Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tuesday
I closed my eyes, my head in a whirl as Mal’s fever-hot breath fanned over my exposed center, making me viscerally aware of the scalpel still sitting inside me.
He radiated sex and violence. The handsome bastard wore sin well.
Were I awake, I would overanalyze my growing attraction to my dangerous patient, to the point where I’d pull the fun out of it.
But here, logic didn't matter. I might as well focus on the one thing that felt right, even if it didn’t make sense—Mal.
So I relaxed and allowed the drug to take hold of me, surrendering to him completely.
His split tongue licked over my flesh, each tip spreading my folds so he could get a good look at my opening. Then, with the scalpel still seated inside me, both parts of his monstrous tongue wriggled inside and curled around the scalpel's metal, stretching me wider.
When he pulled back, the sensation had me so wet that a pool of my arousal gathered beneath me. He pushed back in, waiting a moment while I adjusted, before pulling out again.
Fucking hell. This crazy bastard had made a makeshift dildo with his split tongue and a scalpel. Slowly, he began to fuck me with it, wrapping his hands around my knees for purchase when his pace accelerated.
This was by far the wildest, most visceral dream I'd ever experienced.
I didn't want it to end.
The twisted pleasure was too good, and the fucked-up scenario had me hurtling toward climax fast and hard.
Just as he was about to push me over the edge, he pulled the scalpel from me and tossed it on the floor with a loud clank. "Tell me who you killed."
Dazed, I struggled to speak. The drug rendered me helpless. It was as if my tongue had been cast in quick-set cement.
“W–wh…?”
"In the first dream we shared, you said you killed someone.”
Had I said that? I didn’t remember. Everything was fuzzy. “I…”
He pinched my clit, and my eyes crossed at the sensation splitting my core in two. With an evil smirk, he stroked the sensitive nub, the pleasure chasing away the pain. “So who was it, Little Nightmare? Who did you kill?”
"I d–didn't." The lie was like bitter ash in my mouth. Images of Lauren flashed through my mind, and I shoved them away. “Not on purpose.”
Mal’s dark brows furled with disapproval. “You’re a shit liar. If you’re going to survive my father, you’ll need to lie better.”
Bitter tears pricked my eyes, from indignation or overstimulation. I didn’t care. All I wanted was to come. Maybe the pleasure of it would wash away the guilt of what I’d done.
“Confess your sin, and I’ll let you come."
I could barely breathe. My thoughts were spiraling. I could barely make sense of what was happening as the dream grew fuzzy around the edges.
But I knew my sin.
Even in the most convoluted of dreams, I'd never forget Lauren Hawkins and what I'd done.
"I failed her,” I finally managed to choke out.
Mal’s brows perked. “Failed who?”
“Lauren Haw—kins. My patient. I— I prescribed her the wrong meds. Overdosed.”
Lauren Hawkins killed herself because I failed her. I got off, scot-free. I almost wish I’d gone to prison. I should have, at the very least, lost my license.
Just like that, something inside me broke. But the pain was quickly replaced with relief, as if the confession had relieved much of the pressure growing inside me since Lauren’s suicide.
Tears rolled freely down my cheeks, and my moan-laced sobs had the man's grip on me softening. As Mal's touch eased, his gaze hardened.
Still, he kept his promise.
His fingers sank inside me, curling to hit that secret spot deep within that had me seeing stars. Within seconds, intense bliss split me apart. An unholy sound clawed up my throat as my orgasm ripped through me, setting my nerves on fire.
“That’s my good fucking girl,” Mal cooed, his smoky baritone fanning my entrance as he knelt between the cradle of my thighs. “Your insides are all a flutter, squeezing me like you never want to leave.”
I’m not sure I did. He felt entirely too good inside me for this to stop. The pain, the pleasure, whatever he wanted me to feel, I craved it. Just his presence, let alone what he could do with his fingers, took the edge away more than the pills ever had.
His fingers left me—leaving me as empty as I had feared—and held them up for me to see. A string of arousal stretched between the two gloved digits as they spread. “Holy shit, Doc. Look at your juices just dripping off of me.”
Without warning, he spanked my clit. My pussy was so wet, fluid peppered the mirror, providing me a view of his assault.
My body jerked, and I sucked in a gasp. The oxygen mask still covering my mouth fogged over.
He let out an evil chuckle, reminding me that this doctor, despite his often lucid cadence, was a madman.
“Such a succulent little cunt you have.”
A sudden pain lashed across my thighs like a braided flogger. My eyes widened at the reflection of his hands in the wet mirror. Deadly claws extended from his fingers, slicing shallow red ribbons into my skin.
The veins in his neck bulged, green light dancing through them, covering the operating room in an ominous viridescence. He crouched, and as he lunged forward, I caught the flash of his teeth in the mirror.
My heart squeezed as I realized what was happening.
He was going to bite me, and I couldn’t do a damned thing about it. Paralyzed, all I could do was brace for the pain.
He lurched forward, razor-sharp teeth closing around my clit. I waited for the bite to land. Instead, darkness folded around me and everything vanished in an instant. The dream changed once again, the scenery around me materializing into something faintly familiar.
Deep dread gripped my heart once it hit me where I was.
The trailer park where I'd grown up.
I was little again, my purple backpack slung over my shoulder while I stared up at the screen door that my dad dented in one of his many drunken episodes. This was more than a bad dream. It was a memory I thought I'd made my peace with, but here it was, haunting me like it always used to.
The urge to turn and run washed over me, leaving me in a cold sweat just as it had every day I'd gotten off the school bus. Because he would be there inside, waiting for me. Every day I was at school, I had to live with the fear of coming home, wondering if this would be a good day or a bad day.
All these years later, this particular day was branded in my head. I remembered every detail, down to the color of underwear I had on.
This had been a bad day.
My little hand reached up for the door handle, and the metal door groaned as I opened it.
If I could, I'd turn around and walk away.
I never wanted to see my father again, even in my memories.
Too bad this wasn't a lucid dream. I was trapped in my small body, feeling just as powerless as I had that day.
Inside, the room was dark, with the stained curtains drawn.
The figure of my father sat in his armchair, one of the few pieces of furniture inside the single-wide trailer.
He snarled when the light from the outside shone in his eyes, and he threw up an arm to shield himself, like a vampire afraid of burning.
"Close that fuckin' door!"
Trepidation launched my little heart into a full gallop as I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. "Hi, Daddy..."
I simmered in the silence, the kind that was anything but quiet. The calm before the storm.
“Your teacher called.”
My chest tightened. Of course, the one time she called was the month my dad decided to pay the phone bill.
“She told me about your silly little career day speech. What? Didn't think of inviting your old man?"
It was called career day. Parents were supposed to come and talk about their job, and then their kid would read a speech they prepared on what they wanted to be when they grew up. I hadn't invited my parents because Mom was gone, and Dad never worked.
I bit my lip, knowing better than to say it aloud. "I didn't want to bother you, Daddy."
He barked a laugh devoid of humor. "Right, cuz I'm so damn busy here. You're a terrible liar, girl. You didn't invite me because you're ashamed of me."
"No! I—"
I flinched as he swung his arm, knocking the collection of beer cans from the TV dinner tray beside his chair. "Don't lie to me, you little shit!"
It was difficult to describe the complicated tangle of emotions knotting in my gut, even to this day. All I knew was that I never wanted to feel that way again. It was the day I decided I would grow up to be nothing like him.
Fletcher Beckett hauled himself out of his armchair with a grunt and stood over my trembling body, glaring down at me with a loathing I wondered what I'd done to earn.
"Your teacher said you gave a little speech about how you want to be a doctor. That true?"
Terrified, I nodded.
The man burst out laughing. "Only smart girls grow up to be doctors, Tuesday. Trailer trash like you should keep your aspirations realistic."
"Realistic?"
"Yeah. You're like your mom, sweetheart. Cute, but dumb. If you play your cards right, you'll meet a nice boy who will take care of you." My dad's voice softened, making the blow of his words hit that much harder. “Now, be useful and go get Daddy a beer."
By the slur of his words, I knew he'd already had enough. "But—"
“Now!"
The sound of his strike registered before the pain lancing across my face. It wasn’t the first time he’d hit me, but somehow in that moment, I knew it would be the last.
The fridge was empty, save for a twenty-four-pack of Fletcher’s favorite beer, some condiments and an old pack of pre-sliced cheese. Thankfully, I got free lunches at school and knew to fill up as much as possible, since there was never any food at home.
I grabbed a beer and reluctantly went back to the living room. Dad snatched it up the moment I placed the cold can down on the TV dinner stand. He popped the seal and chugged it like he hadn’t had a drink of water in weeks.
In fact, I was almost sure he hadn’t.
I watched the moment unfold with ice in my heart as Fletcher Beckett started to convulse. He rose from his chair, stumbled and crashed to the filthy floor, cans crunchy beneath his overweight body. Vomit and pungent liquid spewed from his mouth.
He reached for me, unable to speak as his eyes bulged and his face turned red, then purple. I knew he’d choke to death, lying on his back like that. Yet I did nothing but stand there and watch him die with a pit in my stomach.
I woke up with a violent jerk of my body, gasping, eyes snapping open to see it was 2:35 in the morning.
My attention slid to the prescription bottle on my nightstand. Instead, I reached for Seventeen’s journal like a lifeline.