Page 19 of Vital Signs

His smile was slow. Knowing. "I'll call you tonight. After my family meeting."

"I'll be waiting."

I reached for the door handle.

"Hunter?"

I paused, looking back.

"What Wright said in there. About your past." Misha leaned closer across the console. Close enough that I could smell his cologne again. "That's all it is. The past. Don't let it define you today."

The kindness in his voice made me want to lean across the console and kiss him until neither of us could breathe.

Made me want to be someone worthy of his faith.

I could lean forward. Close the distance. Taste him. Find out if his mouth was as soft as it looked, if he'd yield or push back, if he'd let me have this one thing before it all went to shit.

Instead, I grabbed the door handle. "I'll wait for your call."

I climbed out before I did something stupid. Like kiss him. Like ask to come with him. Like admitting that I wanted him more than I'd wanted a fix in days.

As soon as Misha’s taillights disappeared around the corner, the craving hit hard. I wanted to shoot up until none of this mattered anymore. Until Wright's smug smile and Misha's misplaced faith both dissolved into chemical peace.

But I pulled out a cigarette instead. I took a long drag, letting the smoke burn my lungs.

I was going to disappoint him. Eventually. It's what I did.

The only question was how long I could hold out before the need for chemicals won over the need for his approval.

Before I chose the needle over those brown eyes.

My phone buzzed.

Misha: Don't forget to charge your phone. I'll need you tonight.

I stared at that message. At the promise it held. The implication.

Fuck.

Maybe I could hold out longer than I thought.

I bolted upright inbed with a gasp. My heart slammed against my ribs like a caged animal trying to escape. Sweat had turned my shirt into a second skin. I couldn't breathe right. Couldn't think. The room spun around me, shadows crawling across the ceiling in patterns that didn't belong to my bedroom.

In the dream, Roche's hands had been on me again. His camera flashed. His voice told me to hold still, be beautiful, be good. And then the hands had changed, becoming Hunter's hands, but wrong. Cold instead of warm. Pushing me away instead of pulling me close.

Hunter had started saying what everyone eventually said: "You're too broken. Too much work. Not worth it."

Where was I? This wasn't right. The smell was wrong, the light was wrong, everything was—

My lamp. I needed light. My fingers fumbled for the switch, shaking so hard I nearly knocked it over. Click. Warm yellow light flooded the space, chasing away the worst of the panic.

My room. The Laskins' house. Safe.

The relief lasted about three seconds before reality crashed back in. My heart was still racing, sweat still coating my skin like a film I couldn't wash off. The familiar taste of copper filled my mouth where I'd bitten my tongue.

Another nightmare.

The last thing I remembered was driving home from the clinic, Hunter's face burned into my retinas as he'd walked away. Then nothing. A blank space where hours should have been.