3. 3
Harlow
“Okay, this is happening. I will cum.”
I press the rose-shaped toy against my clit. The shower water slicks my skin, and the toy makes gentle suction noises, doing what the box promised.
“Oh, yes,” I breathe.
Okay, think of Jaxson. He’s so hot. Yes.
Jaxson. The way his sleeves pulled tight around his biceps when he leaned over my notes.
That smile he gave before whispering close while the instructor droned on.
I look down at my hips, imagining his mouth sucking my clit instead of the toy. Oh, God. Yes! I’m almost there.
My knees start to give, the euphoria builds, warming my skin. I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna—
I wait for the final wave to break. The suction keeps pulsing.
Evan flashes.
Pleasure drops.
Jaxson.
Pleasure fades.
A tattooed hand glides below my navel. Between my legs. A forearm painted with creepy faces, like the puppet from Saw or Michael Meyers in Halloween, flexes as his hand curls to push inside of me.
Oh, hell no!
Killian.
My eyelids spring open.
“Damn it,” I cry.
My orgasm vanishes, fleeing like a frightened rabbit slipping into its burrow, never to be seen again.
I drop the plastic rose like it’s junk. It has been two years since I’ve orgasmed.
At this point, it isn’t just a bad breakup — it’s permanent damage.
Even fantasizing about my biggest crush won’t get me there.
Jaxson, one of only three guys in the nursing program, sat next to me today.
He leaned on me playfully. He smiled at me as if he wanted more.
Save me, Lord, because that man is fire.
And I’m dead below the waist.
Worse, now I’m late for nothing.
I finish showering and rush out of the door, frustrated and frankly, sad.
The hospital looms like a fortress in the night.
“Happy Easter. Back to the grind,” I say, glad I’ll be making time-and-half for working on a holiday.
I place the car in park, then glance around.
Good. Nobody is looking this way.
I crabwalk over the console to the passenger seat.
It’s embarrassing, but the driver’s door doesn’t open.
I’d love a new car. It’s on my vision board.
Until then, this is my crummy ride. My face burns as someone walks by.
Oh, well. At least it didn’t break down at a stoplight and leave me stuck in the middle of a busy street — like last week. That was beyond embarrassing.
Soon, I check in with the charge nurse.
“Good evening. Which beds are mine tonight?”
She shakes her head.
“Nope. You’ve been reassigned to the behavioral health unit.” She squints at the computer screen. “You’ll be sitting.”
I groan loudly. “One-to-one? Down there?”
I can’t believe I’ll be in the basement for twelve hours. The behavioral health unit is not fun. Patients can be erratic, violent, and mean. I never feel safe down there.
“Sorry,” she says dismissively. “Sign this.”
She hands me an NDA — a promise to be discreet about the patient’s identity, more so than usual. We have to sign them for high-profile patients.
“Please tell me it’s a celebrity.”
She chuckles. “The guy thinks he’s a celebrity. It’s the owner’s son.”
“Killian,” I mumble and sigh, exasperated. “I already signed one for him.”
He’s just another difficult patient. Nothing special that I haven’t dealt with before.
The problem is, he’s an addict. I know I’m making assumptions, but after my ex, I can sense manipulation before it opens its sinful mouth.
And despite his fresh scars, he is still far too handsome for any woman to be near safely.
Maybe I should’ve kept thinking about him in the shower...
No!
I can’t forget who he is. Besides, I’m not the only CNA in this hospital. He must’ve requested me. He was strapped to a bed, and somehow, he managed to put me exactly where he wants me.
The basement air is colder, stale, and too quiet between outbursts. I find the rich boy’s room. He was supposed to be discharged days ago. According to his chart, threatening other patients bought him a psychiatric evaluation instead.
Killian lies in bed, looking relaxed and watching television. Once again, he’s strapped to the bed rails like the animal he seems determined to be.
“Knock, knock,” I say. “How are you, Mr. Easton?”
His eyes light up, and he straightens.
“My lowly CNA.”
“No.” I hold up my index finger. “None of that. We will not be joking around tonight.”
He obviously got the wrong impression last time. That ends today. The outgoing sitter wishes me luck, then I take her place.
“Why are you in restraints again, Killian?”
“I’m suicidal,” he lies, then plasters on a sad expression. “Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
“Hardly,” I answer and sit under the only light, which is currently dimmed. “Seems like you’re feeling better. At least that sense of humor is in full force.”
“I told you. Day five.”
I purse my lips to hold back a smile.
“Your speech is improving, too,” I say, though I can tell it’s hard for him to speak. He’s quicker, but still careful when he enunciates.
I plan to finish my book tonight since this is all a stunt. I open it.
Immediately, he speaks.
“You look pretty.”
I let the compliment in too fast, and it lands just right, making me flush. I say nothing, though.
“How’s nursing school?”
Coolly, I respond, “It’s fine. I had homework over the weekend and classes today.”
I don’t add: Jaxson flirted with me finally, yet I failed to orgasm for the millionth time.
Instead, I start reading.
“Where do you live?”
I snort. “I’m not telling a patient where I live.”
“I can find out,” he says, his tone lower, losing any trace of humor.
Instinctively, cold slips down my spine.
There he is. Not the wounded man in a hospital bed. A calculating addict who thinks boundaries are optional.
“An apartment, then,” he says dismissively.
“A house,” I correct before I can stop myself.
“Where?”
Dang, he’s persistent.
“I just bought a house. I’m finally done with apartment life. Thank God.”
“A house,” he echoes. “My dad must pay CNAs better than I thought.”
Now, I glance up. “Uh, no. It’s a government loan program for first-time home buyers, so I only had to put a little down.”
He stares intently. He looks better than before. The dark circles under his eyes have faded. His jaw is less swollen. He wears regular clothes and his dark hair is neater.
“It’s not really a house, either. It’s a mobile home on a small lot.”
“A trailer.”
“No,” I say firmly.
I won’t let him reduce this milestone to something less than it is. There is nothing wrong with living in a trailer, but I saved for something permanent. Something with land beneath it and my name on a deed.
“It is a park model. It doesn’t have wheels.”
Silence.
Good.
After a tense beat, I tear my eyes off his, which are dark and a little too hypnotic for my liking. I resume my efforts to read.
“Congratulations,” he says.
“Thanks. I’m the first in my family to own a place. When I become a nurse, I’ll be the first to graduate from college, too.” I say, feeling a bit proud of myself, but remember we need boundaries. “Anyway, I’m going to read my book. Okay?”
“How old are you?”
I wince.
You don’t like this, Harlow. Don’t let his games fool you.
“Do you want sleep meds?” I offer. “I can speak with the nurse.”
His eyes narrow.
“How old are you?” he repeats.
“Twenty-two.”
“Same as me.”
“Nice try. I read your chart. You’re twenty-four.” I smile, pleased I caught his lie. “We have nothing in common.”
More silence.
I glance over.
Another unsettling death stare. He wants me to see him displeased. Something tells me he isn’t used to being ignored.
“Is this how you treat all your patients?”
I shrug. “Only patients who make threats for pills and have me dragged off my floor.”
I keep my eyes down and re-read the first sentence.
“Why do you hate addicts? I’m not your ex-boyfriend.”
Okay, mentioning my ex is a step too far.
Way too far.
I set down my book and stride to his bedside.
“You want to know why I don’t like drug users? Because I see you, Killian. I see all the ugliness, and it has nothing to do with your new scars.”
He smirks, unaffected.
To me, that’s just proof that the only serious thing to him is his next fix.
“I see how manipulative you are. I see how you pulled strings to get me here.”
He smiles, just barely. His smugness only gnaws at me more.
I grip the guardrail so he can’t see my fingers tremble. I lean closer. He doesn’t flinch, challenging me. I almost back down, but I feel it again — that painful knot from the two years I spent trying to help Evan while he took everything from me. I won’t let Killian push me around, too.
“I see how you use humor to draw people in, so you can use them. Like me for your entertainment.”
He isn’t smiling now.
But the coldness that replaces his smirk feels worse. Darker.
“Harlow, I wanted you here, and you’ll learn, I get what I want.”
“Not with me.”
“Yes, with you—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt, determined to put an end to this for good. I need to make it clear that I am an employee and not a girl he can conquer. “I am not interested in being your friend, your entertainment, or anything else.”
“Is that so?” he says, his eyes searching my face for any trace of weakness. “We had a connection.”
“A connection? So you thought you would smooth-talk me? Probably thought it would be easy because you’re rich and used to getting girls. Well, guess what? Not this girl.”
Unfortunately, he gestures for me to continue, clearly unimpressed.
I force a laugh, hoping it sounds cruel instead of weak.
You can do this, Harlow.
“You’ve probably fooled everyone in your life, but it’s impossible to fool me.”
He doesn’t bite back.
Yet, it brings me no joy.
For some reason, this isn’t as cathartic as I hoped. I’m the bad guy. Especially since he isn’t fighting. He’s studying me, thinking — which is probably worse.
I lift my chin anyway, forcing a victorious pose.
“I am going to read my book, and I want you to leave me alone. Thank you.”
He moves to speak, but I spin on my heel before he can.
Oh, no.
A man and woman, probably in their fifties, stand by the doorway, watching. The man, dressed in a fancy suit, walks in first. He wears an amused grin.
“Fantastic,” he says, eyeing me. “It isn’t every day someone tells my son what he needs to hear.”
The woman steps beside him and looks down at me like I’m a bug she wants to squish.
“Personally, I found her conduct deeply unprofessional.”
My heart leaps into my throat.