“He’s a shrink, what does he care? She’s probably one of five hundred patients.”

She pushes a boot on the edge of a file cabinet and swings the chair around. “He’ll care.”

“Then call him, let him know, and move the hell on.”

Her fingers peel back the rest of the skin and toss it in the wastebasket. “I will,” she says, pushing the final piece of fruit in her mouth. Spinning the chair straight, she reaches for the phone, brushing off her other hand before snagging the correct case file and flipping it open.

Dialing the number, she settles back in her chair and listens to the ring. Flosses her teeth with the edge of her nail. When the man comes on the line, she straightens.

“Dr. Vanderbilt?”

“Yes, is this Detective Boles?”

Oh, goody. He remembers her. “I’m calling about Deanna Madden. She’s been arrested.”

CHAPTER 64

Present

WHAT I DID to MeanEyes turns out to be against the rules. I absorb that information while, inside my head, a part of my brain does a little happy dance. Blood seems to do that to me. What is more disturbing, and what I muse over while I sit in a new room, by myself, handcuffs pinning my wrists together in my lap, is that the woman hadn’t really done anything to me. As screwed up as my life has been, there was always, somewhere along it, a moral code. I killed because he was evil. I killed to save another. I killed or hurt because of something. But there, back in that cell, I had hurt for no reason at all. And I had enjoyed it. I have always dreaded jail. I may have been right to. This may be, after all, the most dangerous place for my brain to be.

The door opens and a new stranger comes in. He’s a sheriff, not a cop, a brown uniform instead of black. I don’t smile at him. I’ve noticed that the more I smile in this place, the more people look at me like I’m crazy. He stops before me, his hands on his hips, the buckle of his belt in my direct eyeline. “Three hours and forty-five minutes.”

I don’t look up. He moves his hands from his hips and places them on the table before me. Dirty fingers. I pull my gaze to them. Dirty fingers, short nails, hard hands. Has he been so busy that he hasn’t had time to wash his hands? Three hours and forty-five minutes. I don’t even have to ask what he’s talking about. I already know. I know because I counted those three hours and forty-five minutes down. Every second, every minute, every hour in that room with those women was noted. “I didn’t think you’d be a problem, Madden.”

I sit back. God, it’s hot in here. I can’t be the only one who thinks so. This man, with his long pants, has to be hot too. I lift my eyes to his and realize that he’s waiting on a response.

“I’d like to make a phone call.”

He raises his eyebrows, twin caterpillars hopping on an ugly desert. “Oh, we all know about your need to make a phone call. I’m sure the EMTs tending to that woman’s face are hearing about your precious phone call. Who you calling, princess?”

I suck a piece of my cheek between my teeth and test the gummy surface’s strength. Look in his eyes and say nothing.

“You know, you look real familiar.” He pushes off the table and stands, ambling around the table toward me. I watch him, the air around me infecting as he moves closer. “I couldn’t figure it out, but that face… I’ve seen you somewhere before.” He stops next to my chair and leans against the table. Lifts a hip and perches on the edge of it. I wish I were a unicorn and I could just tilt my chin down and impale this asshole with one hard headbutt.

“I thought it was from a prior arrest… but it looks like you’ve never been booked before.” I blink slowly and wonder if he’s inner monologued this whole bit. And if so, please God let him be close to the end.

“Then I spoke to one of the cops, who told me about your apartment.” He moves a hand to his thigh, and I admire the way the hair on his knuckles brushes over his wedding ring. Sexy. “A camgirl, huh? That’s when I put two and two together.”

Oh. So this is where this asshole’s thought process is headed. I lift my eyes to his face.

He’s grinning like he just won something. I look at his rows of teeth and wonder how much it will hurt my fist if I punch him. “NascarGuy44.” He raises his brows in eager expectation. I stare at him, my face carefully schooled into place. “That’s me. Remember me?”

Is he kidding me? Not to brag about my client list, but I’ve cammed with thousands of men. This guy’s probably a member of my fan club. Might have splurged once or twice and taken me private. A big deal for him, one of a hundred daily transactions for me. I sigh. “A phone call.” At this point, I don’t even know if I want the damn phone call. Not if it’s going to mean more quality time between me and this asshat.

“Hey now.” He has the gall to look hurt. Then he leans forward and I focus on his hand, the one lifting off his knee and reaching for me.

I don’t move, everything in this world freezing as I wait. I can see my future very clearly right now. Can see the moment when his fingers touch me. Can see the moment that this space goes white and my body reacts. I reach inside, search for the place where I had just, moments ago, mused over control, morals, a bit of resolution to not be violent. I was going to control myself, learn to behave in this new place, find strength and peace in these walls. His finger connects with my cheek and trails across my cheekbone, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. I lift my eyes up to his, I can feel the heat of his breath near my eyebrow, a heavy exhale tickling the eyelashes of my right eye. I can do this. I can be stronger than this. I close my eyes. “Take your fucking hands off me.”

His chuckle flips my eyes back open and I see his smile hovering in the place past his dirty wrist, a gold chain peeking from underneath his shirt sleeve, momentarily distracting me. “Now that isn’t what you said to me in our chat.” His hand drops down my hair and hits my shoulder, his breath heavier as his hand slides down the fabric of my sweatshirt. “You see, sweetheart, I know exactly what’s underneath this—”

You know, I tried. Really I did. I can’t help it that right now, my madness is stretched a little thin. I can’t help it that when he squeezes my breast, hard and rough, I say fuck it. I can’t help the fact that his small dick doesn’t like the feel of my fists—he was the one who put it right there for me to rain down my linked hands on. I can’t help it that when he wheezed and doubled over, I snapped my elbow across his scrunched face.

I’ve been in a few altercations with men, yet am still caught off guard when I’m hit. His punch lands on my stomach, my chair moving, falling back, my hands and feet left behind, my chest lifting forward, and that saves my head from a second interaction with a hard floor. Dr. Pat will be so pleased. I scramble out of the chair, spots in my vision, my chest struggling for some bit of air, but I can only wheeze, my feet skidding across the floor as I try to get away. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Picking a fight I can’t win, in a place where I shouldn’t try. I close my eyes and manage one painful breath. Find footing and straighten. Open my eyes, my hands closing into tight fists, and meet my opponent’s eyes. NascarGuy44 may end up kicking my ass, but I will drag hell into his life first. NascarGuy44. I’m gonna remember that username. NascarGuy44. I chant it in my mind, and raise my fists. Lift my chin and dare him to bring the fucking rain. NascarGuy44. I will personally bankroll Mike’s research into and destruction of this man’s entire life.