I did not need fixing. I still don’t need it.
My first week at Heartstone, they kept a close eye on me. They would check up on me every twenty minutes, even when I was with a provider. They thought I’d pull another stunt like that and attack someone.
As if.
I’m not an attacker. Well, except for that teeny-tiny urge to throw the paperweight at Dr. Blackwood during our meeting. But I didn’t do it, did I? Granted, he took the object away but still.
Anyway, I hate thinking about my time at the state hospital and the first week at Heartstone so I try not to.
But the incident with Angry Annie – actually, let’s call her Annie; she’s angry for the right reasons because clearly, there’s a story about her dad – I’ve spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about it and feeling a pinch on my hip.
A phantom pinch from the needle two weeks ago.
I’ve also spent the rest of the afternoon looking for him.
The man with healing hands. Dr. Blackwood.
After his heroic save, I haven’t seen him all day. Even when he kept his promise and we did a Skype call with Dr. Martin. He wasn’t there. Beth handled it all in the TV room, saying Dr. Blackwood was otherwise occupied.
I mean, I know he’s busy. I know that. But I can’t ignore this growing… something just under my ribcage. Something like longing but with a sharper edge. More like restlessness.
For some reason, before this day is out, I need to see him.
Irony isn’t lost on me. The man I should be running away from is the exact man I’m chasing after.
Twice. In one day.
It’s the end of the afternoon and I’m outside, with my book on my lap, alternately feeding the pigeons and watching the sky for the impending storm. Renn and Penny are sprawled on the ground, and Vi is right by me, feeding the birds as well.
I’m contemplating whether to just track him down somehow. The only reason I haven’t done it yet is because I shouldn’t be doing it. I should be more cautious around him.
But he saved her.
That’s the only thing I’m thinking about, in a loop, no less.
My dilemma ends when he strides out the front door himself.
Well, there you have it. I can’t ignore it now. He practically fell in my lap, so to speak. I spring up from my seat, startling the girls.
Without taking my eyes off him where he stands on the stone steps, I say, “I’ll be just a sec.”
I don’t wait to see their reactions as I walk across the lawn filled with patients and techs. I feel their eyes on me, but I don’t care. A staff member might have said something to me too. Maybe asked me a question about how I am and what am I doing. Do I need something?
But I don’t answer them. I do need something, but I don’t think they can give it to me.
I’m focused on Dr. Blackwood. He looks at someone beyond me – one of the techs – and dips his chin, probably to say that he’s got me.
My lips part at his gesture. So confident and reassuring. So… heroic.
Then his gaze falls on me. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing on the top of the steps, tracking my movements with slightly hooded eyes.
Something about his utter stillness and the way he’s looking at me brings back the tingling from this morning. It’s not obvious, his stare, but I feel it. Like the heated sun. The thing that I hate, but I’m not hating it right now.
When I come to a stop at the bottom step, he shoves his hands inside his pockets and begins climbing down.
“You should really fix your book,” he murmurs.
I realize I have my book clutched to my chest, and a few loose pages are hanging off the bottom. I shove them back in but the level of irritation I should be feeling at the word fix isn’t there anymore.
Yet some part of me still wants to cling onto my old ways. “My book is fine. And you guys should really do something about your library. There isn’t one Harry Potter book in there.”
There’s no heat in my words. I know it; he knows it.
But he says, “Noted.”
Then I blurt out, “You did a good thing today.”
“A good thing.”
I nod. “This afternoon.”
“You mean that Skype call with Dr. Martin? That was pretty easy to do.”
His voice is casual but everything else is curious, alert – his expression, his body. It’s not like it was in our meeting the other day. This feels more… personal. Like his gaze back in the dining room right when he was leaving.
“Yeah. That too. But I meant something else.”
“What did you mean?”
Now’s the moment of truth. Do I tell him about my fear of needles? About that day in the hospital? Am I really willing to volunteer information about myself?
He can do a thousand things with it. He can bring it up in our next meeting. He can use it to ask other questions, questions I don’t want to answer.
That phantom itch on my hip flares and I decide to fuck it. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I swallow. “You saved Annie.”
“From what?”
“From the needle.”
“I didn’t know I was doing that.”
I swallow again. “Well, you did. She didn’t need that. To be sedated like an animal.”
The itch on my hip increases and I tighten my hold on the book to stop from scratching it in front of him.
“Is that why you were so upset back there?” he asks.
“If I tell you, will you use it against me?”
He rolls back on his feet, his lips stretching in a lopsided smile. “Is that what you think I do? Use information against my patients?”
“How do I know what you do?” I shrug. “But yes, that’s what I think.”
Dr. Blackwood takes his hand out of his pocket and scratches his jaw. “You’ve met some fucked-up doctors, haven’t you?” Sighing, he says, “No. I won’t use it against you, Willow.”
It’s great that he said that. I would appreciate it more if I wasn’t focused on his hand. The one he’s just used to scratch his stubble.
Before I can think about it, I reach out and grab hold of it. His large palm has multiple cuts around the pads of his fingers. One of them is covered in a band-aid. I’m guessing that the cut underneath must be bigger than the others that have been left open.
“What happened?” I gently trace the dark red scratches with my thumb.
God, his hand is so big, large and so fucking warm. My thumb stops moving when I realize that I’m touching him.
I’m touching the ice king.
The heat of his hands. The thrum of his blood. Maybe even his healing power.
I feel his breath, long and hard, almost stirring my bangs, and filling my lungs with his rainy smell. Just as I glance at him, he takes his hand away and puts it back in his pocket. I catch the tail end of his jaw clenching and his nostrils flaring.
“I-I… I was…” I fumble and clutch my book. “What happened to your hand? It looked pretty bad.”
“It was an accident.” After a pause, he says, “I was fixing the stairs.”
“Of your house?”
Another clench of his jaw covered with five o’clock shadow. “Yeah. I just don’t live there anymore.”
It’s very strange but in this moment, I know exactly what he’s feeling.
I know he didn’t like the question, as innocent and without motive as it was. I know that he didn’t want to answer it. I know the reluctance and tightness he felt. It’s similar to when we were talking about his dad, only I was too nervous and stubborn to really appreciate the similarities of our feelings.
Because there are similarities. I’ve felt the same things.
Only I never thought I’d find someone to share them with and he’d turn out to be the man from the other side of the line.
Sighing, I tell him, “I scared my mom.”
&n
bsp; He frowns. “When?”
“The day I woke up in the hospital,” I whisper, feeling choked up and all alone. “I was so pissed and tired and so scared. I told them… a-about what happened. And they started saying I needed help. Consultations and meds and my mom wouldn’t stop crying. I got freaked out. I got…”
My eyes fill with tears. “Everybody was talking at once. They were like, talking and talking and telling me to calm down but they just wouldn’t get away from me and… It came out of nowhere. The needle. And then, I just felt a little sting and everything went black. I’d only seen it on TV, you know. Like on all those medical shows. They stab you with a needle when you’re either dying or acting crazy. I was just trying to make them listen.” Sniffling, I wipe my tears. “Tell them that I wasn’t crazy.”
The restlessness that has been building up all day lessens as I tell him this. How can something that goes against my nature – talking – make me feel at ease?
It occurs to me, then. Maybe it’s talking to him.
This man who’s frowning so hard as he looks down at me. Who’s making my heart beat faster and faster with each passing second.
“Do you remember what I told you about the word crazy?” he asks in a low voice.
It’s so low and rough that I have to go on my tiptoes to listen to it.
“It’s a useless word,” I reply, almost like a child, but his authority, his largeness is doing something to me.
“Yeah. Don’t forget that.”
I bite my lip and his gaze drops to the action before moving away. Quickly. But not quick enough because I felt something exploding on my skin.
Sparks and thunders.
“Thank you for saving her,” I say, shrugging; I need him to know that.
That I’m thankful.
“I didn’t save her.”
I disagree but all I say is, “Okay.”
Because I don’t want to fight with him. Not right now.
“I made a judgment call,” he insists.
Maybe he did. But as I said, I don’t want to fight with him. I’m feeling mellow and oddly peaceful right now.
Nodding, I agree with him again, “All right.”
His chest heaves like he’s angry. “Stop looking at me like that,” he rumbles.
I’ve never heard a sound like that coming out of his mouth. It drips with both authority and intimacy. So much intimacy that it’s this thick, potent thing like the smell of the rain in the air.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some kind of a hero.”
“But isn’t that a… good thing?” I ask, confused.
“No. Because I’m not a hero.” He leans closer. “Using sedatives is the last resort and very rare. It only happens in extenuating circumstances. And it’s for both the patients’ safety and also for the safety of the personnel who’s handling them. I knew I had her, so as I said, I made a judgment call.”
In the wake of his speech, a fat drop of water plops on my cheek. Another falls on my head. I look up and see the rain has arrived.
There are squeals and shrieks and suddenly, I hear footsteps all over the place. Everyone’s trying to get inside before the rain gets heavier.
And I remember we’re not alone. I don’t know why I thought we were.
We’re never alone in this place. Throughout the day, we get checked on in twenty-minute intervals. Some patients get charted even when they are with a provider because they are considered dangerous. Thank God they are not doing that with me anymore. They don’t leave us alone even at nights. On our floor, they do hourly checks through the little windows on our doors. Up on The Batcave, those nightly checks are even more frequent.
So yeah, never alone.
“Do you understand what I just said?” Dr. Blackwood asks, and I look away from the commotion.
Do I understand?
“Yeah.”
He nods, satisfied. “Good.” Looking up at the sky, he says, “Now get back inside.”
I would. If I wasn’t staring at the way his throat moves when he talks. And how a raindrop is sliding its way down the side of his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt.
Focusing back on me, he says, “Willow.”
I shake my head, getting myself out of my stupor. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
I start climbing the steps, but I stop and turn around to find him watching me go.
“Have a good night, Dr. Blackwood.” I give him a teeny tiny smile.
Covered in raindrops, he slants me a blank look before striding down the pathway.
As the techs herd us inside and close the front door, I realize I do understand. I understand that he doesn’t like to be called a hero. I understand that Dr. Simon Blackwood might be a unicorn of a psychiatrist.
Because not only he makes me want to talk to him and not hate him, but I might even… like him, just a little bit.
***
I have an ache.
It’s as old as time. Older than that, maybe.
I’m bruised. A bruise that’s destined to remain unhealed forever and ever. Red and swollen and pulsating.
I’m in my bed. The hourly check has just got done. Rain’s battering against the window. I see the droplets sluicing down. Thick, wet droplets, and I feel an answering pulse.
Between my legs.
Under my hot blanket, my hand creeps down and presses on my pelvis. I massage it and as much as my fingers are soothing the pain, they are stroking it also. Like when you stroke the soft fur of a wild animal. Sometimes you awaken it, rather than put it to sleep.
I thought they killed it, the meds and doctors. My own brain. I thought they murdered the one thing that makes me normal: my lust.
But no.
It’s there. And it’s awake tonight. And hungry.
My fingers go under my t-shirt and I drag my blunt, unsatisfying nails across my bare skin in franticness.
I’ve been kissed before. I’ve made out, have felt and given inconsequential touches. But the only person who’s touched my core is me.
And right now, it’s the center of the wound. The eye of my hurricane.
But that’s not all. This isn’t a random burst of desire. This is designed.
For him. The ice king.
I suck on my finger, getting it wet with my tongue, and slide it inside my pajama bottoms and panties. I find my wet curls and seeping core.
With my other hand, I cup my boobs. They are C cups, plump and hot, my strawberry pink nipples puckered. Using my arms, I push them together, my tits, and rub both my nipples with the fingers of that one hand.
Simultaneously, I rub my clit and nearly come off my bed. I moan; I can’t help it. It’s not loud but it’s a sound I haven’t made in a long time. So long.
I feel like I’m making this sound for him. I wish he could hear it. I wish he could see me making it. He’d probably clench his jaw, look at me with a calm, impassive face, gray eyes, and walk away.
Or maybe not.
Maybe he’ll stay. Maybe he’ll watch me touch myself for him.
Suddenly, I feel his eyes on me. The weight of it. I guess it’s all in my head, but it feels so real that I sweat with the heat of his look. It’s so real that I want to open my eyes and look at the little window on my door, hoping to see him watching me.
But I won’t.
I know he’s not there. He can’t be. He’s home or wherever he lives. And I’m stuck here, lusting after him. Putting on a show for him that he won’t even get to see.
I put my finger inside and my pussy feels creamy. Swollen. Juicy. It’s gasping like my breath.
I grimace as I go in and out, feeling the burn, the tightness. My back is bowed with how just a tiny finger is making me stretch, but I don’t care.
The burn is so fucking good.
I undulate my hips, hug my wrist with my shaking thighs, as I pinch my nipples, knead my breasts. I move, grind, twitch, and imagine t
hose cloud-colored eyes.
I imagine them not only shimmering with authority, but also with lust. Dark and heavy and piercing. Pulling me apart, analyzing me, caressing me.
And when I break into a thousand pieces and come, I imagine those eyes counting every single piece of me so he can put me back together the right way, like a puzzle.
I turn my face and smother my lips with the pillow so I don’t make any noises. Even though I want to. I want to make all the noises, but I can’t. Not here.
When I come down from my high, I’m breathing hard. Sweating. And happy. Orgasms make me happy. It’s the kind of happiness I chase as often as I can.
“God…” I whisper, biting my lip and smiling through the sting.
But then, my eyes pop open and I look at the little glass window on my door. No one is watching. No one is standing there. As expected.
Of course, I don’t want someone to be there. It was just heat of the moment. Feeling pinpricks of embarrassment all over my body, I huddle under the blanket, closing my eyes, hiding from my own thoughts. Illicit desires.
He’s not a hero, he said.
Maybe that’s why I shattered myself just now. For him. So he could fix me, save me like a hero he says he isn’t.
With his medicine in my blood putting me to sleep, I close my eyes to that ridiculous thought. I don’t want anyone to save me. I don’t need saving. I also don’t need a hero.
I definitely don’t need a king who builds a castle for the one he loves. The one with the silver hair. And neither do I want that gray-eyed king to call the silver-haired girl, his snow princess.
Days spent on the Inside = 21
Days left to spend on the Inside = 21
Days since the ice king showed up = 7
He’s chatting with Josie.
The man of my dreams.
Actually, Dr. Simon Blackwood is the man who comes into my dreams. Not sure if it’s the same thing. Not sure if I should be dreaming about him at all.
The enemy. But honestly, he doesn’t feel like one.
He feels like someone I know but not really. Because I don’t know him.
Medicine Man Page 9
