Chapter 2 Geneva
GENEVA
THE MEMORY OF MY LAST VISIT WITH GHOST REPLAYS IN MY MIND on a loop, no matter how much I try to shove it aside. His words, his hands, the volatile energy between us that’s always present.
I shouldn’t have gone. Ghost isn’t the kind of man you face unless you’re ready to walk away scorched. And I wasn’t ready.
The way he looked at me, like he was daring me to admit the truth. Like he could see every lie I was telling myself. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Testing me.
Pushing me.
Breaking me.
Until there was nothing left but the jagged edges of my own obsession. And God help me, I let him. Then I provoked Ghost further by bringing myself to orgasm in front of him.
The expression on his face was worth it.
My fingers tighten around the coffee mug in my hands, the warmth doing nothing to soothe the chill that’s settled deep in my chest. I can still feel the press of the bars against my back, the heat of his breath on my skin, and the way his hand wrapped around my throat.
It wasn’t to hurt me, but to control me. To own me.
And I wanted him to.
The last thing he said to me echoes in my mind, soft and dangerous: “This isn’t over. You will admit it.”
The truth. The one thing I’ve spent my entire career defining, analyzing, and chasing. Yet when it comes to Ghost, the truth is slippery, elusive, and just out of reach. Or maybe I already know it, and I’m too scared to face it.
He’s right about me always running.
I glance at my phone on the coffee table, the temptation to check for a message from him gnawing at me like a drug I’m desperate to quit. I tell myself I won’t look. I won’t feed the obsession.
But I already know how this ends.
I’ll always look.
The phone practically vibrates with unspoken tension from where it sits. I stare at it like it might bite me, every logical part of me screaming not to give in. But logic doesn’t mean shit when it comes to Ghost.
My feet move before my mind catches up, carrying me across the room. My fingers tremble as I pick up the phone and swipe it open. The screen lights up with a text notification.
Unknown: Skinner is outside your apartment. Get out of there!
My heart stutters, a cold rush of dread flooding my veins. My first instinct is to dismiss it, to tell myself this is just another one of his mind games. But the sinking feeling in my gut says otherwise. Ghost doesn’t waste words. If he’s saying this, it’s because he knows something I don’t.
Unknown: Hold on. I’m coming for you.
I read the words again, my mind spinning. But I force myself to focus, to think rationally. If Skinner really is outside, then what the hell am I supposed to do? Stay here and wait for Ghost? Call the police?
The phone vibrates in my hand again, and I glance down to see another message:
Unknown: If he touches you, I’m going to cut his arms off and use them to beat the shit out of him. And then kill him.
The finality in those words hits me like a physical blow. This isn’t about some test or game. This is real. And Ghost—dangerous, unpredictable Ghost—isn’t just warning me. He’s promising me.
Protection.
Retribution.
Annihilation.
The words on the screen blur as my pulse pounds in my ears. Ghost’s warning, his vow, echoes in my mind, louder than the fear coursing through me. My instincts kick in, adrenaline surging as I shove my phone in my pocket and bolt toward the back door, where I keep the baseball bat.
My breaths come fast and shallow, my fingers fumbling as I grab the bat from where it leans against the wall. Its familiar weight in my hands does little to steady me, but it’s better than nothing.
The apartment is too quiet. The kind of quiet that screams something is wrong. I tighten my grip on the makeshift weapon as I scan the living room. Every creak of the floorboards under my feet sounds obnoxiously loud, and I force myself to stay calm, to stay sharp.
I’m reaching for my phone to call the police when Skinner emerges from the hallway, his hulking frame casting an ominous shadow against the furniture.
His grin is twisted, smug, and it makes my skin prickle with disgust. He’s taller than I remember, broader.
His presence fills the space, shrinking it, suffocating me.
“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice low and dripping with malice. “It’s nice to see you again, Dr. Andrews.”
My heart races, every muscle in my body screaming at me to run, to fight, to do something. I raise the bat, despite how much my arms are trembling.
“What do you want?”
Skinner chuckles, the sound unsettling. “What do you think? You’ve got a debt to pay. And I’m here to collect.”
I take a step forward to avoid being cornered. Then I gesture to the front door with the bat. “Get the fuck out.”
His grin widens. “I don’t think so. You and me are going to have a chat.”
My palms are slick with sweat, my hold on the bat slipping a little. Skinner’s taunting me, feeding off my fear. But I won’t back down. I can’t. Instead, I tighten my grip and shift my stance into something defensive.
One thing is certain: Skinner isn’t walking out of here unscathed, either because of me or because of Ghost.
However, Skinner isn’t someone I can overpower or run away from. My only hope is to delay his attack. To distract him long enough for Ghost to get here. Right now, a serial killer is my only hope of survival.
I lift my chin. “I said, get the fuck out.”
Skinner takes a step closer, his grin twisting into something darker. “I don’t think so, Doc.”
It takes everything in me not to flinch at the nickname Ghost uses for me. Hearing it on Skinner’s tongue taints it, sickening me with its presumed familiarity. But I can’t deny we have history.
“Do you know what I remember most about your trial?” I ask, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest.
The corners of Skinner’s mouth twitch, showcasing his piqued interest, without it lessening his desire to harm me. Then he tilts his head slightly, signaling that he’s listening.
“You sat there like you didn’t have a care in the world,” I continue, my eyes fixed on him, studying his face for microexpressions. “But you weren’t calm. You were seething.”
He scoffs. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
I take a step sideways, making it look casual, keeping my movements smooth and unaggressive. “I saw a frustrated man desperate to control the narrative. Why, Skinner? Why would you care what people think about you?”
“Isn’t it your job to know, Dr. Andrews?”
I nod slowly. “There was something you didn’t want anyone to see, hence the anger over the lack of control concerning your story.”
Skinner’s smug expression falters, a flicker of unease breaking through. I press on, taking note of the shift in his posture. It’s in the slight stiffening of his shoulders and the way his fingers twitch as though resisting the urge to lash out. He’s uncomfortable with this subject. Good.
“There was something under all that rage,” I say, my tone softer now, almost coaxing. “Something you couldn’t control. Something that terrified you.”
The skin around his jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, his gaze darts to the side before snapping back to me. It’s quick, but I catch it. He’s avoiding something.
“What were you trying to hide, Skinner?” I keep my firm grip on the bat but lower it slightly, as if the conversation has my full attention. “Why did those women make you so angry?”
“They didn’t,” he snaps, his voice defensive. “They were nothing.”
“Nothing?” I repeat, raising a brow in challenge. “Were they something you couldn’t have? Or maybe they represented a normalcy you couldn’t reach?”
Skinner takes a step closer, his grin now absent, replaced with a glare that practically burns through me. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“But I do.” My voice hardens, cutting through his denial. “You hated them because they represented what you thought you should want. What you were told you should desire. But deep down, they were a reminder of how different you felt.”
Skinner’s nostrils flare, his breathing growing heavier. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“You punished your victims. Every woman you hurt was a proxy for the shame you couldn’t escape.”
“Shut up!” he roars, his voice cracking with rage.
I don’t flinch, meeting his gaze head-on. “You hated them because they represented the lie you were living. And you took that hatred out on them because you couldn’t face the truth about yourself. You’re a homosexual.”