I'll Be Waiting (The Vault Book 2)

by A. M. Hargrove

  But when Saturday rolls around, she refuses to see me. A crushing wave of disappointment washes over me. Where the fuck did that come from? She’s a client, dammit.

  I shake it off and write her a note instead, briefly explaining what’s been going on. When I’m done, I give it to the front desk and ask them to deliver it to her. She’s completed her second week so she’s halfway through the program. I think about what she has to look forward to when she’s released.

  Pushing the unexpected and unfamiliar feelings of excitement down, I refuse to let myself question them. There’s no way Midnight Drake has gotten under my skin. Not at all.

  Chapter Ten—Midnight

  Harrison came to the facility. He’s been on my mind constantly. I think about his strength, how his warm eyes draw me in, and that he’s the only man I’ve ever wanted to touch, but yet I refused to see him. The last person I want seeing me like this—scraped raw and razored open from stem to stern—is him. He’s the reason I’m here ... and because of this damn place, my fucking heart and soul have been ripped out of my body. I’ve been left a bloody mess. I knew coming here was a bad idea, but I had no idea how terrible it would be on me.

  If you’re an addict, they take away your drugs—drugs I don’t fucking use—but they also delve into your psyche, tear it apart bit by bit, pry into things that are better left untouched. Wounds have been reopened; scars that were healed are now gaping holes with blood pulsing from them. And I’m left to deal with the consequences. My counselor is one smart fucker. She picked me apart for hours until I broke and vomited my whole fucking story. Damn Harrison Kirkland for sending me here. This is his fault.

  And now I’m supposed to feel better because of this presumed catharsis. Well, I don’t. My body fucking screams pain. And all I can see is his face and what he did to me ... what he forced me to do. I didn’t need this reminder ... didn’t want it. But I got it anyway. And to think I have two more agonizing weeks of reliving those horrors. My counselor says in time, I’ll appreciate these sessions. The only thing I’ll appreciate is when day thirty rolls around and I can say, “Adios, motherfucker.”

  They say time flies when you’re having fun. Well, the opposite is true when you’re not. In fact, someone has completely shut down the passage of it altogether. The last four weeks have taken about five years. Becky, my esteemed counselor, believes I may be bipolar. What she doesn’t realize is my moods are so fucked up from having to carry on this charade and then revealing so much of myself on top of it, anyone would act as though they’re bipolar. One minute I’m crying so hard I’m practically having a seizure, and the next I’m manic, zigzagging around her office, incapable of controlling my actions.

  In my final session, the day before I’m to be set free, she says firmly, “Midnight, sit down, or I’ll call someone in to tranquilize you.”

  That grabs my attention. I’m not about to screw up my final day here. Getting forcefully injected with a potent drug is not what I need. My ass slams down in the chair, but I can’t keep my hands still. I just need to get the fuck out of here. I came in sane but will be leaving crazy as fuck.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Is she serious? “How do you think I’m feeling?”

  She doesn’t answer. I hate when she does this.

  “I’m agitated today, Becky.” I can’t keep the snark from emerging.

  “And why’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do,” she says. Her calm manner irritates me.

  “I want to go home.”

  “I don’t think you’re ready.”

  We’ve been through this before. I’m going whether she wants me to or not. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Midnight, I want you to be as strong as you possibly can. If you leave, you might start using again.”

  “No, I won’t. I won’t ever use again.” Because I’ve never used to begin with.

  “Then explain your agitation.”

  “It’s my past,” I say in frustration. “You already know that.”

  “And you know how to deal with that.”

  “By confronting it, but it only makes me more miserable.” I wanted it to stay buried. I was much happier that way, gummy-bearing my way through life. But no, Harrison Kirkland came up with this brainiac plan and ruined it.

  “Midnight, it will make you stronger.”

  “I can’t. You want me to visit him. He ... it would never work. You have to trust me for once.” The last thing I will ever do in my life is visit the man who ruined me.

  She holds up her hands, spreading them in the air. “It’s your life.”

  Fucking A, it is. However, since this is my final session with her, I do want to leave her with one lasting impression.

  “Let me just say this, Becky. There’s not much I would like to say to the man who forcibly made me have sex with him and give his friends blow jobs for almost three years while I was a minor. Is that something you can personally relate to?”

  There’s a subtle change in the coloring of her face and she shifts in her seat.

  “No, I didn’t think so. That’s the reason I will never have any contact with that man as long as there is breath in my body. I’m pretty sure this session is over.”

  “You could bring charges against him.”

  “Oh? And have all that attention focused on me? No. I don’t think so.”

  I tremble during the long walk back to my luxurious room. The conversation brought to mind that other piece of the puzzle—the one that always shatters me—the one Becky doesn’t even know about.

  I lie down on the bed and cover my face with a pillow so no one will hear the sobs as they rip from my body.

  Sixteen hours later, I walk past the front desk, waving flippantly to the cheery staff people. They’re the last ones I give a shit about. Those happy faces are a sham. The entire month I was here, they were never pleasant to me. Every time I asked them for something, I was denied, even if it was as small as a glass of ice. With the gigantic price tag on this place, you’d think they could afford a glass of fucking ice. I want to flip them off, but I refrain. Who knows whether they run their mouths when they’re away from here? The last thing I need is more enemies than I already have. Holt Ward is enough to deal with as it is.

  I’m not surprised to see Harrison walking toward me. He wouldn’t have sent anyone else to pick me up. And damn, is he a sight for sore eyes. He’s wearing a black shirt and dark jeans that mold to his perfect body. If he looked any better, I’d probably faint. There isn’t a man alive who can hold a candle to him, dammit. Even though I’m still angry with him, it’s hard to deny the happiness I feel, though I don’t want to let it show.

  He smiles as we meet midway in the parking lot. I want to launch myself at him and press my lips to his perfect mouth. Is this what happens when you lock someone up for thirty days and put them through intense psychotherapy? A giant lady boner nails me. “So? How are you? I stopped by to visit, but you refused to see me that day.”

  I swallow away the desert in my throat. “I survived. Truth is, I’m not in the mood to see you today.” Liar!

  “Then you’d miss out on all the important news I have for you.”

  That piques my interest, but I don’t want him to know. I shrug. “I don’t really care.” Liar!

  By this time, we’re at his car, an old convertible red Mustang. He puts my bags into the trunk and then opens the passenger door for me. Such a gentleman.

  As I’m sliding onto the seat, he says, “You should care. It’s your career.” He’s right. I should, and I do.

  When he gets into the car, he digs inside the glove compartment and hands me a baseball hat. “Here. Your hair will be in knots if you don’t put this on.”

  “Thanks.” I say it like I don’t mean it. Why am I being so bitchy? I stuff my hair under the hat, grateful for it, but keeping that from him.

  He doesn’t let my sour mood affect his. “I’m a thoughtful guy.”


  “Let’s dump the Mr. Jolly. While I’m glad to be out of that fucking hell, I just want to go home, okay?” I ball up my fists and rub my eyes.

  “Jesus, who stole your happy?”

  “You did when you sent me here. They dissected and tore me apart. Satisfied?” I cross my arms and stare into the sunny sky.

  I must’ve hit a nerve because he puts the car in reverse and off we go. Not another word is spoken until we get to my place. He helps me to the door and that’s when he says, “We have a lot to discuss.”

  “It can wait. I need time. Alone. In my own home.” I need to get a grip on my emotions. He doesn’t deserve my nasty behavior.

  His eyes meet mine and then he does that thing I love. He licks his lower lip and runs a hand over his scruffy jaw. Damn his sexy self. I need to get away from him before I do something stupid … something I’ll regret, like make a play for him. He’s all I’ve thought of for the last thirty days, and I haven’t been around my vibrator for that whole time. I’ve only had my finger to keep me company at night, and now I’m standing before the amazingly hot Harrison Kirkland and I have an unbelievable desire to drop to my knees and do the dirty, just to hear him groan with pleasure. Thinking about it, I nearly groan myself. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Fine.” Then his teeth scrape over his lower lip. His chocolate irises razor straight through me and I don’t like it one bit. Or maybe I like it way too much. “You’ve changed. What happened in there, Midnight?” His tone is soft, and it makes it even worse.

  “Things you don’t want to know.”

  “Did someone hurt you?”

  A hysterical laugh bursts forth. “Of course they hurt me. That’s why I didn’t want to go.” I turn around and close the door, leaving him with a baffled expression on his attractive face. I need to get away from him. He makes me want things I shouldn’t. Men and me don’t mix.

  But Harrison is different. I want to hate him, only I can’t. I’m angry for what happened in rehab, and he’s the only one I can take it out on. But I still want to do things with him … dirty, sexy things. It’s best if I keep my distance from him or things may get out of hand.

  Chapter Eleven—Harrison

  This is not the same woman I left thirty days ago. What the hell happened in there? They were supposed to help, not tear her apart. The idea of her suffering in there is a gut punch. Leaving her is the last thing I want, yet she’s offered me no invitation to come inside. What do I do? I can’t find anything out until I speak to her. I’ve no choice but to leave because I can’t break down her door.

  I drive to the office, my mind filled with questions. When I get back, Misha asks how it went.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Was she pleased with everything we did?”

  “I didn’t tell her.” After I explain, Misha wants to go over to Midnight’s apartment.

  I stop her. “She wants to be alone.”

  “Is she suicidal?” she asks.

  “I doubt they would’ve sent her home if she was.”

  But then I wonder, so I make a call. All I get is that information regarding her treatment is confidential. Even when I explain that I’m worried about her condition, they tell me nothing. They do say they’ll have her therapist call. And she does.

  “Mr. Kirkland, Midnight is many things, but she never showed any suicidal tendencies while she was here. There are other issues we addressed and I did suggest she stay another thirty days to prevent her from relapsing back to using, but she refused.” I know exactly why too.

  “I see. Thank you for returning my call.”

  My thoughts are eased, but I’m still worried about her. Why wouldn’t she at least talk to me? A month is a long time, but that comment about how they hurt her disturbs me. To what was she referring? Did they physically abuse her in there?

  My mind won’t rest until I know, so I shoot her a text.

  I need to know if you’re okay. Believe it or not, I’m worried about you. It wasn’t my intention for you to have a terrible experience there. Please call me.

  She’s all I dwell on until I get home that night and the phone rings.

  “What did you want to tell me?” Midnight asks.

  “We actually have a lot to go over. Can we meet?” It’s only about six and I offer to take her to dinner.

  “I’d prefer takeout at my place.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I never do anything I’m not sure of. Except for one thing, and I was right on that. Massaman curry with shrimp, brown rice, and a fresh roll.” She names the place and I hang up to place the order.

  When I show up at her apartment, she looks like a waif. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of baggy pants. Her eyes look ... old. They’ve aged since she left.

  I set the food on the kitchen counter and then stare at her as she pulls plates out of the cabinets.

  “I brought some beer and wine as well,” I add, not knowing if she had any beverages since she’s been away for the last month.

  “Thanks. I didn’t think about that.”

  “So, what’s your pleasure?”

  She lets out a snicker. “Gummy bears.” Then she loads up our plates. After she hands me mine, I follow her to the living area where we sit on the sofa. I’ve poured us a couple of glasses of wine, after she admitted she’d prefer that over beer, and we eat.

  “I love this food,” she says around a mouthful of curry.

  “It is good. I’ve never been there, but I’ll definitely be going back.” We eat in silence for a few until I ask, “What’s up with the gummy bears?”

  “They’re my crack. Everyone has something, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Oh, come on. Name yours.”

  “No, I’m clean of addictions.”

  “Yeah, right.” Her deep violet eyes fasten onto mine and their intensity has me hypnotized. I’ve never seen anything like them before. “Give it up.”

  “No, I really don’t have any. Alcohol only occasionally, and a cigarette every now and then when I drink. I smoke weed once in a while, but not enough to amount to anything.”

  “I know.” She grins like she’s discovered something super important. “You have a secret addiction to porn.”

  I laugh. “No, porn’s good—what man doesn’t like it? But no addiction. Sorry, I’m clean.”

  She studies me for a long minute, then uses her fork as a pointer. In a sort of singsongy voice, she says, “Maybe addiction is the wrong word. Weakness is more like it. You must have some kind of weakness. What is it?”

  She’s touched a nerve, one that doesn’t need exposing. “Everyone has weaknesses.”

  “So? Name your worst.”

  I aim my gaze at her. “Nope. Not until you share one of yours.”

  She sits up straighter and takes a bite of her dinner. After she swallows, she says, “Broken people are your weakness, aren’t they? You saw I was broken and thought you could put me back into working order. That’s why you brought in Harley, or Helen. Isn’t it? Is that your addiction?”

  How is she so astute? I gulp down some wine and face her. She’s not going to drop this. “I don’t see it as a weakness, but I do like to help others, so in a sense, I suppose you’re right.”

  She pushes a chunk of long, shiny black strands out of her eyes. “Nah. It goes much deeper than that. You’re flawed, Harrison. You see, during my stay in rehab, I had a lot of free time, more than I’ve had in years. I thought about a lot of things, and you were one of them.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You really shouldn’t be. There were times I wanted to use your face as a punching bag.”

  “Ouch,” I say, leaning back and rubbing my jaw.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t nice. It was so bad, in fact, that every night before I fell asleep, I’d curse your name and tell myself somehow I’d make you pay for sending me there.”

  This is really shocking. I’m speechless.

 
; “Surprised by that, are you?”

  “I have to admit I am.” All I wanted to do was save her career. And the more I think about it, the more it pisses me off.

  “I can see those little fix-it cogwheels spinning in that smart brain of yours.”

  A man can only take so much, and she just pushed me to the cliff’s edge. “Let’s get one thing straight. I was saving your sweet little ass, saving your fucking career by arranging for you to go there. That was it. There was no ulterior motive. It wasn’t because of a weakness of mine. If you needed fixing, it had nothing to do with me. My goal was to clean up the shambles your damn career was in with Alta, which, by the way, you haven’t even asked about. I’ve had to pull a couple more strings while you were unavailable. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, your little friend, Trent, used the video he filmed and had it uploaded to several porn sites, which had thousands of downloads by the time we got to it. I took care of that too, you’re fucking welcome. Holt Ward will no longer be a problem either. The lawsuit he filed has been dropped—the one you weren’t aware of because my team took care of it in your absence. Don’t mention that to him, by the way. Your career will skyrocket, thanks to that rehab stint.” I stand up, with every intention of leaving.

  Her words stop me. “We’re not finished.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You can handle your own messes from now on. My work with you is through.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that.”

  I’m clueless. What the hell is she referring to?

  “When I was in rehab, they opened old wounds. That’s what I’m blaming you for.”

  Patience is one of my finer attributes but currently, it seems I’m out of stock. I tilt my neck to look toward the ceiling, praying to some unknown deity for more. Then I level my gaze at her. “Seems everything’s my fault and that makes an assload of sense. I think when you checked out of rehab, you left your damn brain there.”