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“And you telling me that you’re good at killing people is supposed to make me less scared?” she scoffs. “Besides, I’m not scared of you.”
“Like hell you’re not. You’re curled up in a corner with a swollen brain from the stress. I knew something was wrong with you the second you opened your mouth.”
“So, you think my brain is swollen out of fear? Did your fancy, million-dollar doctor tell you that? You might want to get your money back.”
“The doctor told me nothing. He needs to run more tests to get a diagnosis. My mother used to tell me I should treat others how I would want to be treated, and I’ve spent a lifetime trying to understand that, especially in the line of work I’m in.”
“Yeah, that does seem pretty complicated.”
“On one hand, I know she wanted to foster a sense of kindness in me that my father was doing wonders to erase. On the other hand, I know she wanted me to be strong against the battles I was going to face. She passed away a few years ago, and she told me,remember to be kind, Saint, and treat people how you would want to be treated.”
“But that’s the thing, I would want people to treat me with brutal honesty. I would want straight forward conversation, even if it hurt, or was awkward at the time. I’m not sure that’s what she was talking about.”
“Most people don’t want straight forward. Most people want compliment sandwiches. You’re really nice, but you could work on your socialization, but you have pretty eyes.” She laughs, and it’s nice to see her smile. I should tell her that, be straight forward instead of messing around. Trouble is, I know she’s too good for me. Too good, too young, too fucking everything. Me telling her how I feel doesn’t change any of that, and it only complicates things for her when this whole nightmare is over.
“What do you think you need to be honest about?” She rolls onto her side and looks at me with the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Two gemstones staring back, innocent and sweet, though, sarcastically inclined.
“You first. What do you know about this swollen brain stuff?”
She shakes her head and turns away again. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever happens to me, happens. Doctors can’t help. I’m just enjoying the rest of whatever I’ve got. So…”
The rest of whatever she’s got?Her words hit me like a pack of knives to my lungs and I can’t explain any of it. She’s a prisoner, a woman that’s been more trouble since the day we met. I shouldn’t feel any kind of way for her, but I do.
I lay next to her tucking beneath the blankets until my cock is involuntarily firm against her ass and my breath is on her neck. “What’s going on?”
“And what would you do if you knew, cure me with your massive cock? I’ve seen this storyline before and I’m down to try, but I hate to break it to you… the cure isn’t in the magic stick.”
She wants me to laugh, but I can’t. My mind has gone into overdrive, desperate to know what’s going on with her, desperate to help her in any way possible.
My hand wanders up her hip and over her shoulder, respectfully meandering over her as I fight away the urge to tell her what I’m feeling, what I’vebeenfeeling.
“You next,” she says, twisting toward me. “What do you need to be straight forward about?”
A wave of heat washes over me and my ears begin to ring. Apparently, this is what happens to my body when I’m face to face with emotion. “I’m trying not to like you,” I say. “You’re trouble. I could see it coming the second you stepped onto my yacht.”
“There you go with the backhanded compliments again. Is that how you’d want to be treated? I feel like you’re doing what you always do… deflect.”
My jaw tightens, as I turn her toward me. “Now you’re a psychiatrist? A few hours ago, you needed one. Tell me what’s wrong with you,” I growl. “Now, or I’ll—”
“Or what?” She twists onto her side and lobs her leg over mine, purring playfully as she drags a finger down over my chest. “You’ll put me in cuffs again?” Her voice moves to a whisper. “You can’t hurt me, because I like it.”
“You’re making jokes, but this is serious.”
She rolls her eyes and huffs. “Yes! I know what’s wrong with me, gangster. I just don’t care.”
“But you think you’re dying?”
“I think that going back to a life where I throw myself into a career I hate and live a life alone is more than I can take. So… I’m letting my body do what nature has intended. And, forgive me for being cliché, but we’re all dying.”
“What about those pepper plants and all the Instagram followers? I know I’m dying to see the next pic you post.”
She laughs caustically and rolls onto her back before standing from the bed. “Social media is a joke. I bought half those followers.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to take a piss. Is that okay, or do you need to time me again?”
She’s only gone for a second, but I realize now I know very little about this woman that won’t shut up, except for the fact that she’s quick witted, determined to make money, got set up by her boss, and is insanely hot. If I want this to go further, I should learn more about her.
