“Holy pissflaps!” I yelled, running right into someone on my way out of my apartment. The Red Bull in my hand fell to the ground and shot liquid gold all over my legs. Glaring at Ronald—the asshole currently standing in my way—I said, “Do you know how expensive those are?”
Ronald smiled at me, flashing a shiny tooth in the process—playing his clichéd part to perfection. Leaning his weight against the outside of my apartment, he replied, “I do. And do you know how many Red Bulls one could buy with the kind of cash you owe me?” He ran his tongue over his teeth as he took me in, and I reached behind me to slam my door shut, hoping to keep the fumes pouring off his body from soiling my apartment.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Ron.” I picked up my now-empty can, dread filling my belly. I looked at my surroundings, expecting my parole officer to pop around the corner. That would just tie a bright, glittery bow right over this mess. “Consider this the first installment payment.” I shoved the can against his chest and turned to run down the stairs to the parking lot.
“You’re not going to get too far,” he called out as I took in the fact that his truck was parked directly behind my car, effectively blocking me in.
“Knock it off.” I rummaged in my bag for my phone to check the time. I had fifteen minutes to go to Dr. Watkins, but with Ron being a dick, I had exactly two minutes before I’d definitely be late. “Look, can we talk about this later?” I avoided looking in his beady little eyes, so sure I was that he’d be able to suck the soul right out of me just by eye contact.
He took his sweet time coming down the steps and stopped just a couple feet from me. “I want my money, Lucille.”
I curled my lip in disgust. I wasn’t sure which was more offensive—his use of my full name or the stench emanating off of his slimy-looking body. “I’ll get you your money, but I can’t get it if you’re blocking me from doing the things I’m required by the court of law to do.” Looking around, I lowered my voice. “And if my parole officer sees you slithering around my apartment, he won’t hesitate one second to send my ass back to prison. Which means you won’t get your cash.”
He leaned in, and the scent of garbage penetrated my nostrils. “When are you going to get me the money you owe me?”
“I get it,” I said, nodding slowly. “I understand why you keep showing up begging for cash.” I looked at his head, his thinning hair so greasy you could fry french fries in it and said, “Shampoo out of your budget?”
Ron narrowed his eyes, which was a feat because they were already in snake-like slits. “For someone who isn’t in the position to test me, you sure have a smart mouth on you.”
“Thank you.” I curtsied and then glanced meaningfully at his truck. “So about this truck. Let’s move it so you can find a shower and I can be on my way.”
Ron, unsurprisingly, was unamused. He touched my hair, twirled one of his fingers in it. All I could think about was the number of places those hands had been, and I shuddered. “Where’s my money, doll?” he asked in a voice that wasn’t the least bit as sweet as his endearment suggested.
I scratched at my arm, one of my tells when I was about to lie. “I have it, but it’s not easily accessible. Especially not when some dickface is blocking my car in.”
His face perked up. “Are you on your way to get it?”
“No, I’m on my way to group therapy. And if I’m late, Dr. Watkins is going to mark it in my file and then I’m going to have to attend more sessions with all those wretched people which means—like I’ve been saying all this time—less money for my old buddy Ron.” Ron was not my buddy. He was a drug dealer—my former dealer before I’d ended up in prison. I’d thought the year I spent behind bars had caused amnesia for Ron, but when he’d shown up on my doorstep a week after I got out, I knew I’d hoped for naught. And I owed him a mega shitload of Benjamins.
“Maybe I should drive you to ‘therapy’—you know, make sure that’s really where you’re going.”
Throwing up my hands in exasperation, I said, “Are you kidding me right now, Ron? Yeah, great idea. Have the drug dealer drive the reformed drug dealer and addict to her court-mandated group therapy. Won’t look even the slightest bit suspicious.”
“They won’t know I’m a drug dealer unless you tell them.”
At that, I let out of laugh. “You have a real knack for comedy, Ron. Because you’re totally right—you don’t look the slightest bit like a drug dealer.” I placed a hand on his shiny truck. “No, you,” I bobbed my head up and down his body, “in a truck that probably set you back, what, eighty k? Super legit. The coke clinging to your nostrils and the fact that I can see a dozen very clear needle marks on your arms—that’s all points to an average Joe, right?” I rolled my eyes at him, and nodded at his truck. “If you don’t move your fancy set of wheels, I’m going to have to back my car into it.”
He looked doubtfully at my car, which, granted, had a bumper hanging off the back of it—a bumper I’d tried, unsuccessfully, to reattach with Hello Kitty duct tape. “You think that hunk of metal—what is that, three cars welded together?—can take down this?” he asked.
I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a look that dared him to challenge me. He may have been my former drug dealer, hell bent on getting his money back, but he was also somewhat terrified of me. “Fine.” He pointed a finger at my face. “But bring my cash by the end of this week, or else.”
I didn’t want to ask him to finish that sentence because I could vividly imagine a number of things that “or else” could accompany, and not a single one of them sounded even the least bit pleasant.
• • •
I walked into therapy with seconds to spare, snagging the chair closest to Dr. Watkins. I’d learned in my second week that if the good doctor couldn’t make eye contact with you, the less likely he’d encourage you to share.
There was another empty seat, directly across from Dr. Watkins in the circle of hell he formed in the dark, former gymnasium with old folding chairs. Quickly, I counted the number of people in the room—five. Which was a normal number for our group, so to see a sixth, as-yet unoccupied chair, confused me. I took a quick review of all the people currently waiting for Dr. Watkins to begin prying into our brains.
Ryan—the guy who claimed to be an accountant but was definitely some kind of assassin—was sitting in his normal spot, flanking Dr. Watkins on his other side. I suspected Ryan might be a cannibal, too, even though he repeatedly insisted he was an “accountant.” Okay, sure. That was as believable as Ronald being an upstanding dude.
Next to Ryan was Molly—the girl who had legs that spread with a Pavlovian-kind of effect whenever she was near one of her hot professors. I wasn’t one to slut-shame, but it wasn’t a secret that Molly was addicted to banging much older, scholarly dudes. And, truthfully, she was probably the most normal one in the room—including Dr. Watkins.
Beside Molly—and currently boring a hole into my skull—was Derrick, the rageaholic who had once ripped a door off with his bare hands. Not that we had seen that—it would’ve added a bit of excitement to our weekly chats—but he made sure to tell us in a quiet and not-at-all-creepy little voice when we hung around the juice boxes Dr. Watkins put out for us.
And rounding out our family of deplorables was Brett, who had Walking Corpse Syndrome—which wasn’t zombie-related, much to my dismay. No, Brett believed he was actually dead—something he reminded us all the time, despite our collective disagreement that no, this was not an M. Night Shyamalan movie and he was not Bruce Willis.
Dr. Watkins adjusted his glasses and then ran his fingers over his handlebar mustache as he looked around at us. I slouched in my chair, crossed my arms over my chest, and made sure not to make eye contact with him. I heard his sharp intake of air that indicated he was about to speak, but then the loud bang of the gym door dragged my attention away from our circle. The door to the gym was on the other side, in the darkened corner of the room, so all I could hear for three long seconds was light footfalls across the floor.
Everyone in the circle turned their attention to the newcomer, just as Dr. Watkins stood and crossed to greet the man who stepped out from the shadows under the yellow light of the room.
I noticed his coat first. Understated as it was, I could see the label from a mile away. A three-thousand-dollar coat was certainly not a drop in the bucket for me, unless I had nimble fingers and a large bucket with me. His face fit the big money look. His beard was trim and his parted hair looked effortlessly styled—but I could smell that expensive pomade from a mile away. Curiously, he didn’t look at a single one of us except for Dr. Watkins as they shook hands and the doc leaned in to murmur something in his ear. His jaw was set, and his dark eyes made me think of the handsome rogues on the yard sale paperbacks my mom had constantly left around our house. But unlike the Fabio-wannabes with their torn shirts, this man was clothed from head to toe in dark colors, which completely contrasted with my purple pleather leggings and white ruffled tank. Unlike me, he likely bought the clothes he wore—and in high-end stores, no less.
Molly tittered in her seat, and the movement temporarily distracted me. She was taking him in just like I was, but because she was directly next to the empty seat, she had a better, clearer view than I did. Lucky bitch.
Dr. Watkins gestured to the seat and the other man paused for a minute before folding his tall body into it. Now that he was about ten feet from me, I could take in his shoes—also designer, and half a grand—and his jeans, which were harder to determine. I mentally tallied up the cost of his outfit and came to the conclusion that his ensemble cost more than triple what I owed Ron.
Which had my brain turning, percolating, calculating.
He still didn’t look at anyone, and Dr. Watkins started exchanging pleasantries about how our week had been without even bothering to introduce us to the hot Mr. Moneybags—the man who could quite possibly release me from Ron’s clutches.
I needed to get his attention.
Brett was currently insisting that nothing had happened all week, because he wasn’t really alive, which caused likely-assassin Ryan to sigh in impatience. I had little doubt that Ryan wouldn’t mind making Brett’s delusion a reality. Molly had scooted her chair closer to the stranger, and I mentally made a note to squirt eye drops in her juice during the break.
Nothing was within reach for me to draw attention to myself, and Dr. Watkins was a long way from addressing me. Not that that seemed to make a difference for the stranger, who was ignoring Brett’s whimperings that he could smell his flesh rotting. No, the stranger appeared to have found a spot on the floor much more interesting.
Dr. Watkins’ no-phone policy was really cramping my style right about now. So I did the only thing I could think to do to get the stranger to look at me.
I pushed off the floor hard enough to send my chair sprawling backward, knocking me out and on the floor.
“Oh dear,” Dr. Watkins said.
Molly gasped.
Brett muttered something about me very likely being dead.
Ryan grunted.
And a hand reached down for mine as I lay on my back, rubbing the back of my head more dramatically than necessary.
The stranger blocked the light with his head, but I could very clearly see his eyes. All dark, with long lashes. They weren’t frightening in their intensity like Ryan’s, or creepy like Ron’s. They were kind—but not quite warm. He blinked quickly, like he was trying to clear his vision to see me better. And his mouth set in a line that did delicious things to his jawline. I had an overwhelming urge to nibble right there.
No need to scare the guy before we’ve even exchanged names, Lucy.
“Here,” he said, as I clasped his hand, and he pulled me upright. His voice matched his clothing, all dark and … rich.
And those clothes obviously concealed what must have been some seriously strong muscles, because he pulled me to standing with very little effort.
“Oh,” I said, forcing my voice to sound breathy and damsel-in-distress like. “Thank you. I’m not sure what happened.”
He righted my chair and then shoved his hands in his pockets, like he was already regretting having touched me. He looked me in the eyes once more and opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but abruptly he turned around and left me alone in a wake of confusion.
Maybe he was gay. I looked at him again. No way, I decided, shaking my head. There had been something in the way he’d looked back at me. And there was no doubt that after he’d returned to his seat, he did his best not to make eye contact with me, but failed. More than once.
The third time he begrudgingly looked at me, I felt the side of my lips tip up in a smile that I hoped looked more sultry than deranged and watched as his eyes dropped to my mouth.
Molly had managed to scoot her chair even a little bit closer to him in the hubbub, but he wasn’t looking or even avoiding looking at her, which made me temporarily reconsider plaguing her with diarrhea during break time.
But then she leaned over, her long blonde hair falling all over his knee—a move that was as calculated, but admittedly more graceful than mine—and I hoped I had two bottles of eye drops in my purse for extra effect. It wouldn’t be a tragedy for Molly to have to spend the rest of therapy in the bathroom, giving me room to schmooze up to Mister Moneybags.