Chapter 2 #2
I scoff. It’s perfectly understandable for a child whose brain isn’t fully developed yet to misinterpret casual fascination for a “crush.” I don’t have a crush on Holly.
I’m an adult, for fuck’s sake. What I feel for her goes far beyond a fucking crush.
I’m intrigued by her. Like how a moth is drawn to a flame.
Destructive curiosity. I’m fascinated by the way she moves, the way she talks, the way she kills.
There’s just something about her. We’re like two sides of the same coin, Holly and I.
Different, but not really. It’s like staring into a mirror.
All her fucked-up parts reflect my own. I don’t want to change her.
I want to become whatever I have to just to be near her.
She’s complex, cold, and lethal. She’s a puzzle I yearn to solve.
My fingers unconsciously trace the embroidered initials hidden beneath the pocket of my lab coat, right over where my heart beats.
I want to understand her. I want to give her whatever she wants before she can even think about wanting it.
A “crush” sounds like something so soft and vulnerable.
Pathetic. Holly Moore is anything but. She is everything I adore. She is everything, period.
“I think you should tell her,” says Kennedy.
“That I have the most annoying patient in this hospital?”
“That you like her, you fool. Who knows? Maybe she likes you back.”
“That’s adorable, but Holly hates me.” Fuck if I know why.
I’m a hoot to be around. But at least hate is better than indifference.
Possessing the ability to take a life takes a particular type of person: cold and calculating, unfeeling.
And yet, although Holly should be unfeeling, she hates me. She feels something for me.
“How do you know?” Kennedy asks. “Is she mean to you?”
“All the time. It’s part of her charm.”
“Maybe she’s mean to you because she secretly likes you too. At least that’s what my mom says about the boys in my grade.”
Befriending a thirteen-year-old girl is starting to turn me into one too.
Because why else would my stomach do a summersault at those words.
Is that why Holly is so mean to me? Does she secretly like me too?
No. No, of course, not! Holly only likes two things — saving lives and taking them.
Holly does not like me. She hates me. There are times when I don’t even have to utter a word to piss her off.
My mere existence is a catalyst enough. It’s been that way ever since we started working together, but sometimes, I do wonder…
The woman has killed fourteen men so far.
Fourteen strangers. She has stabbed them, slit their throats, slit their wrists.
But all these killings, she’s done them in cold blood and as far as I know, without any good reason.
I’ve annoyed her for three years straight and she hasn’t done a thing to hurt me.
Not even a tiny paper cut. She could and I would let her, but that’s beside the point.
If she really “hated” me, she would’ve put me in a body bag long ago.
I stand up and readjust the stethoscope around my neck. “You should put that idea in her head. Talk me up a little.”
Kennedy snorts. “I would, if I knew what she looked like.”
“I’ve told you multiple times.”
“No offense, but ‘the prettiest girl on planet Earth’ is not enough information. Give me something more. What’s her hair like? Does she have big eyes? How tall is she?”
“Purple hair, buttons for eyes and about as tall as my thumb.” The last one’s kinda true.
Kennedy rolls her eyes and sinks back into her pillow. “Ugh, just go.”
“Later, kiddo. I’ll ask one of the nurses to bring you that ice cream you absolutely don’t deserve.”
She smiles and flips me off.
I grab her charts and head out the door, making my way to the doctor’s lounge for a cup of tea. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, half expecting another message from Parker, but instead it’s a notification from the spyware software I installed on Holly’s phone a year ago. A text message.
UNKNOWN: Roses are red, violets are blue, aren’t you glad I found you…
My feet come to a slow halt. What the fuck? I tap on the contact card eager to look up the number, only to find that there is no number. It just says ‘UNKNOWN.’
This is odd.
I check the time. It's nearly half-eleven. Who the hell is messaging Holly this late at night — my phone buzzes with an another text.
Although, this one’s for me.
Emily: !!!!!
Theo: ?
Emily: I made it to the finals!
Theo: Isn’t it 3 AM there?
Emily: I figured you’d be busy. Didn’t want to bother you before.
Theo: How considerate.
Emily: I MADE IT TO FOOTBALL FINALS!!
Theo: A major accomplishment. Try not to get kicked in the face, yeah?
Emily: Don’t be a jerk. But thanks for the support... kind of
Theo: I'm just trying to keep you grounded. Remember, if you lose, it's not your fault. It's the referees’.
Emily: Very funny.
Theo: Always.
Emily: Are we still on for our call tomorrow? After school? Half-past three?
Theo: Absolutely.
Emily: Okay. Gonna go to bed now.
Theo: Hey, Em? I’m proud of you.
I see the grey typing dots flicker in and out for about ten seconds before a new message pops up.
Emily: I miss you.
I stare at the words for a second too long, then type out a response.
Theo: Miss you too. Go to bed. Talk tomorrow.
I don’t wait for a response. Instead, I slide my phone back inside my pocket and keep walking towards the doctor’s lounge, determined to ignore the heaviness in my chest out of existence.
Which doesn’t take very long. Because fifteen seconds later, I reach the entrance of the lounge and just I’m about to step inside, my feet come to a standstill.
Because there she is. My peace and solace.
Sitting on a couch with her back towards me.
Holly Moore.
Her short blonde waves frame the graceful curve of her neck.
She has a pink, fuzzy blanket wrapped over her thighs, its edges barely grazing the floor.
She lifts her hand. Takes a sip of her coffee, her slim, long fingers gripping the mug tighter than needed.
A dark cloud hovers over her, I can sense it.
Tension emanates from her tight shoulders.
The harsh light paints a warm glow on her pale blue scrubs.
She moves. It’s a subtle shift of her head, a flicker of awareness in her posture, almost imperceptible, yet it sends a jolt through me like she just touched some live part of me.
She gulps the remainder of her coffee and gets up to wrap the pink blanket over the armrest of the sofa, grabbing her bag and puts on her coat — a deep shade of purple. My favorite.
My knuckles rap against the door.
She spins around.
Our eyes lock and for a heartbeat, the world seems to tilt on its axis. “Dr. Moore,” I say, trying my best to sound like a normal human being. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Holly frowns. A knot etched between her perfectly arched brows. “You weren’t expecting to see a doctor in the doctor’s lounge?”
I smile and enter the room. “How’d the surgery go? Word on the street is you lost a patient tonight?”
The words slip out before I can think twice. It’s a cheap shot — based on nothing, but my constant need to get a rise out of her. But it doesn’t take long for me to realize I’ve hit a nerve. Holly stands still, her shoulders tightening ever so slightly, her jaw setting.
She did lose a patient.
A twisted sense of satisfaction washes over me.
“That bad huh?” I go on. “It’s all right, Hollister. Losing a patient isn’t that big of a deal. Every surgeon goes through it. Not me, obviously. But it’d be unfair to ask you to aim for an unattainable standard.”
I pour myself a cup of coffee and bring the mug to my lips, sipping the hot liquid with exaggerated deliberation, watching the way her jaw tightens in response to that nickname.
“Don’t call me that,” she says. Her words are clipped and cold, and the disapproval in her voice makes my blood a little hot.
“A surgeon?”
She throws me a heated glare, saying nothing.
My smile stretches wider, its edges threatening to pierce my cheeks.
Angry Holly. My eyes travel down her face, tracing the contours of her cheeks and the taut line of her clenched jaw.
They linger on her neck for about three seconds, on a spot just below her ear where the tendrils of her hair curl on the nape of her neck, before descending down the rest of her body over her scrubs.
“So tell me, Dr. Moore. How does it feel killing someone?”
Her expression hardens instantly. “Excuse me?”
“Your patient. How did it feel killing someone?”
“Devastating. Want me to show you?”
“Ouch, love. You wound me.”
She stares at me, the intensity in her gaze almost physical. Her lips press into a thin, furious line, and her hands curl into fists at her sides. I can practically see her weighing the consequences of launching herself at me right here, in the middle of the ward. And oh, how I love it.
Holly Moore. Always so tightly wound. So precise and utterly untouchable.
Except for when I needle her like this — when I manage to find the cracks in her armour — it’s like watching ice fracture under pressure.
I fucking live for it. I love riling her up, pushing her to the edge just to see how far I can go before she finally starts pushing back.
I wonder what she’d look like once she finally gives in. Once she finally stops trying so hard to stay above it all and just shoves me right back.
“No, but I’m tempted,” she snaps and reaches for her phone, a flicker of something else crossing her expression for a fleeting moment before she shoves it back into her pocket.
Then, with a determined glint in her eye, she pushes past me, the brief touch sending a jolt of electricity coursing through my veins. I step forward and block her path.
She exhales in annoyance and glances up.