Laces : An Asylum Bully Romance (Boys of Hawthorne Asylum)

by Tempi Lark

  “You might want to look away.” Varla whispered into my ear seconds later. “Things can get really messy.”

  I did a double take, “Messy? It’s just a pill—”

  I didn’t even have the entire sentence out before Laces abruptly broke rank and took a mighty swing at poor, wailing Peter, who didn’t see it coming. When Laces’ fist connected with Peter’s jaw, a gush of thick blood sprayed into the air, coloring the ceiling and walls a bright shade of crimson. A sea of black scrubs took cover behind the nurses’ desk to shield themselves.

  My hands flew to my cheeks. “Oh my God, what are you doing?” I screamed. Not that anyone could hear me. Those who hadn’t taken cover behind the nurses’ station had formed a betting pool off to the side and were swapping tens and twenties with Reyes. “Park, put me down for eighty on Laces!” A guy called out.

  Reyes had whipped out a cell phone and was typing bets out as fast as he could. “What’s your bet, Malone?” He asked.

  Malone, a short chubby guy, appeared to be in deep thought as he counted out his twenties. “Eighty says Laces puts him in a coma!” He finally proclaimed, slapping his money into Thorne’s awaiting hand nearby. Malone pointed at Thorne, and then Reyes, “I want the full report this time, none of that discharge shit and whatnot.”

  Reyes gave a curt nod, signaling that he understood Malone’s conditions, then leaned to the side and flexed two fingers for the next better to step forward. “Next, come on keep it moving!”

  With my hands still glued to my cheeks, I shook in my head in horror as Varla’s bony arm wrapped around my waist and pulled. Where was the medical staff? Nurse Kline? Security? Everyone was conveniently missing in action. “No, Varla! We have to help him!” I screamed. Even though we were in a psych ward, my first instinct was to demand for someone to call an ambulance.

  “He’s a lost cause, forget about him!” Varla insisted.

  I gaped over my shoulder. “Someone needs to call security and 911!”

  Varla remained her bubbly self as she reached into her black scrub top and retrieved a stick of gum. “Do you want to half it?” She asked, unphased by the chaos erupting around us.

  “What? No!”

  “Sorry, Reyes was supposed to get me some more but there was a shortage at the gift shop or something.” She shrugged. “Never send a man to do a woman’s job, right?”

  The fight lasted for a total of ten minutes, but it felt like hours. By the time security arrived Peter had been beaten to a pulp, and Laces, Reyes, and Thorne had already tidied themselves up and joined everyone else back in line.

  When asked who had wounded him, Peter refused to name the perpetrators, as did everyone else—myself included. I felt bad for Peter. No matter what he did, nothing justified the beating he took that day. Nothing. But at the same time I also couldn’t justify spending the rest of my life eating through a straw all because I took up for Peter.

  Nope.

  So when my turn rolled around to speak with Winston, I played dumb. Fight? Who? What? When? Laces was watching me the entire time, waiting for me to roll over and tattle, just as I had with the sketch. His blue eyes taunted me, urging me to cross the line just so he could have his shits and giggles again.

  I don’t think so, douchebag.

  As for my morning meds, Nurse Kline gave me three pills—one blue, one yellow, and one white. I wasn’t told what they were for or their names. All I knew was I had to take those pills or lose a day. So I popped all three into my mouth, took a big sip of water and swallowed.

  God help me…

  Eight

  Gambrielle

  I don’t remember much about my first breakfast at the ward. Somewhere between lining up in rows of two and being herded to the cafeteria like sheep, the medication I’d been forced to take kicked in, and boy did it kick in hard.

  My nose was on my face, but I couldn’t feel it. At first I chalked it up to fatigue, maybe I was drained from lack of sleep and dealing with the aftermath of everything going on. But then things started moving, like spoons and forks, and I became surprisingly calm for no reason at all.

  Where are my teeth?

  I glided my tongue in my mouth and tried to feel around.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’ll wear off.” Varla assured me. She pushed two trays through the breakfast line, one for me and one for her. I couldn’t feel my fingertips. “If you had been here the first time they made Reyes take his meds, ha!” she threw her head back and laughed, “let’s just say you wouldn’t feel so bad about your current state.” Covering the side of her mouth, she leaned in and whispered, “Reyes thought he was Batman. Car, mansion, women—the whole nine yards. He even demanded to know where Alfred was!”

  I craned my neck back and gaped up at her as best I could. Whatttt?

  “Oh yesss! He wanted his rich boy keys, a suit—” She paused and gave me a serious look, “—the suit had to be Armani. He said the bat couldn’t wear that cheap off the rack shit.”

  I didn’t care about Reyes’ Batman moment. There were more pressing matters to attend to, like my tongue—which had somehow forgotten how to go back in my mouth!

  Varla picked out yogurt and some fruit for herself, while I stuck to pancakes and eggs—it seemed like a safe bet given my current state. By the time we reached the table I was starving. And that was a problem, you see, because I couldn’t feel my fingertips. Stupid meds.

  I stared at the plate of buttery goodness for two whole minutes before going rogue and dipping my face into the plate like an animal. If I’d been home and acted like this, Joe would’ve tied me up for a week, if not longer, and beat me with a belt.

  “You need some help?” Varla offered. She reached for my fork, but I shook my head. No, all I wanted to do was eat so I could regain my strength and concentrate on getting out of Hawthorne.

  Five minutes into my “caveman feeding” I heard, rather than saw, someone sit down across from me. “Damnit Varla! What are you staring at—get her face out of her fuckin’ plate!” The man’s voice sounded familiar and pissed. A smooth, warm hand dipped underneath my forehead and quickly pulled my face out of the buttery goo. Chin, cheeks, and nose dripping in syrup, my head fell back, like a rag doll, and I stared up at the man who had rescued me from an almost certain death via affixation by pancake. Well, well, what do we have here? Blue eyes, sunkissed skin, taut features….from upside down my rescuer looked pretty damn fine.

  “Hey, I tried!” Varla piped in. “If you had waited another minute to punch Peter, I might’ve had a better opportunity to persuade her to ditch the meds!”

  “If you hadn’t been so worried about your clown make-up you would’ve taken care of business!” My rescuer seethed.

  Varla’s mouth popped open. She rose from her seat like an exotic bird that had just spotted her next meal. Pointing a sharp red nail in his direction, she demanded. “You take that back right now, Laces!” They were like brother and sister with their feuding. “I worked really hard on contouring my nose today! You keep my face out of this!”

  I didn’t have the patience or concentration to be aggravated by his presence. Not when I was high as a kite. Laces could’ve been a serial murderer looking for his next victim, and I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. The power of meds…

  Laces picked up a napkin and attempted to dab at my dripping chin. “Just help me fix this before someone sees what’s going on!” He demanded, and Varla folded her arms in defiance. They were at a standoff, neither giving an inch. Then Laces leaned toward her and whispered, “Do you want Dr. Folton getting handsy with your new friend? Hmm?”

  “Handsyyyyy?” I slurred, frowning.

  Varla’s eyes fell.

  “That’s what I thought. Now help me clean her up.” Laces took care of my syrup facial while Varla fixed my hair as best she could. It wasn’t the breakfast I envisioned for myself—the sticky hair, fingers, and face—but at least I didn’t starve. I was still feeling the awful side effects when the cafeteri
a orderly announced that it was time for community group.

  “Nooo.” I groaned, rubbing my temples. “Just take me to my roommm.” Let me sleep it off, I would be as good as new tomorrow.

  “Can’t do that, stray.” Laces said, dipping down to eye level. There was a roughness to his voice, but I thought I heard a hint of kindness hidden somewhere between the syllables. Maybe he felt sorry for my struggle? His warm arm wrapped around my back and he carefully started pulling me to my feet. Our bodies were crushed together—his rock-hard chest pressed to mine, our eyes haphazardly observing each other’s every move. His smell was musky and strong, with a pinch of wintergreen and darkness, which seemed to attack my scrub top, burying his scent deep into the fabric.

  “Why are you doing this?” I mumbled, throwing my arm around his neck. In doing so I felt his dark, silky hair brush against my knuckles. The steady, rhythmic beat of his jugular vein throbbing against my palm as the blood passed through it was comforting in some sick and twisted way. My forehead creased.

  Warm.

  Peaceful.

  Laces pressed his lips to my ear, sending a shiver coursing through my body.

  “Because I owe Dr. Young, and you’re going to owe me, stray.”

  I jerked my head away from his warm breath so fast, almost knocking both of us out with my delayed reaction. “Owe you what?” I grumbled like a child. The meds were attacking my senses full force, but I still had some wits about me, thank God.

  We started to move, arms-to-backs, toward the cafeteria exit. With the exception of a few patients being forced to eat from a straw, everyone else had already raced to where community group was being held. At least I have this going for me, I thought, fewer witnesses to testify to my shame of allowing Hannibal Sketcher to take care of me.

  Once we’d made it safely to the hallway, Laces’ mouth was back at my ear, his words a dark promise. “I haven’t thought about what you’re going to owe me, but don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”

  “I’m not having sex with you!” I all but spit out as we passed the nurses’ station. Laces mumbled something to the nurse on duty about assisting me for the day, and despite her reluctance and curious eyes pinned on our physical contact, she said nothing and allowed us to move along, no questions asked.

  My eyes widened. No, hey you! Can’t you see I need your help!

  “This may come as a shock, stray, but you’re not exactly my type.” Laces smoothly said once we were ten feet away, and I damn near tripped. What?! It was in that moment, right there, staggering past the bathrooms with drool dripping from my lip, that I realized I was in a lot of trouble. A LOT. Because instead of feeling relieved by his casual dismissal, I was disappointed.

  Which made absolutely no sense at all. His favorite pastime involved sketching butchered women, for crying out loud.

  “I like my women submissive, quiet, and obedient.” Laces did a slow perusal of me and grinned, “And you are none of those things. Pity.”

  “Lucky for me.”

  “Lucky for you.” Through the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Laces twirling a strand of my hair around his index finger. The mesmerized look in his eyes when he bent his finger and watched the auburn curl strain against his skin, like it was a precious jewel that needed twenty-four-hour security surveillance, left me reeling. I wasn’t sure if I should get a restraining order, or swoon…

  Damn.

  Maybe Judge Wexler was right? Maybe I really did need help?

  And it was that thought that brought everything to a head and forced me to take a good hard look at the path I was going down. Laces was attractive. There was no denying that. However, his favorite pastime involved sketching dead women—which was a deal breaker in my book. No one, not even Mr. Depp, could justify sketches like that and still maintain his sexiest man alive title.

  Nope.

  Dropping my arm from his shoulder, I gave Hannibal Sketcher’s taut body a hard push and staggered toward the door labeled COMMUNITY GROUP. The drugs were still flowing strong, but I was feeling a little bit more in control than I had been. “This doesn’t change anything!” I proclaimed over my shoulder. “You’re still an 80’s serial killer— wannabe—with an infatuation for butchering women!!!” That’s right…

  Hands clasped behind his back, he came to a dead stop a few feet behind me and said, “Do you have any idea what I just saved you from?” He looked over one shoulder, then back at me, eyes lit with rage. “I did you a big favor back there, and I generally don’t do favors unless my dick is involved.”

  I waved him off with an unsteady hand. Yes, he was truly gorgeous, but he had a messed-up mind which really took the hot meter down to negative three. I had just reached the community group door and was preparing to open it when Laces snaked in front of me. His dark, narrow eyes had a sinister glow that made me shiver. He propped his hand against the door and held it shut to keep me from getting inside. “Dr. Folton likes to experiment with his scalpel after giving it to someone in the ass.” he said in a sarcastic tone. “I’ve seen girls come out bleeding in places you wouldn’t imagine—necks, arms, thighs—he likes to make his own entrance.”

  Oh God.

  “You’re making that up.” I whispered, flushing. Looking at him head on was too distracting, so I glanced away. “I’ve already been alone with Dr. Folton and nothing happened so…”

  “That you know of.”

  “Are you trying to scare me? Newsflash: it’s not going to work.” I glanced back at him and plastered the sweetest smile across my face. “I’ve spent the last eight years living with the devil reincarnated. If I can survive him, I can survive anything. NOW MOVE.”

  Laces didn’t immediately obey my order. His hand remained firmly planted on the door while his curious eyes searched mine, looking for some type of answers, but finding none. Which was the way I liked it. The less he knew, the better. “The devil doesn’t have shit on this place. He wouldn’t last a week.” I thought I saw sympathy flicker in his gaze as he dropped his hand and stepped away, but that would’ve been a foolish notion. People like Laces didn’t embody that particular feeling.

  Keeping true to my southern roots and good manners, I mumbled my thanks, opened the door and squeezed inside. Laces followed behind shortly after.

  No more meds.

  No.

  Not after today.

  The community room resembled a typical high school classroom; fifteen desks were evenly divided in three rows and aimed at a clean whiteboard. Motivational posters hung all over the walls, along with help ads and 1-800 numbers. A teacher’s desk was off to the side; a young woman, smiling ear-to-ear occupied it.

  The young woman put her hand to her chest, “I’m Miss Maroon. I’ll be your advisor for community group.” She nodded at the desks, “you can sit anywhere you like Miss…”

  “Evans.” I said. “Gambrielle Evans.”

  She wrote my name down on the yellow legal pad on the corner of the desk. “Great. Please take a seat so we can get started.”

  Varla waved from the back row and gestured for me to sit beside her. I obliged, taking the seat to her right. The two guys that had been standing with Laces prior to the fight, Reyes and Thorne, took up the two seats to Varla’s left.

  And, of course, Laces sauntered into the room like a runway model—earning him a few whistles and claps from the ladies in the front rows. Baring his pearly whites, he made his way to the back and parked his gorgeous derrière in the seat right beside me. Dumbfounded by his behavior, I slowly turned to face him. “Stalker much?” I whispered, stunned at this sudden turn of events.

  Laces slouched back in his seat, flashed me a sexy grin, then gestured toward my face. “Is that syrup or drool coming off of your chin right there?”

  My jaw set. Syrup, probably. Feeling dizzy, I swiped at my chin and turned to face the whiteboard. Miss Maroon was now standing in front of her desk, arms clasped behind her back. “Alright guys. Let’s talk about last night. How did you
sleep?” she asked. Her eyes scanned the room, waiting for someone to offer up a little insight.

  A few patients mumbled their complaints, but the general consensus was pure silence.

  Miss Maroon began pacing back and forth. “Raise your hand if you had a nightmare.”

  A few raised their hands.

  “Nightmare’s cannot hurt you. They aren’t real.” Miss Maroon said, as she met the gazes of those in the front row. “You have no control over your sleep, but you have control over yourself during the day. So let’s make some excellent goals for today, alright? Let’s combat fear with success.” Opening a filing cabinet near her desk she retrieved a red notebook and handed it off to a patient in the front row, “Pass that to Gambrielle, please. Gambrielle, we write in our journals every morning. We keep track of our nightmares, sleep quality, struggles, and more importantly, our goals. At the end of the day we’ll revisit the goals we have set each morning and see if we’ve accomplished them.” She waited for my notebook to reach me before continuing with the discussion. “Everyone go ahead and write down your goals for the day. Please remember to be REALISTIC.” Her eyes shot to Thorne. “Winning a million dollars and hiring a harem of exotic strippers is not realistic, Thorne.”

  Thorne rolled his eyes and dropped his head back. “Way to kill a dream, Maroon.”

  “If eating is an issue, write down something about that. Maybe you’ll eat half of your meal today?” Miss Maroon offered. “Or maybe you’ll stop thinking about the person that had you admitted for one hour.”

  My eyes dropped to my notebook. A pen had been placed beside it, though I had no idea how it ended up there. Laces and Varla had already started writing, so I opened my notebook and tried to follow suit as best I could.