Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Red
Blue flips the hourglass again, and I watch the vibrant sand cascade downward in a slow, hypnotic stream. Her smile is triumphant. She thinks she's won something, but she hasn't.
She's losing control.
Fast.
I step away and create distance from her, the hourglass, and all the things I should've had the foresight to be prepared for before she walked into this room today.
I state, "Blue, let's sit down." I point to her chair.
She doesn't move, staking a claim behind my desk. Her pupils are blown wide, shining like someone set a light behind them. She's trembling with a conviction that I'm her new man to obsess over.
Fuck.
She softly says, "I didn't do anything wrong. I just showed you what I made."
"It's not about wrong. It's about safety." I gesture toward the chair across from mine again.
A sharp, bright, too loud for my small office, laugh comes out of her. "Safety? You think I'm unsafe? I made you lingerie, Red. Not a bomb."
The word bomb hits too close to the truth. Her mood is volatile, and her perception of reality is thinning.
I lower my voice. "I'm asking you again. Please sit."
Something in my tone reaches her. She sits quickly, but it's too trusting and unguarded.
All the clinical signs she's having a manic episode scream at me. So I move my chair to face her more directly. I keep my hands visible, grounded on my knees.
"Blue, I need your full honesty. When was the last time you slept?"
She shrugs. "Sunday. I've been working. It's not a big deal. I don't need that much sleep."
"Everyone needs sleep," I say softly.
"I don't. At least not now. I can later," she declares in a bright, confident, certain way that terrifies me.
"Does this happen a lot?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
She shrugs. "Sometimes." Her knee bounces uncontrollably, subtle but constant. Her fingers twitch in her lap, darting to her purse, back to her thigh, then to the arm of the chair, unable to land.
I proceed with caution. "Blue, I'm concerned you're experiencing a manic episode."
She stiffens, eyes narrowing, and scoffs, "Manic? No, Dr. Mercer, I'm not crazy. I'm inspired. Productive. Clear."
I prepare myself for an uphill battle, sitting straighter. "I didn't say you were crazy. When did you eat last?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Try to remember and tell me what you last ate."
She thinks for a minute, then shakes her head. "I can't remember. Food isn't important. I've been working."
I stare at her, my pulse thudding between my ears. Skylar called earlier, telling me she was worried about her daughter. She told me she was obsessively trying to finish a project that had nothing to do with her work duties, and hadn't been eating or sleeping.
Blue rolls her eyes, and a teasing expression appears on her face and in her voice. "I made a dress and lingerie. I'm creative. Artists get obsessed. That's not mania."
My chest tightens. "Do you know what a manic episode is, Blue?"
Anger flares on her so quickly, a chill runs down my spine. She seethes, "I'm not crazy, Dr. Mercer."
"I don't use the word crazy," I remind her.
She huffs, "Whatever. Crazy. Manic. It's the same thing, you're just not saying crazy so you don't hurt my feelings." She rises, reaches across my desk, and flips the hourglass. She murmurs, "I love how graceful the sand falls."
My pulse ticks higher. I watch her, a beautiful mess of chaos, and she finally spins.
She leans against the desk, putting her hands on it to steady herself. Her eyes turn to sadness. "I'm sorry I broke your great-grandfather's piece."
"How did you know it was his?" I ask.
A smile plays on her lips. She flirts, "I have my secrets, Dr. Mercer."
Heat pools low in my stomach, spreading in a slow, traitorous wave that coils into something I pretend is anger rather than attraction.
It winds tight and hot, forcing me to breathe evenly or risk giving away the truth she's too perceptive not to catch.
In a firm voice, I demand, "I'm going to need you to be honest with me, or I won't be able to be your therapist."
Her face falls. In a hurt voice, she offers, "Sorry."
I take a deep breath. "Please sit back down."
She slinks over to the chair, then carefully crosses her legs. She leans back, announcing, "I asked Shirley where you got it so I could replace it. She told me it was your great-grandfather's."
I make a mental note to talk to Shirley about not giving out my personal details, even if she thinks it's nothing big.
Blue's eyes light up, but vulnerability shakes with her words. "So you liked the lingerie I made for you?"
My stomach flips, not with revulsion but with the sickening thrill of wanting something I have absolutely no right to want.
The sensation hits low and fast, tightening enough that I straighten in my seat, spine locked, praying she didn't notice the flicker of weakness that just tore through my body. I open my mouth, then shut it.
The need for approval is so intense in her expression, I tell myself I don't want her to crack. So I carefully craft, "You're very talented. It's impressive."
She beams. "It's perfect to lose my virginity in, isn't it?"
Adrenaline spikes through my body, settling in my balls.
She adds, in a hushed tone, "Well, at least the final part of my virginity."
Sweat pops out on the back of my neck. My cock turns into a traitor, coming to life. Somehow, I keep my voice steady. "Final part?"
Her lips twitch. She coos, "You know, Dr. Mercer. Kissing. Touching. Oral." A flush crawls up her cheeks, and her irises flash with anticipation. She inhales deeply, then releases it even more slowly through her mouth.
My erection turns rock-hard. I grab my clipboard from my desk to cover it, cursing myself.
"I-I have a confession to make, Dr. Mercer," she says, almost absentmindedly.
"What's that?" I question, my throat aching from dryness.
She blinks a few times, leans forward, and her fingers dig into the chair's arm so hard, they turn white. Her lips tremble.
"Blue? What is it?" I softly push.
"I didn't do it."
"Do what?"
"I almost did, but I stopped myself, and I didn't text you because I know you were debating whether to keep me or not, but I didn't do it. I stopped myself," she rambles, her face scrunching into distress.
Panic hits me. "Do what?"
"I had the knife, but I didn't do it."
My chest tightens. "Cut yourself?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Monday morning, after you told me you were still thinking."
A claw reaches inside my gut and twists. Guilt hits me. I know she's fragile and know how her obsession can create unhealthy behaviors. I shouldn't have texted her that. I should have sent her a better answer and not kept her waiting.
I try to keep my voice calm. "That's good that you stopped yourself."
Her expression morphs into a needy smile. "So you're proud of me?"
I nod. "Yes. Very. But let's talk a little more about this. I'm assuming you wanted to cut yourself since I hadn't given you an answer?"
She shakes her head. "No. That's not it."
Surprised, I peer closer. "Then what made you want to harm yourself?"
"The thought you would leave me and never kiss me."
My head jerks backward, and my eyes arch.
"Why are you surprised?" she asks.
I reel in my shock, collect my thoughts, and point out, "You're replacing Brax with me."
"No. I told you I was wrong about Brax. I've finally found clarity and who the right person is for me. There's a difference. And people are allowed to make mistakes, aren't they?" She tilts her head and twirls a lock of red and blue hair tightly around her finger.
I clear my throat. "Yes, they can make mistakes. But that isn't clarity. It's a grandiose romantic fixation.
She smiles. "Or maybe it's the truth you aren't ready to admit, Dr. Mercer."
"Blue, you're not well."
She snaps, "I am. I just made a piece of art without even drawing it on paper! My dress is almost perfect, too. And I didn't cut my other hip. I stopped myself from putting an R on it!"
My pulse detonates between my ears. The vision of my initial, marked forever on her smooth hip, flares so clearly, I have to blink several times. And something sick and twisted flirts with disappointment at the thought of my initial not being on her body.
Jesus Christ. I'm sick. Maybe I need help.
She's unraveling.
I try again, softer. "Blue, I want you to tell me something truthfully. Do you feel out of control?"
"No," she says instantly.
"Do you feel exhausted?"
"No."
"Do you feel wired?"
Her smile is unsettling. "Yes. Because of you and our chemistry."
I close my eyes for a beat. God, help me. She means it. She genuinely believes her symptoms are proof of a connection.
When I open my eyes, I choose a different tactic. "If you won't sleep on your own, I'm prescribing something temporary. You can take it when these episodes happen."
"No."
"You need rest."
"I'm not taking pills."
"This is not optional." My tone shifts to the firm, clinical voice I use in emergencies. "Your brain cannot function without sleep."
She shakes her head. "No pills. I won't take them."
"We should call your parents. I think it's best if you aren't on your own right now."
Her whole body goes rigid. "Absolutely not."
"You need support."
"I'm not living with them. I'm an adult."
"Someone needs to stay with you. At least for tonight, then we can reassess," I offer.
Her voice cracks at the edges. "No. I told you. I only trust you. Not them."
My gut drops. She's clinging to me the way drowning people cling to anything that floats, even if it drags them deeper. I ask, "Why don't you trust your parents? They seem to love you a lot."
Her eyes darken. "They think I'm crazy."
"Why do you believe that?"
Her lips shake harder. She turns her head and blinks hard.
"Blue?"
She slowly meets my gaze. Her eyes glisten, and she answers, "They didn't believe me when Brax came to the house. Well, Dad did until Mom showed up."
"What did they believe that wasn't true?"
"That I stalked him."