4. 4
Harlow
“Dr. Easton,” I whisper, my throat too tight to speak any louder. “Uh, you must be Killian’s parents.”
He holds up his palms, an attempt to calm me. His gaze meets the badge hanging from my lanyard.
“Harlow Anderson, CNA.” He extends his hand. “It is nice to meet you.”
I shake it, and from the corner of my eye, the woman still glares, making me shrink a little.
Inside, I’m screaming: Please don’t fire me.
If I lose this job, I lose everything. Not just my job, my dream of becoming a nurse.
Their attention turns to Killian. The woman with sleek dark hair and a navy dress, barrels past me as if I don’t exist. She throws her arms around her son.
“Oh, my sweet Killian.” Then, she gasps and carefully cups his jaw, her expression mortified by the damage. “What did those heathens do to you? Are you okay?”
“Of course he’s okay,” his dad answers. “He ruined our vacation. Again.”
“He did not,” she says. “Don’t be mean to him, Clark. He’s been through a lot.”
“Please, Christine, don’t coddle him. This is the fifth time he’s pulled a stunt like this — while we’re on vacation.”
“But look at his face.”
Begrudgingly, Clark steps closer and studies the stitches across Killian’s cheek and eyebrow.
“Hm. Not... great,” he mutters to himself.
“See? Fire the surgeon. It’s not good enough!” she hisses.
At this point, Killian is in another dimension, staring at a wall as if this has bored him into a coma. Evan used to do that when I fretted about him, too.
Clark must see it because he claps his hands to get his son’s attention.
“Why are you in this unit?” he says brusquely.
“Doctor sent me here.”
“Another one to terminate,” Christine growls. “We need to get him out of here.”
Out of treatment?
I am stunned. Killian just overdosed.
Christine undoes his restraints.
Him snatching my wrist flashes, igniting a mix of fear and shame. It’s a mistake at work I already buried.
Instinctively, I step forward. “Ma’am, you can’t—”
Her glare turns lethal. “It’s my hospital and my son.”
I swallow hard.
Killian swings his legs over and sits on the edge of the bed, looking right at me with a sly little gleam in his eyes.
Jesus, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
She brushes his hair affectionately, and he leans into her touch.
Oh, yeah. He’s very good.
They must not see his tricks, so I speak up.
“Killian should stay here and finish treatment.”
“Nonsense,” Christine replies. “He’s ready to come home. Aren’t you, honey?”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Nah, I’d rather stay here.” Killian side-eyes me, causing a chill to run down my spine.
Suddenly, Clark steps between us, facing me.
He taps his fingertip against his chin. “Amuse me for a moment, Harlow. My manipulative son — by the way, that was a perfect description of him — met you in the ICU, then requested you sit with him tonight. Did I hear that correctly?”
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
He chuckles low, then glances at his wife.
“That’s why he’s really here. Now this makes sense.” He moves closer to Killian, practically shoving Christine out of the way.
“You know I don’t want you here. Everyone will think you are worse than you are. Is that what you want? To embarrass your mother?”
That does something to Killian, and he scowls.
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll check myself out of this fuckin’ place tonight so people don’t think you have a burnout son.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll be the fuck-up you know I am,” Killian answers harshly.
“God, no.” Christine’s voice breaks, but her posture stays perfect. “I want him home.”
If I didn’t know addicts so well, I’d almost feel sorry for Killian.
Almost.
Instead, old instincts drag my sympathy toward his parents.
“He has to want to change. It’s best to cut him out of your life.”
The words leave my mouth and land like a bomb. Instantly, I regret it.
“Never,” Christine says. “Besides, my son is not an addict. Bad people influence him. Killian likes everyone. He needs to be more discerning when choosing friends.”
I cup my elbows, realizing how far I overstepped.
“I just mean... I’m sorry. I don’t know your son well.” I look at Killian. “Maybe he isn’t an addict.”
The lie sickens me. Killian is a raging addict. But these people could ruin my life. I hold my breath, praying.
“Yes,” she finally answers. “Trouble finds my son.”
A loud groan fills the room.
“Can we stop talking like I am not here?” Killian sulks.
That is so something Evan would say — like he’s the victim. It boils my blood and I roll my eyes.
“Oh, please, Killian. I bet you like the attention.”
My palm slams over my mouth, shocked that I just said that.
“Sorry!” I say, the word muffled under my hand.
His dad points at me, wagging his finger, but he says nothing. Then he takes Christine to the edge of the room and speaks privately with her.
I glance at Killian. He stares at me with a slight smirk.
“This is fun.”
I scoff. “No, it isn’t. I’m about to lose my job.”
“You won’t,” he says so low I almost don’t hear it.
“Harlow,” says Clark, who suddenly moves in front of me. “How would you like a promotion?”
“Huh?”
“My son has an honesty problem. A discretion problem. A habit of humiliating his family. It’s time we try a less conventional approach. My son needs a babysitter. You.”
“Oh, no!” I step back several paces. “I can’t. I am in nursing school. I work nights—”
“Perfect. That’s when Killian gets into trouble.”
Killian perks up, and slowly, his smile grows — sinister.
“Hey, this is a great idea. I need supervision.”
“Oh God,” I mumble, but focus on Clark. “I cannot prevent your son from using drugs. Trust me.”
“I’m not asking you to prevent it. I’m asking you to warn me before it happens. You inferred we’re fools who don’t see his lies, but you aren’t. I’ll increase your pay.”
Increase my pay.
I blink.
The mobile home closing costs are already eating through the rest of my savings. My car needs repairs. Tuition is due again. One bad month and everything I clawed together falls apart.
But working with an addict may kill me.
Clark rests his hand on my shoulder. “Whatever you need to make the job bearable, I will provide. I’ll always be a phone call away.”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
I rub the back of my neck, unsure of how to get out of this.
“If it doesn’t work out,” Clark says, “you can have your old job back.”
“I can?”
“Yes. And you would be doing me a great favor. Killian hasn’t been home for months. His mother is right. His friends are lowlifes.”
I fidget, feeling like I have no escape.
Killian nods. “Yeah, I’ll come home then — if Harlow agrees.”
I swear this man knows how to push my buttons. Worse, everyone is ignoring the elephant in the room.
“To be clear, if I were to do this, Killian needs to understand nothing will happen between us. I won’t agree otherwise.”
Clark blinks, apparently baffled. “I thought that was obvious. You are a healthcare professional. He’s your patient.”
I add hastily, “I know that, but he’s obviously... interested.” My voice is small on that last word.
“I’m not that fucking bad,” Killian says coldly. “Who says I want trailer trash like you, anyway?”
Trailer trash.
The insult lands on every dollar I saved and every form I signed. For one humiliating second, the home I was proud of this morning feels like nothing.
“Honey! Don’t speak like that,” Christine scolds.
She eyes me for a moment, then fawns over her baby boy, kissing the top of his head.
“You’re not bad, honey. She wants what’s best for you.”
Oh great. Now she’s putting words in my mouth.
Just then, I freeze as an epiphany hits: What if he really has to stay sober?
He won’t do that.
They never do that.
I don’t have to save him. I just have to outlast him.
Plus, this is not Evan. I will not love him, lend him money, cover for him, or let him into my life. I will clock in, collect a check, and leave when he fails.
A smile grows on my lips and slowly, I nod.
“I’ll do it if Killian stays sober.”
Clark’s brow lifts. “That’s the whole point. If he’s home safe, people can’t force him to do drugs.”
Force him. I try not to scoff.
At least the big boss thinks I am a team player, and I won’t have to do anything.
Killian will relapse, and I’ll look like I tried my best.
“Now that we have a deal,” Clark announces, “let’s get him home. I’ll get his doctor to sign the paperwork.”
He leaves the room, and Christine fusses over Killian while I retreat to my book. After a while, she leaves to find Clark, and goosebumps rise on my arms.
I’m alone with him.
Killian is staring at me.
“What? Are you planning to grab me again?” I ask.
“You’re safe with me. I won’t touch you, unless you beg.”
“I hope you’re being funny.”
“I’m not manipulative,” he deflects coolly.
“Sure you aren’t.”
“And I’m funny because I was born that way. And I’m not a narcissist. I just like your company.”
“Why?”
“You see me. Nobody sees me anymore.”
I stare for a moment, not quite understanding. Being alone with him is unnerving, especially in a place like this.
I gather my things and stand by the door, ready to leave the second Christine returns.
“Harlow.”
I turn around.
Predatory and slow, he rises from the bed and stalks my way.
For the first time, I face him standing.
My neck cranes back. Since I’m so short, standing this close makes the difference feel obscene.
His deep brown eyes pierce mine before wandering over my face.
I tense, but don’t step back. He’s intimidating, to say the least, and the space between us is charged, like one more inch could burn my skin.
He’s too close.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
I don’t delay.
“Yes.”
He barely smirks. “You’re lying. We have so much in common.”
I balk and step back. He’s right, but I am not about to tell him I’m single.
“I’m not lying.”
“You are. If you lie to me again, I’ll have to discipline you for being a bad employee.”
My eyes blow wide, and my chest tightens.
“You don’t scare me. Remember? I see you.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“Good, because my parents want to believe I haven’t stolen from them, haven’t smoked a drug, and haven’t fucked a woman till she drooled. I really want someone to see me.”
He smiles once more and leans down, his lips near my ear. I don’t move. I can’t. That’s when they know they can control you.
“Are you scared yet? Because I already added ‘fucking my dad’s lowly CNA’ to that list.”
I gasp softly and stumble backward, then rush for the door.
“Bye-bye, Harlow,” he calls, his voice calm. “Oh. Need some cash for new shoes? I’d hate for you to dirty our carpet.”
My gaze drops to my sneakers. The toes are badly scuffed, and the yellowed soles worn thin.
Jerk.
I leave, refusing to look back.