.

“Come on in, Dexter, don’t be shy.” My greeter’s smile grows, the whiteness of her teeth enough to make me gag. “We’re all friends here.”

She gestures to the dozen-plus people sitting in a circular pattern around her, gleaming at her like she is the sun, the moon, and the earth all rolled into one. I’m looking at her in wonderment as well—wondering if her blood will run as red as the lipstick she is wearing.

I slump into a vacant chair, unhappy at my first taste of group counseling, but preferring it over the other option. With my outburst three years ago awarding me a seven-year stint in a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane, I either continue playing nice with these weirdos, or get transferred back to the maximum security hospital where I was originally incarcerated.

I’d prefer neither option, but since the staff at this hospital doesn’t carefully monitor their patients skipping meds, I plaster a fake smile on my lips and peer up at the counselor.

Although she’s hitting close to retirement age, my smile affects her the same way it does every red-blooded female. Her eyelids flutter as her hand lifts to fan her cheeks. Her response has me jotting down a mental note for future exploration. My dick withers at the thought of getting close to her, but my brain power is wondrous. It can make anything bend to its will—even my cock.

As the counselor gives a rundown on how our sessions will work, I scan the room. There are the standard misfits you find in every psych ward. The nervous twitcher sits two spaces up, talking to himself. The cutter is next to him, her wounds so fresh I can smell her blood, and the remaining seventy-five percent are so doped out on mind-numbing medication, they don’t realize they’re awake.

Two space cadets remain: me and the demure wallflower sitting in the furthest corner of the room. Just like me, she’s wearing a bright pink wrist bracelet, announcing she’s new to this facility. Unlike me, she’s so detached from the group, she’s not even part of the original circle. She’s a demented kink in a completely fucked-up group of people.

I laugh, amused by my inner monologue. It isn’t a smart thing to do. Laughter in a place like this is never well-received. Here, you only laugh for two reasons: you’re either low on meds or high on meds—there is no in-between.

“Wow, can you see that? Pretty fireflies.”

I wave my hand in front of my face, pretending there are hundreds of butt-lit bugs in front of me. There aren’t, but the stupid fuckers tripping on meds don’t know that. They are so doped up, the simplest movement represents a Martian landing on earth. They smile with glee, our counseling session over before it truly began.

The only patient not seeking invisible insects is the brunette I mentioned earlier. She is peering at the freaks with as much concern on her face as the counselor. She’s just not taking notes—not handwritten ones, anyway.

Noticing I’ve spotted the rapid flicker of her diamond-shaped eyes, she drops them to the floor. Usually, I’d follow suit, but since she’s a patient, not a counselor, I keep my eyes locked on her. She’s pretty, in a dorky, psychopathic type of way. Her mousy-brown hair is pulled back in a low ponytail; her skin is pasty white, and her cheeks are hollow and lifeless. If we had met anywhere but here, I would assume her lack of color is natural. But since we are surrounded by fuckwits with half a brain, I’ll confidently declare she’s been locked up a while—maybe longer than me.

An average man wouldn’t look twice at a woman with an extensive list of mental illnesses. Unfortunately for all involved, I’m anything but ordinary. Just wanting to unearth the cause of her long incarceration has me studying her more intensely.

Although she has a slim build, she has enough curves to keep her list of favors with the guards high. The generous swell of her breasts already has my dick’s attention—more due to lack of use than attraction—but it’s interested all the same.

Ninety-five percent of the guards at my last placement were male. The other five percent were either gay or in a “committed relationship,” so the only favors I received were ones that cost money. They were beneficial, but they never got me close to unlocked doors. I don’t see that being an issue for this unknown brunette. With my money and her looks, I’ve unlocked a treasure trove. Most notably: a one-way ticket out of crazyville.

Just as my eyes drop to the moderate hem of the brunette’s floral dress, a pair of black polished shoes enter my peripheral vision. “No firefly catching today, Mr. Elias?”

My teeth crunch as my eyes rise, taking in a pair of plain black pants, a buttoned-up white shirt, and a wonky-ass smile on the way. Warden Bryce tsks under his breath when my clear, undiluted eyes stop on his. With their perusal of the brunette making them the purest they’ve been the past decade, he’s confident my earlier laugh was a side effect of a low drug dosage. He’s right—regrettably.

“Open up.” He croons his short demand as if he’s going to feed me his cock instead of the medication he’s been forcing down my throat three times a day since I arrived at Meadow Fields four weeks ago.

Although I’ve been seeking an out for my predicament since the day I was incarcerated, I’d rather rot in hell than suck a man’s cock for freedom, so you can be assured the only way Bryce’s cock will ever be in my mouth will be when I’m biting it off in retaliation for his numerous silent insinuations.

Such as, “Lift the tongue, Dexter. I need to make sure you’ve swallowed like a good boy.”

I work my jaw side to side to calm my anger before sticking out my tongue and swiveling it around. It is the fight of my life not to yank Bryce’s pen out of his pocket and stab it into his neck when his thighs press together at the sight of my wiggling tongue.

What the fuck is he? A girl?

Happy I’ve performed like an obedient puppy, he gives my shoulder a gentle pat. “Good boy. All gobbled up just the way I like it.” His statement is as sexually suggestive as it sounds. “Until tonight.” He saves his frisky wink until he spins on his heels, but it doesn’t stop me seeing it.

I wait until he’s halfway across the room before forcing the mind-numbing tablets out of my stomach. It’s a hard task with how dry Bryce’s attention made my throat, but I keep silently heaving until I’m clasping three little red pills and two giant white ones in my palm.

I’ve played the part of a perfect patient for too long to let a cock-gobbler ruin my plan. He isn’t lacing me up on meds because he believes they will bring me “one step closer to society.” He wants me so out of my mind, he can play with my periwinkler. I’d be fucked if I ever let that happen. I’d slit his throat with a blunt knife before I’d let him ride me.

With a cough to hide the pings of the tablets wholeness, I peg them to the furthest corner of the room. Usually, I’d put them in my pocket, but I was caught skipping meds last week. It didn’t end well. This is the safer option, because when forced between interrogating twenty psychotic patients and letting one go without medication for a few hours, most counselors veer toward the latter—even ones as hopeful as Bryce.

Confident the tablets are far enough away from me to evade suspicion, I return my eyes front and center. On my way, I catch the inquisitive glare of a pretty pair of hazel eyes. It is the demure mouse, little Ms. Sunshine in a fucked up world.

I expect her to rat me out, to advise the counselors of my inability to follow procedures. She does no such thing. She keeps her head bowed and her suspicious gaze on the downlow.

I had wondered earlier if I found an ally. Now I know without a doubt. Bryce has had me on his radar since I walked in the door, so I’m confident the guards not as light-footed as him spotted this brunette just as quickly. Not because she is outstandingly beautiful with a smile that outshines the sun, but because at one stage in his life, every man wants to bed a psycho.

The rumors are true: psychotic women are just as crazy in the sack as they are outside of it.