Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
"My switches?" My chest hurts, and the weight of the stress feels like it will break right through my sternum.
"Your switches into other personalities. We can't understand them until we observe them. This controlled environment is my first opportunity to do a proper job of that.”
"Other personalities?" Dammit, I need Layana. If this is true, which Dr. F seems to be implying, then I need to talk this through with—
BLACK.
Chapter 67 - Lee
I wake up in an old lady’s bed, complete with floral sheets and a canopy top. Shifting against the stiff mattress, I stare at a fancy gold-print wallpaper and try to place where I am. I had to have been shit-faced drunk to go home with a senior citizen and end up in her bed. Moving my head slowly to the left, I come face to face with an old bald man. I flinch, and the dude is staring at me like he’s about to cut me open for surgery. Shit. I try to sit up but my hands won’t move, my wrists pinned to the sides of the bed with handcuffs. Double shit. I jerk hard at the restraints and my arms feel like I spent the whole day doing curls.
I twist to look at the old man. "Who the fuck are you?" I spit out.
The man smiles as if he has all the time in the fucking world. "Let's get your name first. Then I'll tell you mine."
Screw that. I press my lips together, not wanting to yield the power of answering first. Then again, I'm handcuffed to a fucking bed, so maybe the power struggle is already lost. "Lee."
"Lee what?"
I frown, not sure what he's getting at. "Lee Let-Me-The-Fuck-Up-Before-I-Kick-Your-Ass."
Baldy has the guts to laugh. "Oh, that Lee. Nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Finzlesk."
"Am I under arrest?" Wouldn't be the first time I've woken up in a jail cell, but it would be the first cell with hardwood floors, twelve-foot ceilings, and framed art.
"No. I'd just like to ask you some questions."
"How'd I get here?” I'm used to waking up in odd locations, but this shit takes the fucking cake.
"Is that something you often ask yourself?"
“Just answer the fucking question."
"You grew violent; you were sedated. We restrained you so that you wouldn't hurt anyone else."
"I hurt someone?"
"Not too badly." The man smiles, and it’s an odd response, like there’s a joke he's keeping from me.
Not too badly. What the fuck's that mean? Irritation blooms, but my head fucking hurts, like someone’s clamped a vice to my temples. I close my eyes against the pain and that asshole’s smile. "Whose house is this?” he grits out.
"A woman named Jillian Sharp. Do you recognize that name?"
"No." I straighten at the familiar last name. "Is she related to Brant Sharp?"
"Yes."
It’s like a puzzle that is missing the pieces. I hate puzzles. So I’d hurt someone related to Brant Sharp. Maybe I'd finally snapped and tracked down that rich fuck himself and kicked his ass. Gotten a chance to fight for the woman that I don't really deserve.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
I stare at the ceiling, which has a grid of beams. Screw this asshole and his questions. They need to let me the fuck up, then maybe I'll answer some questions.
"Lee? What's the last thing you remember?"
"Fuck you. Give me my phone call."
After that, I keep my mouth shut and don't say a damn word. Hours come and go, and Baldy doesn’t give up—his skinny butt pinned to that velvet throne-looking chair, his creaky voice asking questions over and over, not giving up.
Finally, with the windows dark, dozens of questions unanswered, the doctor stands up with a sigh. His bladder is probably busting at this point. Setting down the blank notepad, he opens his bag, removes an item, and approaches the bed.
I jerk at the hot prick of metal and whip my head toward the doctor. "What was that you—"
BLACK.
Chapter 68
Two days have passed, and I can’t get Brant or Lee to answer their cell.
It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I broke down and drove to Jillian’s house. She answered the door in a lavender suit, every bit of her buttoned into place, but I could see the strain on her face. Her eyes were as bloodshot as my own. We both love him; I know that. I understand that she’s dealt with this for decades longer than I have. I know she’s mad at me for breaking the balance, for shoving the truth into his face despite the consequences. That decision, that action—I might be the one responsible for tipping the scale and causing his psyche to crash. Right now, he was out there somewhere, and potentially falling to a depth that he might not ever rise from.
In my moment of confession, I might have lost the man I love.