Sleeping Beauty (6 page)

“Which part?”

“The two gays!” I hiss at him. I lift my hand off the phone. “Charley, you in the mood for a celebratory drink?”

“
It’s five o’clock somewhere, bella Beau
,” he says.

“Meet me at Casa Vega in thirty minutes?”

“
You bet
.”

“There,” I say, disconnecting the call and dropping the phone into my bag.

“I stand corrected,” says West. “Goldilocks and the Three Gays reporting for duty. Whoo!”

Pretty soon we’re both screaming out the windows like a bunch of kids.

Not even the thought of the sleep lab and twenty-four hours with Dr. Detestable tomorrow seems like the downer it was an hour ago.

Bring it on, jerk
, I think.
Bring it on
.

Chapter Five

May 18
^th

The elevator doors slide open, and I cross the empty waiting room to the door marked “Sleep Lab.” A yellow, diamond-shaped sign below it reads, “Quiet! Sleep Testing in Progress!”

Charmant looks up when I walk in, blinks three or four times, and then gets suddenly interested in whatever is on the computer monitor in front of him. “You’re here,” he says finally.

Oh, wow, a real attempt at small talk
. “Yeah,” I say, looking around at the bank of computer and closed-circuit monitors. “I thought about how I could make this whole thing work from my house, but nothing came to mind, so I figured I’d just come on down at seven o’clock like we planned.”

He narrows his eyes just a fraction of an arc, staring at me like I’m some sort of 3-D puzzle. When I start tapping my foot, he jumps up from his chair and heads to a nearby door, pushing it open and motioning me in. “How’s this?” he says.

I step past him into the room and drop my duffel bag without looking around. “It’s fine.”

The drab, windowless confines of a sleep lab are meant to be utilitarian, so not a lot of thought is put into interior design. At a glance, I can see that this one is about twenty feet by fifteen feet, with a fake leather loveseat at one end, and a queen-sized bed at the other. An artificial, braided ficus tree sits in the far corner like an afterthought.

“Are you ready?” he says.

“Sure,” I say without much enthusiasm. “Where do you want me?” He doesn’t answer. When I turn around he’s staring at me again. It’s getting unnerving. “What?”

“Sorry, you look different. I almost didn’t recognize you when you came in.”

What he really means to articulate is this: I see that you’ve traded in your pink flip-flops for some attractive, cork-heeled platform shoes, a beaded halter top, and denim shorts. Also, I couldn’t help but notice that you’re wearing age-appropriate makeup. Now, I’m not saying that you look every one of your twenty-nine years, but there’s no way I’m mistaking you for a minor today.

“Um, okay.” This is probably as close as he gets to a compliment, but I refuse to follow it up with any kind of pathetic gratitude. “I could say the same about you. Where’s your stethoscope and white coat, Dr. Charmant? Aren’t you required by law to carry at least one of those around at all times?”

The absence of the white coat is a good thing though. There’s nothing about his dark blue jeans and grayish-green button-up shirt that’s hard on the eyes, even if it seems a little casual for an official medical encounter.

“Probably won’t need either of those today,” he says, his lips slightly puckered. He’s done the pucker-lip, squinted-eye thing several times now, so I’m beginning to think that’s all he can manage for a smile. Desperate to avoid eye contact, he looks from my shoes to my chest, and finally at the wall where he makes a big show of flipping the switch on another set of fluorescents.

“Here,” I say, handing him a gallon-sized zipper bag of all my medications. “You said you wanted to know what I was taking.”

“Good,” he says, taking at the bag. “This will definitely help.”

After that there’s nothing left to do but look at each other some more. That’s when I notice that his shirt matches his eyes, and that his pale green irises are edged in deep jade.

“Are you going to be okay with me taking some of that off?” he says. He takes an unexpected step towards me, and runs a thumb across my cheekbone.

My heart skips about three beats before I realize he’s not talking about my clothes, but my make-up. I waver back and forth from relief to disappointment.

“The electrode paste won’t stick if I don’t wipe a little of it off,” he adds.

“Sure, sure, no problem,” I stutter, grabbing my bag off the floor. I cross the room and drop it on the loveseat, pretending to rummage around in it so I don’t have to look at him.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

The door clicks shut and I close my eyes.
Get it together, Claire-Bo
, I chide myself.
This is a sleep lab, not Match.com
.

Charmant returns with a gray plastic cart that holds everything needed to transform me from a normal-looking human being into an electrode-sprouting Medusa, each wire planted in a thick, white conductive glue you could caulk a bathtub with.

Definitely not an attractive look for snaring a man.

I eye the electrodes and sigh. “Where do you want me?” Then it happens: the dry mouth and weak knees that could be me about to faint, or might just be the result of looking too long at Dr. Brendan Charmant.

“Are you okay?” he says, but his voice seems very far away. The last thing I see before I drop forward is him reaching for me.

*****

I feel the fingers first, skimming though my hair, stopping here and there to push the long locks out of the way, then a rubbing pressure against my scalp. Then I don’t feel anything. A few seconds later the fingers are back, this time exploring my face and neck. It’s heavenly. Even if I could open my eyes (which I can’t), I wouldn’t.

I sense a warm body lying next to mine, just inches of space between us, so close I can smell terrific cologne and fabric softener.
Definitely not my brother
. At regular intervals the person reaches across me and fumbles with something before the Magic Fingers Treatment resumes. At one point my arm flops off the bed, fully extending with a soft
pop!
A warm hand takes my arm and gently replaces it across my stomach, patting it once it’s in place. I have no idea now if I’m awake or dreaming, and I don’t care as long as whatever this is doesn’t stop.

“Claire, can you hear me?”

Oh no, oh no
. Mortification grips me as I recognize Dr. Charmant’s voice and remember where I am. I try to respond, to jerk into a sitting position or form a word or two, but my body’s not there yet, still partially paralyzed from my cataplexy attack.

His fingers move from my neck to my collarbones, pressing, pressing, before lifting up the top edge of my left bra cup. I’m instantly in a blind panic, my worst fears realized. It’s just the two of us in the sleep lab, no witnesses, with me semi-unconscious, paralyzed and helpless. The perfect set-up for any unscrupulous guy who wanted to…

Then it feels like someone’s dropped an ice cube down my shirt.

“H-h-hey.” My little protest comes out as barely a whisper.

The bed bounces up and down, and then he’s gone. “Can you open your eyes?”

“No,” I murmur.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Mmmm.”

“Are you thirsty?”

“Mmmm.”

“I’ve got some water here when you’re ready. You’ve been out for about fifteen minutes. I’ve got the heart monitor in place, and marked you for the electrodes. Once you’re able to sit up we’ll glue them on so we can catch the next cataplexy attack.”

Don’t bother asking me if any of this is okay with me
, I think.

That’s when I feel it coming: the familiar gray, the misty gloom. It drops over me like a blanket, sinking into my bones and filling me with unexplainable dread. And just like that I know that there won’t be any more cataplexy attacks. It’s sooner than I expected, but this is the beginning of The Main Event, also known as Episode Four. The only question is how many weeks I’ll sleep this go ‘round.

I hear rattling and thumping as Charmant puts things back into the cart. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

I hear a door open. “Wait,” I say, my voice still a whisper.

The air shifts as he comes back to the side of the bed. My paralysis partially lifts, and I open my eyes, struggling to sit up.

Charmant watches me, his hands crossed over his chest.

“Wait,” I say again, mostly because my lips feel frozen, and I’m so terrified that I can’t think of any other words. I struggle to put my feet on the floor.

“Whoa, wait a minute!” he says, putting his hands on my legs. “What’s the matter with you?”

I shake my head. I can’t explain. He’s leaving me here, leaving me. Alone. My thoughts are wild and incoherent, and all I can think of is getting out of this room, back outside, out into the sunshine, out of the darkness. I lurch to my feet.

Charmant grabs me by the shoulders to steady me as I sway. “Listen, you can’t get up yet.” He forces me to sit, then hands me a plastic glass filled with water. I down it with shaking hands, sloshing a little onto my shirt, before holding the cup up to him. He snatches it out of my hands and folds his arms over his chest like he’s chilly or bored or waiting in line at the post office. “Lie down until you’ve completely recovered,” he says, his face stern. He turns around and makes for the door.

I flop onto my back. “Dr. Charmant…” I choke out, a hot stream of tears overflowing my eyes, and rolling down my temples into my ears.

His hand is on the doorknob. “Yes?” he says. He sounds annoyed.

“Don’t leave me,” I gasp, using all my energy to push the words out.

“I’m not leaving. I’ll be right outside.”

The fear is choking me. I’m too frightened even to close my eyes. “I’m scared. It’s coming.”

He leans over me, dropping his face down until it’s just above mine. “Is one of your episodes starting? Right now?”

I nod my head.

“Are you seeing anything right now that you shouldn’t?”

“Just you,” I whisper. And I mean it. I can’t let him leave me alone, but I’m certain he’s not going to want be around for what comes next.

He clears his throat, looking inexplicably uncomfortable. “Claire, when you feel the onset of one of your episodes do you…” He trails off.

My face gets warm again and I don’t say a word. The dread is pressing and heavy from the outside, but there’s also the familiar burning flash inside me pulsing, growing and pushing back. And I can’t help it; I reach up and touch his arm. The feel of his warm skin through the cotton is indescribable, like my fingers are continually discharging static electricity.

Charmant glances at my hand on his arm, his uneasiness plain.

“Don’t leave me alone,” I whisper pathetically.

He removes my hand, and holds it in one of his, awkwardly patting it like a kindly grandmother. The look on his face is clear:
My experience treating crying babies could come in handy here
. “Sure, sure,” he says. “I’ll stay with you until someone else gets here.” He looks over his shoulder, no doubt hoping that “someone” will be arriving at any moment.

I take advantage of the distraction and grab the front of his shirt with my free hand. Charmant reacts instantly, pulling my hand away, his fingers tight around my wrist. He leans closer to me, his face intent. “Listen to me,” he says in a rush, like he knows the clock is running down. “Besides the hallucinations, and the binge-eating, and the feeling of being afraid, has anyone in your family ever told you that when you’re entering an episode you become–”

I yank my hand out of his grasp and clutch a fistful of his shirt. “I want to do bad things.”

There’s not even the semblance of seduction, just an intense need to devour. I pull on his shirt, forcing his mouth down onto mine. His head jerks backwards, but I lock my hands around the back of his neck so he can’t break away. After a few seconds of holding my lips to his, I part mine, tentative at first, then with unstoppable urgency.

With blood in the water and me in a full-blown feeding frenzy, I’ve reached the point of no return. I can’t get my hands on him–all over him–fast enough. Buttons pop off his shirt as I tear at it, forcing his body down onto mine. He finally collapses over me, one hand reaching around to the small of my back. I lock my thighs around his leg, rocking my hips against him, and clawing at the waistband of his jeans.

He pulls away, pushing off me with one arm, gasping like a diver coming up for breath.

But it’s too late. I’m insane with need, and there’s no way for me to rein it in. When he tries to roll off me I tighten my grip around his neck. He stands up and I go with him, my legs wrapped around his waist. Then he pulls me against him, and I’m kissing him again, and touching him all over until I think every nerve ending I have is going to start shooting sparks like miles of downed power lines.

I’m vaguely aware that he’s carrying me, and then I feel hard, cold tile against my back as he holds me against a wall. With his left hand he’s fumbling for something behind him, but I can’t think about that because I’ve finally unbuttoned my shorts and if he’d just move back a little I could–

The ice-cold spray of water hits me in the face, and after a reflexive gasp my lungs lock up. I let go of his neck and push away, scrambling to get out of the shower, but now
he
won’t release
me
. I screech and struggle to break away, but he pushes me harder against the wall as I scream and claw at his face and kick his legs. He tries to cover my mouth with his hand, and I bite it until I taste blood.

Charmant hisses, but doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even yell when I land a particularly hard blow of my platform shoe on his shin. He just holds me under the spray until we’re both soaking and shivering. My teeth are smacking together so hard I’m convinced they’re going to shatter.