Mack (King #4) (3 page)

I leaned forward, planting my hands on my knees, catching my breath.
Super. I’m having a nervous breakdown on my first week of work
. That was the only explanation for what I’d just seen.

But
what
had I seen?

Oh, God. Those eyes
. They were a vivid blue, like something straight from a Monet. And his face was so…

Crap.
I couldn’t recall what he looked like. I only remembered what he felt like: Rage. Pain. Hate. Thirst. Danger. I felt them all, right down to the marrow of my quaking bones.

I blew out a breath and put myself upright, my head spinning with a potent elixir of sensations and emotions. Yes. Emotions. Goddamned emotions!

There was a light knock at my door, and I quickly smoothed down my bob and brushed my hand over my puckering white blouse to flatten it.

“Yes?” I said calmly, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.

Shannon’s blonde head peeked through the door. “Dr. Valentine, sorry to disturb you, but I have those reports.”

All I could see was her passive-aggressive smile. And this time, I felt irritated by it.

Holy shit. I care?

“Sorry?” I had no clue whatthehell she was talking about. All I could see were those eyes.
So blue. So…beautiful.

“The reports,” she clarified. “The ones you wanted before I left for the weekend.”

Oh. Those.
“Thank you, Shannon.”

“Are you all right?” she asked, handing me a folder. “Your face is red.”

I touched my cheek. I was, in fact, flushed, and I was pretty damned sure that tickle in the small of my back was nervous beads of sweat.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just a little overworked this week. That’s all.”

“Well, I think you did great—you catch on quickly. Especially for someone so young.”

I wasn’t certain if she meant it. She may have simply been probing for my age.

“Thank you.” I gave her a polite nod and went to pack my things for the day, feigning calmness. Home would be a more suitable place to digest the event. Whoever that man was, something about him was…wrong. So very, very wrong.

No. That makes no sense. Don’t project this onto him.
Logic would say that the event was in my head—triggered by something external, something indirectly related to him. For all I knew, an ordinary apple could’ve evoked the same response. An apple or a breeze or something random that my mind inadvertently connected with.

But deep inside my gut, this didn’t feel random at all. And neither did my instant obsession with Mr. Room Twenty-Five.

~~~

That evening I took Bentley for a long powerwalk on the beach, ignoring the fact it was mid-February and unusually cold outside. Normally, I wouldn’t risk lowering my body temperature and getting sick. And normally, I would’ve gotten irritated with the way Bentley stared, as if to say, “Hey, lady, you suck at being a dog owner,” but tonight my mind was filled with other worries. At least, that was what I guessed the knot in my stomach and heaviness in my heart meant.

What happened to me today?
I thought while stretching on my wood-framed balcony overlooking a not-so-pacific view of the Pacific, the roaring waves rippling with moonlight.
My brain feels like that ocean
. Rolling and thundering with an invisible, unstoppable force all its own. A door had been kicked open inside me.
But why would flipping on the lights and locking eyes with that man do this?

Once again, an image of those vivid cobalt blue orbs played in my head, but I still couldn’t remember his face.

Whatever this was, I wouldn’t be solving it tonight. Perhaps in the morning I might resort to calling my father. He was a retired psychologist, now living in Scottsdale, Arizona, with my mother to pursue a life of cactus gardening, golf, and sunshine.

No. You don’t require help. You’re still Ted Valentine. You’re in control. Capable. You can deal with this.

Of course, those were all just empty words because I had zero explanation for what was happening.

Thinking that a well-rested mind might help, I went to bed early. That night I dreamed of running down a steep dirt hill, the sun burning my back while I was chased by a man with a gleaming silver sword, his face covered in blood. When I was unable to run any further, I looked down at my muddy burlap dress. I was already bleeding from a deep wound. I then looked up at the approaching man, and all I could see were two stunning blue eyes framed by a face covered in deep crimson.

Then it all faded away.

~~~

The next morning I craved sausage. Sausage and eggs and cheese. I felt ravenous—like a person who hadn’t eaten in weeks.

I shuffled through my freezer, wondering why all of my food was so healthy and bland. Frozen chicken, peas, and some plain spaghetti Lean Cuisines. Inside my refrigerator were bags of prepared salad, bottled water, turkey, and bread. No mayo, dressings, hot sauces, or anything fatty or spicy.

“Who
is
this person?” I said under my breath, running my hands over the top of my head and catching a glimpse of Bentley sitting there staring at me judgmentally.

“For fuck’s sake! What are you looking at? Haven’t you ever seen a person go crazy?”

He continued staring as if to say, “No. You’re my first, you crazy bitch.”

“Yeah, well…fuck you back, Bentley!”

He practically rolled his eyes at me and headed for the little grassy side yard through his doggy door, seeking better company outside. Tree. Squirrel. Hermit crab. Whatever.

I went back into my depressingly sterile-looking bedroom—white comforter, white armchair, reading lamp, a white dresser, and a clock—slipped on my jeans and a tee and grabbed my car keys, heading straight for the drive-thru. I purchased two breakfast croissanwiches and a mocha with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup. I inhaled everything, noticing how each bite of the salty fat tasted like an orgasm in my mouth, born from some dark delicious world and better than any sex. Yes, I’d had sex. And I’d had orgasms, too. They were pleasant when I was lucky enough to achieve one, but I’d never understood why so many people obsessed over getting off. I much preferred a good jog or a hot bath. Those were beneficial to my health. But this morning, my taste buds felt like they were connected to every part of my body. I’d even caught myself moaning at a stoplight while I chewed a piece of gooey melted cheese.

Crap. What’s happening to me?
The cheese wasn’t even real.

I found myself heading for the center, desperately needing to see Mr. Room Twenty-Five one more time.

~~~

My black BMW came to a screeching halt in my parking space. I turned off the engine, jumped out, and rushed inside, doing a crazy-speed walk toward the residents’ wing. Somewhere inside the mental chaos, I heard the weekend staff greeting me as I walked the long corridor, but I could only focus on one thing: him.

When I got to his door and stared at the small rectangular window absent of light, a cold shiver swept through my body.

Ohmygod.
I couldn’t believe it, but I felt genuinely frightened.

Doesn’t matter. I need to see him.
I twisted the handle and pushed. My breath immediately caught as I spotted my mystery man sitting in the corner, facing the doorway as if expecting me.

“Hello,” I said, my voice full of pathetic and unfamiliar quivers. “Do you remember me from yesterday?”

He didn’t reply, nor did that seductively muscular silhouette flinch an inch.

“I’m going to assu-u-umme that you do,” I stuttered, pushing a lock of my hair behind my ear. “This will sound crazy—and the fact that a psychologist is saying that is humorous, I get that—but I need to know who you are.”

“Why?” he said in a jarringly deep voice that filled the room.

I stepped back but stopped myself from running out the door as I had yesterday. Instead, I focused on his question. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to share with someone what had happened to me. And somewhere in the back of my discombobulated head, I believed him to be the only person on the planet who might comprehend. Nevertheless, telling a patient that they’ve triggered a possible psychotic break in their doctor wasn’t wise. (A) It would not instill confidence. (B) It might make them feel guilt over something they truly weren’t responsible for. (C) They were not here to help me; it was the other way around.

I straightened my back. “Well, I ru-run this facility, and it’s my job to know who we’re treating. I have to ensure you’re getting the right help.” I balled my hands into tight fists, hoping he wouldn’t notice them shaking.

A long moment passed, and I watched the shadows of his menacingly thick arms rise up as he laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the chair.

I was getting the impression that this man wasn’t sick and that something else was going on.

Either way, he hadn’t answered my question. Either way, I needed to know. Either way, it felt like my life depended on the answer.

“Who the
hell
are you?” I asked again, my voice filled with false bravado.

A stiff-drink-worthy moment passed, and I felt his blue, blue eyes burning into me, though I couldn’t see them.

“My name is Mack.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Mack. His name was Mack. But the way he’d said it, it could’ve been Satan or Dark Angel or the name of some mythological creature born from temptation where one’s sinful fantasies were fulfilled.

“Mack,” I repeated, drinking it in.

“Yes. And you should leave here before it’s too late.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” I asked, trying my best to sound serious versus condescending and skeptical. These new emotions were like crazy little fuckers shooting off firecrackers in my head.

“You might die.”

Okay. Not encouraging.
“Meaning, you intend to kill me?” I tried moving toward the emergency call-button to the side of the door—every room had one—but the novel sensation of a hot messy panic had my feet stuck to the floor.

Another long, tense moment passed, and I felt genuinely torn between jumping right into treating this disturbed man and helping myself. Of course, I wasn’t sure how to do either. Not enough information. And then there were all of the things going on inside my body. Every frantic heartbeat, every shallow breath made me feel alive for the first time. The only way to describe it was like that scene in the
Wizard of Oz
. Black and white shifting to Technicolor. So even if I wanted to walk away, I couldn’t. The brilliant colors were what had always been missing from my life.

“I would never harm you. Intentionally, anyway. But the threat I refer to is my curse,” he said, with a bleak seriousness that had me believing him for one sad mental-moment. However, this man was delusional. Plain and simple.

“So this curse will cause you to kill me,” I concluded.

“Let’s just say that it makes me a hazard.”

“So then why are you here?” I asked, probing for any possible insights into his mind. “Why not just run off and live in the mountains so you don’t risk hurting anyone?”

“Because I’ve come here to die,” he stated coldly.

All right.
I had not been expecting that answer. Of course, logic would say there were a million other places to die.

My conclusion?

The man knew he was not well and wanted to live. He wanted help. There was simply no other reason for him to be here.

As for me, the effect this man had—unlocking some corner of my mind that allowed me to feel intense emotion—had no explanation. But I needed to separate the two. Whatever was going on with me didn’t concern him.

“Then I would like to help you break this curse, Mack,” I said to placate him. “I would like to help you live.”

“I cannot be helped.”

“I know you might feel that way, but I’m the only one truly qualified to make that determination.”

He laughed. “You should leave now. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I know you’ve come here because—”

“Make no mistake, Dr. Valentine, I am here to die. In peace. And hopefully soon before they find me.”

“
They
who?”

He did not reply.

I let out a breath, thinking this over. I needed him to start talking. I needed to see the world through his eyes so I could fix him.

“In that case, you can stay for as long as you like,” I lied. Everyone had to leave eventually. “However, there’s a price.”

“I already paid.” He sounded displeased, but not the sort of way a normal guy might. There was a bite of menace in his voice. I couldn’t let that get to me.

“Not good enough. But I’ll make you a deal; if you tell me more about your curse, you can stay.”

“Just as long as I
chat
with you,” he said, sounding amused.

“Yes. I want to hear how it happened.”

“You will not believe it.”

“Thinking for me, are you?” I replied.

He was silent, so I hoped that meant he was mulling over my proposal, but I wanted to see his face and know for sure. I reached for the lights.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned.

I pulled back my hand, remembering what happened the last time. But that had all been in my head. Right?

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll leave the lights off for the time being. Do we have a deal?”

“It is your life. But are you so certain you’re willing to risk it for simply hearing my story?”

Ah yes.
Because he believed I would die if I spent time with him.

“We’ll begin on Monday.” I turned to leave, attempting one last time to get a look at his face. A shadow, a hint, a something.

Nada.

“I look forward to it.” He dipped his head, and a sliver of light peeked through the curtains, catching the side of his face. The stubble-covered jaw was strong and angular. His cheekbones were chiseled works of man-art.

My heart raced and my mind—without any warning—filled with hot, hard, simmering sensations that felt like an erotic drug. That, of course, was where I had to put my mental foot down. Chaotic situation or not, there were some lines that should never be crossed, like murder, hitting children, or kicking puppies. Having sexual feelings for a patient was also on that list somewhere.