond the cost of things—which was stupid high when all was said and done—the seemingly limitless choices were intimidating. Browsing through aisles and aisles or pages and pages of items was a new, fresh torture.

  I’d never been on my own. I’d never had to keep track of bills or a budget. I’d never had to decide what I wanted to do with a room.

  I didn’t even know what I liked.

  How sad was that? To be twenty-one and have no clue what my own preferences were.

  Derrick was still talking. Even though the specifics of his words were lost in the blood roaring in my ears, the negative penetrated my mind, sending my panic and anxiety soaring as my sense of self plummeted.

  Like a dimmer switch being turned, I could feel myself shutting down. Detaching.

  The room seemed eerily quiet except for his voice which had an odd edge to it in my head. Almost like he was speaking through a tin can on a string attached only to my psyche. “Remember, it’s normal to feel overwhelmed or even scared. It can be a difficult transition. The important thing is to reach out if you need help. That’s what I’m here for.”

  That’s nice.

  He studied me for a moment. “Do you need help?”

  I shook my head, desperate for escape. More desperate than I’d ever been, even after one of Dr. Linda’s most intrusive and in-depth sessions.

  Reaching out, he squeezed my upper arm. “Good. Moving into your own place and being able to live alone was one of your therapy goals, so it’s important you achieve it. If you change your mind or think of something you need, remember I’m here and can put you in touch with some resources to help.”

  That should’ve been comforting. It should’ve been calming. Maybe if I were normal, it would be.

  But I wasn’t normal and it wasn’t comforting.

  The reminder of my goals made failure lurk over my shoulder, chumming it up with the constant specter of Death.

  Dropping his hand, Derrick stepped back. “I’ll let you go so you can run your errands. Let us know what progress you’ve made next week. Maybe share some pictures.”

  I wasn’t sure how I looked—whether I was a zombie or if I’d managed to fake a polite smile. I wasn’t even sure I said anything before my wooden legs carried me from the room and out to catch my bus. I felt as if I were dreaming, the edges of my vision and mind hazy. Or maybe floating above myself, watching my body move.

  The bus ride seemed to last for hours before we finally reached my stop. I hurried into my building to find another vase in front of my door despite the larger note I’d left with extra tape. I didn’t bother with the junk mail or the flowers. I just stepped over them in my rush to get inside.

  Usually, closing and locking my door was cathartic. My space was my haven. I didn’t have to be ON in order to fit in or fear raising red flags. I could just be myself.

  Not right then.

  The stress of the day didn’t melt away. There was no decompressing. No peace.

  No sanctuary in my solitude.

  Tension and panic and anxiety filled every inch of me, leaving my extremities numb and tingly. Turning on the TV, I tried to sit, but it was a futile effort. The buzz vibrating through me had me bolting back upright to pace. Needing an outlet for the itch and burn that crawled under my skin.

  My gaze landed on the stupid flowers in front of my TV, and I narrowed my eyes to glare at them with misplaced anger.

  They aren’t even mine. Why are they my responsibility? Why should I take care of something that doesn’t belong to me when I can’t even take care of myself?

  Snatching the vase off the entertainment center, I was planning to march it out to the lobby or dump it in the garbage. But my frustration at the flowers, the responsibility, and life bubbled over to mix with the buzz of anxiety.

  Like a full bottle of vinegar had been dumped into a container of baking soda, I exploded.

  Hauling back, I barely choked back a scream as I launched the vase across the room.

  It hit the wall and shattered into a million tiny shards, dropping to the floor. The fading sun hit the droplets of water just right, making the matte black shimmer like deadly confetti.

  Pretty and damaged and useless.

  Just like me.

  Whatever release I felt from the fit of anger and destruction was momentary. When the burning under my skin returned, it was tenfold, growing the longer I stared at the sharp glass.

  My legs moved before I could tell them to. They kept moving even when the little voice in the back of my head pleaded with them to stop. I chanted my mantras. I practiced my breathing. Mentally, I followed the steps and protocols, but physically, I dug around in the back of my closet with a desperation that seemed to fill the room with its acrid stench.

  My fingertips brushed across the coarse glitter, and a semblance of peace edged in for the first time all afternoon.

  I stood like that for a while. Not looking. Not moving. Just touching.

  It was enough.

  For then…

  Chapter Nine

  Giddy

  Briar

  For succulents, sucka

  DREAD COURSED THROUGH me, as if my blood had been replaced by poison.

  It wouldn’t be the first time toxins and rot had flowed in my veins.

  But my dread wasn’t from that. It was because I had group again, and I didn’t want to go. Well, I never wanted to go, per se. I went because I’d promised Aria and because, without the nominal help it offered, I feared I’d do something that would destroy her.

  But that week the trepidation was worse. I couldn’t shake the feeling everyone knew I’d been unraveling. That someone had spent the week watching me and hearing my thoughts.

  I couldn’t get over the… premonition, maybe? The sense of foreboding that there’d be pity and exasperation and judgement as they called in the docs to haul me away.

  As if my guilt was written on my face in pe
rmanent marker, I kept it tipped down and focused on my feet as I made my way into the center.

  Everything was going smoothly until I rammed into the back of someone.

  “Shit, sorry,” I yelped, looking up.

  Of course.

  Of fucking course.

  Bodyguard guy was already grinning down at me. “I’d say we’ve got to stop running into each other like this, but that wouldn’t be as much fun.”

  I lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I guess we’re even now.”

  Shaking his head, he pointed out, “I don’t carry a purse for you to knock all over the ground, so I still owe you.”

  “And throwing your wallet on the ground probably doesn’t have the same effect, huh?”

  His grin grew. “Probably not.”

  He started walking toward the elevator. Usually, I’d have hightailed it to the stairwell to avoid awkward small talk or equally awkward silence. But with the way I was feeling—vulnerable and exposed and paranoid—I decided being around someone was preferable to being alone.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I followed him into the elevator, pressing the button before he hit a different one. I didn’t even have time to feel pressured to speak when the doors opened at my floor.

  I stepped off, trudging to my judgment day, when he called, “Hey.”

  I turned back to see him holding the doors open with an outstretched arm. He ran his other hand through his dark hair—leaving it attractively disheveled—before shoving it in his pocket. He was the picture of casual and cool, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen someone so ridiculously good looking.

  His attractiveness shot off the charts when he offered me another charming smile. “Maybe next time we run into each other, it can be planned ahead of time. And happen at a restaurant.”

  It took me far too long to comprehend what he was saying.

  A date?

  The tall, insanely hot, and very normal bodyguard was asking me on a date?

  And, even crazier, I wanted to say yes.

  For all of two-point-five seconds.

  Then reality crashed in.