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Excerpt:
Wood crackled and snapped from the small blaze in the fireplace. Shadows and bronze light fought each other for dominance in the small room—the shadows seemed to be winning. Cain didn’t mind one bit. The darkness concealed him, smothering the constant worry over Mercy’s reaction when she finally recognized him.
She’d been conscious, unconscious, and in some crazy in-between state, but from one moment to the next hadn’t been able to remember a danged thing—courtesy of the shock treatments. And so far, she’d been too out of it to recognize him, but the time was coming.
He settled his hand on Mercy’s forehead—an act that reminded him of Mac—and felt her temperature. For the past two days, she’d run hot with a fever, vacillating between chills and sweats as the drugs metabolized out of her system. But now, her skin felt cool and dry. The fever had broken. Finally. They were turning a corner, speeding down a one-way highway that would end either in her acceptance or her total rejection of him.
Her eyes blinked open so suddenly he yanked his hand off her head as if he’d been caught coppin’ a feel.
“How are you feeling?” He’d asked her the question a dozen times over the past days, but hadn’t always gotten an answer.
She turned her head to him, her face scrunching up, most likely from her bruised cheek. “Wow. I feel drunk and hungover at the same time.” Spoken with a clarity of tone she hadn’t possessed in previous days. “And a little bit like I’ve got the flu. But, hey, I’ve been worse.” An out-of-place cheerfulness infused her voice.
“Do you remember where you are?”
“Ward B of the Center of Balance and Wellness. The name doesn’t fit. It should be called the Center of Indifference. No one here cares—except for Liz. You know Liz?” He opened his mouth to answer, but she bulldozed over him, her words coming out in a rush. “She looks like Nurse Ratchet, but her personality is all Mary Poppins. She always lets me stay up past lights-out since it’s the only solitude to be had in the whole place. Once, she snuck a cupcake in on my birthday. Now isn’t that sweet? She—” The words were speeding out of her mouth.
Not that he was complaining. He preferred her hyped up over out of it, but she might backslide if she didn’t stay somewhat calm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. Take a breath. We’ve got all the time in the world here.” Had to be the meds or lack of meds— some strange part of the withdrawals—causing her diarrhea of the mouth.
She grabbed in one good breath, then was off again. “You know there aren’t many people to talk to in here.” She turned her voice down to a whisper. “Everyone’s crazy. I mean really crazy. Certifiable. It’s hard to carry on a rational conversation with someone who keeps talking to the demon that lives in their ankle. You ever have that happen? Where you’re talking to someone, and all of sudden they lift their foot up in front of their face and start having a conversation with it? It’s a bit off-putting, if you know what I mean.”
Her expression was full-on seriousness, and he probably shouldn’t laugh—definitely he shouldn’t—but he couldn’t help it.
A smile—no, it wasn’t quite a smile—tipped the corners of her mouth, giving her a look that said she was thinking about something pleasing.
“We’ve hit a new phase of your withdrawals. Speed talking.”
“Oh my. Your voice. Wow. It reminds me of dark chocolate, a hot bath, and sex and—”
“Apparently your mental filter is malfunctioning.”
“—sweaty, dirty, hard f@cking.”
Holy Christ. Just the words sex, sweaty, and dirty had his dick going all skyscraper inside his jeans, but when she said hard f@cking, he blacked out for a moment. When his mind came back online, it decided to flash him images of what sweaty, dirty, hard f@cking would look like with her. Her nipples brushing against his chest as he rammed into her with a pace and depth and exuberance he’d never experienced.
He needed to change the subject, but couldn’t remember how to get his mouth to form words. He might’ve swallowed his damned tongue.
“Why do you suppose your voice sounds like sex on a summer day? It’s because I’m horny. I haven’t had sex in five years. That’s a long time, you know. I have needs.”
He finally figured out how to flap his lips, while making sound to form actual words. Maybe he’d had a stroke. “Jesus Christ, woman.” The words exploded out of him. “You’ve got to stop talking about sex.” He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, trying to wipe out the mental images that still played. “You’re speaking every single thought that floats into your mind. No goddamned censor. It’s gotta be the meds or the shock treatments causing it. Something.”
Author Bio:
Abbie Roads is the best-selling author of the Fatal Dreams Series and the Fatal Truth Series. Her novels have been finalists in many prestigious contests including The Golden Heart, The Greater Detroit Booksellers Best, The Oklahoma National Readers’ Choice Award, The Write Touch, The Strut Your Stuff Contest, The Aspen Gold Contest, The Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence, The Heart of Excellence Readers’ Choice Award, The Midnight Sun, The Kathryn Hayes Contest, The Chanticleer, The Daphne du Maurier, The National Readers’ Choice Award, The New England Readers’ Choice Contest, The Beverly Award, and The Maggie Award. Her debut novel Race the Darkness was Publishers Weekly Top 10 Pick for Fall and Never Let Me Fall is an Amazon Editor’s Pick.
By day Abbie Roads is a mental health counselor always focusing on the bright side. By night she writes on the dark side, putting her characters through the wringer before she gives them their happily-ever-after. She loves a good inspirational quote and is a fan of true crime.
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