“Anti-psychotics.”
I stand up. I’m halfway to the door before Newan realizes she’s fucked up. “I don’t mean you’re a psychopath, Zeth. I just mean that anti-psychotics have shown to help significantly when—”
“Shut the fuck up.” I spin around, focusing the full force of my anger on her. “I’m not taking any fucking pills, Newan. Nothing. Not sleeping pills. Not anti-fucking-psychotics. Nothing.”
“Okay.” She holds up her hands—the Taser is once more firmly gripped in her right fist. “Forget the medication. I’ll still help you.”
“And why the hell would you do that?” I growl.
She looks miserable as she lowers her hands. “Because…despite what you may think, I love my friend, Zeth. And I know I’ve screwed up, but all I’ve ever wanted for her is for her to be safe. If I help you, if I make sure you’re healthy and handling your baggage, then I know there’s no way in hell you’ll ever hurt her.”
I feel like puking onto her polished fucking tiles. Like no other, this woman has the ability to make me feel like a pile of shit. “Okay, fine. I’ll come to you, Newan. But I swear to god, if you try to pull anything with the cops—”
“I won’t. I promise. But you have to try.” I glower at her, fighting the urge to ask what the fuck she thinks I’m doing right now. “Just being here isn’t going to cut it, Zeth,” she says, as though reading my mind. “You can’t keep calling me Newan. You use my surname against me as a weapon—something you did to other inmates when you were in prison? You saw them as your enemies. People to keep at arm’s length. You do the same thing to me. If you see me as your enemy, we’ll never be able to work together to get you where you so clearly want to be.”
A part of me wants to run right now. I want to walk out of that door, slam it and never fucking look back. I can’t envision what she’s talking about—us working together to fix me. A team. But then I remember the pressure of Sloane’s head against my chest, the solid, reassuring weight, and I know I’ll do whatever it takes. I want to give her what she wants. Sex is all well and good, but I know her. She craves a level of intimacy from me that I’m terrified to give her right now, because the consequences are just too dire. And more than that, I never thought I’d see the day, but I want that level of intimacy, too.
“All right. I’ll try.”
“Good. I’m glad. I really am. But…you know this is going to be hard, right?”
I open the door, pausing in the doorway. “So far nothing in my life has been easy, Pippa. I’d be really fucking surprised if the universe decided to give me a break now.”
I wake up to the smell of eggs. The other side of the bed I find myself in is woefully empty. My heart sinks a little, which is stupid, I know, but sometimes a girl likes to be surprised. In a good way, and not by the barrel of a gun or something equally as horrific. As I’m thinking this, a small yelp breaks the silence of the room and my heart jumps into my throat. I sit upright to find a pair of warm brown eyes staring back at me. Ernie the Schnauzer, stretched out across my feet at the end of the bed. He makes a disgruntled sound—oww!—as he licks his chops, clearly unhappy at being disturbed by my waking, and then rests his head on his paws.
“Oh. You,” I tell him. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, his long grey whiskers twitching as he gives me a quiet uffff, which I’m assuming is only half a woof. He continues to grumble as I jimmy my feet out from underneath him and clamber out of bed. My body is sore in a way that makes me smile secretly to myself. Zeth-sore. I’m a fan of being Zeth-sore.
I didn’t see much of the apartment last night. I peek my nose into rooms as I make my way toward the smell of cooking eggs—one, two, three bedrooms, what looks like an office, which seems a little weird, and what I can only describe as a wet room. A miniature pool sits in the center of the last room on the right-hand side before I reach the kitchen, perhaps only ten-foot square, but I can tell by the dark aqua hue to the water that the thing is deep.
“Good morning,” a voice says behind me. Michael. I spin around and there he is in an exquisite black suit, complete with black shirt and black tie.
“Good morning,” I reply. “Why do you look like you’re going to a funeral?”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Because we are going to a funeral. Zeth didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“The Duchess.” Michael gives me a sage nod. “Charlie posted an obituary in The Seattle Times. He’ll be there, which means—”
“Lacey probably will, too.”