Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Red
Rye bread curls at the edges, sitting untouched on the corner of my desk. It's been hours since Blue stormed out. Patients have arrived and left, and now, the city outside my window shifts from sharp daylight to the bruised purple of early evening.
I should have thrown the damn sandwich away by now, but I haven't. Every time I look at it, I see Blue's fingers gripping the paper bag like a weapon, and the hurt flashing behind her anger before she turned and left.
I lean back in my chair and scrub a hand over my jaw. My five-o'clock shadow is rough. It reminds me of Saturday morning when she traced the line of my throat with her tongue and laughed against my skin. That memory should feel warm. Instead, it stings.
Amy knocked fifteen minutes ago to say she was heading out, her voice careful, like she could sense the storm still hanging in the air. I told her to lock the front door behind her and go. She hesitated for a second, then offered, "Good night, Dr. Mercer," and left.
My phone has been silent since Blue's single text about needing space. Unlike her normal obsessive behavior, there's been no follow-up, no explanation, no emojis to soften it. And those four words were delivered with a slap.
I read them again now, my thumb hovering over the screen. I could call. I could drive to her place, knock until she opens the door, pull her against me, and remind her how good we are when she's not creating drama where there shouldn't be, but I don't.
I set boundaries for a living. She crossed one today and then created her own. So I won't cross it in response.
A pound on the door startles me. I jump up and cross the office, wondering if Amy forgot her keys. I fling open the door, and a courier holds a black envelope. He asks, "Are you Dr. Red Mercer?"
"Yes."
He pushes the envelope toward me and a clipboard. "Sign here."
I scribble my name, take the envelope, and freeze. The hairs on my neck rise. It's Blue's handwriting on the envelope.
The courier spins and disappears down the hall.
What is this?
I shut and lock the door, then return to my office. I sit and stare at the envelope, then turn it over.
A red wax emblem is on the back. I break it with my thumbnail and slide the contents onto the blotter. I pull out five professionally printed, matte photos, and one small card in block letters, the ink unmistakably lipstick-red.
How does this make you feel, Dr. Mercer?
My gut flips.
I turn over the photos and line them up on my desk. A tornado of anger and jealousy hits me.
Bluebird, what have you done?
She's on her knees on a massive hotel bed. Black lace barely covers her body. Chicago glitters through floor-to-ceiling glass behind her.
A man stands at her back. He has dark hair, broad shoulders, and one hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so her throat arches. His other palm rests on the side of her neck, possessively, like he owns her.
His face is mostly profile, shadowed, but the scar on his left forearm is visible.
I know that scar.
I peer closer. Rage spools through me, and I tighten my fist.
Jesus Christ. It's Brax O'Malley.
My pulse kicks hard against my collar. I unbutton it, needing more room to breathe.
I look at the next one. Blue's bent over a dark wood desk, her wrists crossed and cuffed behind her.
The black leather miniskirt is shoved to her waist, displaying her bare ass.
His hand presses between her shoulder blades to keep her chest flat against the surface.
Sweat gleams on her skin in the city light.
Her mouth is open, and she's moaning or crying out.
I can't tell which. Her eyes are heavy, lost.
When did this happen?
He claimed she stalked him.
Was he lying?
In the third photo, she straddles him in a leather chair near the window. His fingers dig into her hips hard enough to bruise her. Her head is thrown back, and her hair spills down her spine, exposing her throat. Endless reflections multiply in the mirrored wall behind them.
Bile creeps into my throat. I force myself to swallow it down.
Did she play me? She and Brax had a relationship, and it was all a lie?
Every image is composed like art. Expensive, deliberate, obscene masterpieces that could be in a high-end porn movie or photoshoot. All the details scream money and secrecy, and the exact kind of control one keeps locked behind closed doors. In each scene, Brax takes control of Blue's pleasure.
"That's my job, not his," I hiss out loud to myself.
My hand shakes with anger. I set the photos down carefully, one by one, aligning the edges. Rage coils low in my gut, weaving with jealousy. Then I pick up the photo showing her bare ass, look closer, and freeze.
That's not her ass.
Am I seeing things?
No. That is definitely not her ass.
I examine the other photos, find other imperfections, and my anger changes to relief, then a new irritation.
She staged this.
She's manipulating me again.
The lighting, the angles, the careful omission of a full face. The bruises blooming under gripping fingers. The hotel suite that could be any luxury penthouse in the Loop. She wanted me to see possession, surrender, and erasure of boundaries.
The note card with red lipstick taunts me. How does this make you feel, Dr. Mercer?
I get up and grab the crystal decanter of scotch out of the cabinet. I pour two fingers and take a large mouthful. The liquid burns my throat all the way to my stomach, and I flinch, staring at the city lights.
Blue's delusional again.
She wanted me to feel exactly what she felt when she walked into my office and saw Amy at the desk.
We haven't had a therapy session lately.
Remorse stifles me. So much has happened that I forgot about her mental health. I should have known that any new person in my life would trigger her. If I had told her about Amy, this could have been avoided.
It's my career and strictly professional.
Blue doesn't see it that way.
I pick up the card again. The lipstick is the same shade she wore Saturday night when she kissed my throat and left a perfect crescent on my skin.
How does this make you feel, Dr. Mercer? taunts me.
I finish the scotch, refill it, then go back to the desk.
One of the photos catches my attention more than the others.
Blue's eyes are glassy, surrendered, but I know her real face better than this fabricated version.
I know the way her pupils dilate when she's truly gone for me.
I know the hitch in her breath when I pin her wrists above her head and tell her she's mine.
These photos are close enough to spark the jealousy she wanted me to feel, but they're not real.
She wanted to punish me.
She's daring me to punish her back.
A slow, dark heat unfurls in my chest, turning jealousy into a sharp hunger. I stare at the photo of her cuffed, with her hands behind her back, ass in the air, chest pressed to the wooden desk, and my cock throbs.
"Is this what you want, Bluebird?" I mutter, then take another large mouthful.
She's showing me what she wants me to do to her.
For the next half hour, I study every detail of each photo, not to find more flaws but to memorize what she's showing me.
The way the cuffs bite into her wrists. The spread of fingers digging into her hips.
The arch of her throat when her head is yanked back.
And that damn silent plea in those heavy-lidded eyes.
A grin curls at the edges of my mouth. She isn't taunting me with betrayal. She's handing me the script for what she craves.
I set the empty glass down with a soft clink, slide the photos back into the envelope, and lock the drawer. Then I stand, shrug into my coat, and kill the lights.
She wants to play this game? Fine.
I'm going to give her exactly what she's asking for, but rougher, deeper, more completely than whatever fantasy she fed into that generator.
And when I'm done, there won't be any space left for her to hide behind or any boundaries she can pretend still exist. The only thing that'll still be there is Blue, me, and the truth she's been begging me to force out of her since the moment she walked into my life.
She has more taboo fantasies about us than I realized.
I lock the office door behind me and head for the elevator, my pulse buzzing, and shadowed hunger curling low in my gut.
I'm coming for you, Bluebird.
I'm coming to collect what's mine.
And when I do, we're going to have a very different conversation about boundaries.
It doesn't take long before I'm outside the building and in my car. I do a quick search, find an adult store in the far part of town, and drive toward it. Every red light tightens the coil of fantasies I've never allowed myself to explore that Blue's pulling out of me.
I don't know who I am anymore, I think as I pull into the parking lot.
The building sits between a wine bar and a gallery and has blacked-out windows with a flashing neon sign. Nerves hit me, but I still get out of the car. I've never been inside an adult store, but if this is what Blue wants, then I'm going to give it to her.
A ding rings in my ears when I enter. Amber light, polished wood shelves, and glass cases display leather, lace, and silk.
Handcuffs, plastic cocks of every color and size, and toys I've learned about through my therapy sessions with patients and porn videos I've indulged in private, fill the space.
A woman behind the counter with a tattooed arm sleeve and nose ring, looks up with a calm, professional smile. "Evening. I'm Star. Looking for anything specific?"