Spiked (Blocked Book 3)

by Jennifer Lane

  “You just remembered that?”

  I nodded. Shudders vibrated through me.

  “You’re doing great. Good job sharing that with me. What do you notice about your breath right now?”

  I gasped for air. “I’m not breathing.”

  “Let’s practice some deep breaths, then. In…” She inhaled through her nose and nodded at me. “Out, two, three, four. In…out, two three, four.”

  My body kept shivering as I tried to breathe to her count. I wiped under my nose.

  “May I see Blake’s texts?”

  That was an odd request, but I rummaged through my backpack for my phone. “If he’s texted since Mateo told me to block him, I can’t see those texts.”

  “Mateo knows about the rape?”

  My eyes widened. “No. Nobody knows. I didn’t even know until just now.”

  “Memory works that way. It’s not foolproof.”

  “You’re saying I might be wrong? He didn’t rape me?”

  “Something happened that night, or you wouldn’t be reacting this way. Let’s take our time with this. First, let me read the texts.”

  I handed her my phone and wondered why the texts were so important.

  Her mouth tightened as she read. In the silence, I became aware of the ticking clock. She seemed to force a swallow before she looked up at me.

  “I attended a drug-prevention conference a month ago.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Was she angry?

  “One of the presentations that stuck with me was called The Weaponization of Alcohol.”

  “Okay?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “It covered how sexual predators use alcohol and other drugs to incapacitate their victims. They might get the girl drunk, slip a roofie in her drink, or use other drugs to mess with her mind. Maybe they almost strangle her to stop her oxygen supply, make her memory even cloudier. Then they rape her.”

  Revulsion closed my throat.

  “The next morning, they text to cover their tracks. ‘I love you,’ they might say. ‘Can’t stop thinking about you.’ Or, ‘I know you want me, but it’s not a good time in my life for a relationship’—tricking the victim into thinking it was consensual.”

  Holy shit. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  She stood and dragged a wastebasket in front of me. “It’s okay. You’re experiencing the fight, flight, or freeze response. It’s not dangerous, just unpleasant.”

  Unpleasant? Hello, understatement. I held my head as I rocked on the sofa. Don’t barf. Don’t barf.

  “Keep breathing. Tell me what colors you see in my office.”

  I sniffed and looked up. “Maroon, khaki, white lights.” She’d strung Christmas lights around her door even though it was September.

  “What do you hear?”

  I stilled. “The clock ticking. People talking in the hallway.”

  “What do you taste?”

  “Um…Nothing, really. I haven’t eaten anything today.”

  She frowned. “You didn’t eat before or after morning practice?”

  I took a shaky breath and started crying again. “I didn’t go.”

  “Oh.” Her face softened. “Because he’s at the pool.”

  A sob escaped, and I covered my mouth.

  She opened a desk drawer and handed me a protein bar.

  “But I don’t want to get sick.”

  “Food will settle your stomach. And you may be too agitated to notice your hunger, but your body needs fuel to deal with this trauma. To manage your emotions. Go ahead and take a bite.”

  I closed my eyes as I bit into almonds and bittersweet dark chocolate stuck together with…something. The bar didn’t taste very good, but I kept eating anyway.

  “It’s tempting to avoid practice. Avoidance goes hand-in-hand with PTSD.” She eyed me. “But avoidance interferes with healing and with reaching your goals. I know swimming’s important to you. Are you in danger if you attend practice?”

  I swallowed. “No. He can’t hurt me as long as I’m not alone with him.”

  “Are you ever alone with him?”

  “I’ve refused his invitations.” I shuddered. “I haven’t let him get me alone.”

  She nodded. “Your body knew. Your brain hadn’t caught up yet, but your body knew what happened. It’s like a trauma book I’ve read: The Body Keeps the Score.”

  Yep. Blake one, me zero.

  She typed away as I finished the bar. I felt my heartbeat start to decelerate, and my headache returned. I wished I had time for a nap.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired.” I drank from my water bottle.

  “I bet. That was a lot to share with me today, but it needed to happen. To tell your story is to heal.”

  Could I heal from this? That seemed like a fantasy.

  “I’d like you to get checked out by your team physician.” She gave me a business card. “You can meet with Dr. Cabela here at Sports Medicine, and she’ll run some tests. Do you want me to talk to her first?”

  I tensed, knowing exactly what type of tests she was referring to. “No.”

  “That’s fine, as long as you’re honest with her. You did good today.” She smiled at me. “We’re out of time, but I want to meet with you again, help you deal with what happened to you.”

  Oh, crap. I had to talk about this again? Would more memories surface? I didn’t think I could handle it.

  “I know it’s scary,” she said, probably watching my freak-out cross my face. “But sharing your memories decreases their intensity. I want to teach you some ways to sleep better and get through flashbacks. For now, practice some deep breaths three times a day. Use your five senses to notice the present. And I’ll show you more next time, okay?”

  I had to face what had happened. I didn’t want to, but I knew I had to. “Okay.”

  As we scheduled for next week, I sat up. “You won’t tell Dane about this, right?”

  “Right. I don’t have your permission.”

  “And Ms. Farris? You won’t tell her?”

  “Not unless you want me to. But you might consider reporting the sexual assault to the school.”

  I gasped. My headshakes were rapid-fire.

  “You had an uncontrollable thing happen to you, but you’re in control of this, okay?” She nodded. “This is your private information. I won’t act without your permission.”

  “Okay.” I exhaled. I hadn’t felt more exhausted in my life.

  On my way out, I said, “Just a heads up: Dane wants to see you again. Good luck with that.”

  “Why do you say it that way?”

  “He’s a handful.”

  She smiled. “What’s he like as a brother?”

  “Very opinionated.” I remembered his hug on Saturday and felt a lump in my throat. “He’s protective, too. But not in an overbearing way.”

  “Sounds like a keeper. See you next week.”

  Chapter 10

  SHE TEXTED ME! I almost jumped up for a happy dance but managed to stay put on the TV room sofa. I didn’t want one of my agents to come in and catch me acting like an idiot. Johnny had already given me crap for checking my phone ten times an hour since Saturday night.

  How was I supposed to focus on my stupid music theory textbook after she texted? We had a quiz next week, but all I could think about was Man Bun making the moves on Jessica. Was it too late to switch into her art class to block him? And since her last text had been an abrupt good-bye, how long did I have to wait to text her again?

  After thirty minutes of rereading the same paragraph about pentatonic scales, I tossed the textbook to the ottoman. Escuincle lifted his head from his curled-up position on the sofa. His eyes opened wide.

  “Está bien, gato.”

  He lowered his head since I’d told him things were cool. He probably understood Spanish better than English after growing up in my house. When I walked out of the room, I heard a thump behind me and knew he was following. Lucia had been upset th
at he stayed by my side, even when she was home. What can I say? The cat had discerning taste.

  I passed the office on my way to my bedroom, and Karen called, “Mateo?”

  “Yeah?” I stepped inside to find her on the computer.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Great!”

  She leaned back. “What’s got you so chipper?”

  I hadn’t realized my elation was visible. I’d felt the same way when Jessica told me I was brilliant for suggesting she block unwanted messages. I wondered if Man Bun was the guy bothering her with texts. Seemed I had to worry about him and Suave Swimmer Shithead.

  “Would you mind telling me your BG?” Karen asked.

  “Sure.” I reached for the monitor in my pocket. “Ninety eight.”

  She beamed. “It’s working great.”

  I had to admit it was nice not to have to stick myself every time someone wanted to know my blood glucose level.

  “How intrusive does the pump feel?”

  “Meh…” I could feel the small tube under my skin. “It was kind of uncomfortable last night. Woke me up when I turned over in bed.”

  “I think that’s a normal adjustment. But you won’t know it’s there in about a week.”

  I hoped she was right. The Ramirez clan had returned to DC yesterday morning, and I didn’t want them to have to make an emergency trip again anytime soon, or ever. Escuincle weaved through my legs, so I picked him up and asked, “Where’s Johnny?”

  Her eyes flashed with mystery, and she looked back at the computer monitor. “He’s on an errand.”

  What’s that about? Before I could leave, Karen turned back to me.

  “Oh, Frank said Lucia will be home before seven for dinner.”

  “Please tell me you’re not cooking.”

  “So ill-mannered.” She shook her head. “We’re getting Thai takeout.”

  My fist pumped. “Score!”

  I headed into my bedroom but stopped short once I saw the empty spot near my dresser. Damn. I’d come in to work on a song, but we’d left my guitar at the warehouse in our rush to get to the hospital. I hoped I could get it back. I felt naked without it.

  But I did have my electric keyboard, so that would have to do. I settled into my bed with the keyboard in front of me. No sooner had I turned it on than a streak of black flashed over the keys.

  “Escuincle!”

  As he turned, he swiveled his butt in my face. Then he pranced the other way across the keyboard, leaving a trail of dissonant notes in his wake.

  I scooped him up and placed him on the floor. “No, brat.” This interference was why I preferred my guitar when writing songs.

  I’d already landed on a title for my new song, and after grabbing my notebook, I wrote on top of a blank page: Find You. Filling my head were Lucia’s pep talk from last week and nonstop thoughts about Jessica.

  I played a couple of chords, then sang, “They say college is the time to find yourself.” Not quite right. I jotted down some words, but movement at the foot of the bed drew my eye. Two black ears crept over the footboard.

  “Squinkyyy,” I warned. The ears descended from view. He was in full stealth mode now.

  I erased the first line and sang another version. “University is the time to find yourself.” I scowled. That still didn’t sound right. As I tapped out a melody, a black paw shot up to pounce on the C key.

  “Ow!” Squinky’s sharp claws had snagged my pinky finger. I leaned over to find the mischievous cat perched by my foot where it hung over the bed. His green eyes peered up at me as his tail swished. “You are not a piano player!”

  His meow suggested he disagreed. I grumbled as I got up and opened the top drawer of my chest. I pulled out a crinkly bag, and the meows increased in volume. He knew what was coming. I moved his folded blankie from my floor to my bed—with Escuincle hot on my heels—and poured out a few of his favorite treats. He’d crunched through all three of them before I could settle back down near the head of the bed.

  “Stay.” I pointed at the blanket.

  Meow?

  My mouth in a firm line, I kept pointing. “Stay.”

  He seemed to sigh, then circled the blanket a few times before stretching out on his side. He licked his mouth and began the serious business of grooming himself. I loved when he licked his paw and rubbed it over his face to wash it.

  I exhaled as I observed his bedtime routine, knowing he wouldn’t bother me once he fell asleep. I wrote the first stanza:

  They say

  University is the time

  To find yourself

  But I don’t want to find myself

  Just want to find you

  The keyboard was actually a good fit for the rollicking melody. After scribbling two more stanzas, I wrote the refrain. As I sang this faster, peppier section, I craved my guitar.

  You’re so fine

  Wanna find you

  You’ll be mine

  Gonna find you

  Escuincle’s head lifted, and a moment later I jumped as I noticed movement in my doorway. When the hell had Fitch and Itch arrived? And who’d let them in?

  “Chimichanga, that’s catchy,” Itch said as he waltzed in. “Who are you singing about?”

  “What?”

  “You’re obviously singing about a girl.” Itch nodded at the keyboard. “Or a guy.” He splayed his hands. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  Wearing a Cubs hat I hadn’t seen before, Fitch grinned as he came in, too.

  I stood. “What’re you guys doing here?”

  “You forgot your guitar,” Fitch said. He set down my case and reached out to pet my cat.

  Escuincle growled at him, and Fitch stole his hand back.

  “Easy, Squinky.” I patted the raised fur on his back.

  Itch tilted his head. “What’s your cat’s name?”

  “Escuincle. Spanish for brat.”

  The brat padded across the mattress toward Itch, who leaned down to scratch his ears. The sound of purrs filled the room.

  “Hey.” Fitch scowled. “I’ve got three cats at home. Why doesn’t she like me?”

  “It’s a he,” I said. I was trying to figure out the same thing. Why the preference for Itch over Fitch?

  Itch puffed out his chest. “All pets like me. And Squinky and I have the same hair.”

  He was right. Itch’s fluffy, black hair was the same texture as my cat’s. Fitch’s baseball cap hid his lighter brown hair. I started laughing.

  “It’s the baseball hat.” I gestured to the Cubs logo. “Alejandro played baseball, and Escuincle hates him. You remind him of my brother.”

  “Well, I ain’t takin’ off my hat,” Fitch said.

  Itch rolled his eyes. “He even sleeps in that damn thing.”

  “Do not.”

  “His blue hat smelled so bad, I made him wash it,” Itch told me.

  “At least I shower,” Fitch countered.

  I shook my head at Itch. “You’re still not showering in the dorms?”

  “Uh.” He grimaced. “I caved, finally. But you can be damn sure I’m wearing flip-flops in there. Who knows what bacteria and fungi grow on that skanky communal tile.” Itch glanced at Fitch. “Or underneath the rim of that ball cap.” He sprang for the Cubs hat and ripped it off his head.

  “Give it back!” Fitch yelled.

  Itch held the hat above his head. With their height difference, it was tough for Fitch to reach it, even when he jumped. Itch tossed the hat to me, and my eyes widened when Fitch came to get it. I tucked it behind my back, and Fitch reached around to grab it. Ears back, Escuincle hissed at him, which made Itch double over with laughter.

  “The cat’s like Secret Service, too!” he cackled.

  Fitch kept grabbing for his hat, but I eluded his groping hands. I could tell he was getting pissed off and was just about to return his hat when he shoved me to the bed.

  “Oompf.” I felt a tearing sensation and reached for my belly.
/>
  Fitch jumped off me. “Are you okay?”

  My fingers touched the tip of the tube, which had ripped free from my abdomen. Damn pump. I wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Everything okay here, Mr. Ramirez?” Johnny asked from the doorway.

  It all clicked as I rolled up from the bed. “Thanks for bringing my friends here, Johnny.”

  “Least I could do.” He nodded. “Mr. Kahanawke and Mr. Fitcherson thought they’d return your guitar in class, but you weren’t there, so they called me.”

  “Sorry, man,” Fitch said. His hat had found its home again. “You’re still too sick to go to class? Then I tackled you—not cool.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t go to class for security reasons. I’m fine now.” I felt wetness from the tube leaking onto my shirt. “But Johnny, could you ask Karen to come in? I think the tube came out of my pump.”

  “Sure thing.” He zipped away.

  Itch stared at me. “You have an insulin pump?”

  “Yeah. You know about them?”

  “This girl in high school had one. But yours didn’t work so well on Saturday, huh?”

  “I didn’t have it then. I just got it at the hospital.” I lifted my shirt to study the injection site. “It’s gonna be pretty gross to change out this sucker.” I could already smell the burned-plastic odor of the leaking insulin. “You guys should hang out in the TV room.”

  “Nonsense,” Karen said as she swept in. “This’ll be quick.” She set down an alcohol swab and other equipment for my pump.

  “I’m real sorry.” Fitch winced. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

  “We needed to change the cannula tonight, anyway,” Karen said.

  I opened the alcohol swab and swirled it over the skin to the side of my belly button. Karen handed me the infusion set, and I took a deep breath before pressing it into my skin. I felt a slight burn from the needle, but it didn’t sting as much as insulin injections. Far less frequent, too. Why hadn’t I gotten the pump sooner? Sometimes I was too stubborn for my own good.

  “Want to change your shirt?” Karen asked.

  I looked up at Fitch and Itch and grinned. “I guess I smell now, too.”

  “We can rename our band Smell It, Bitch,” Itch said.