Page 79 of Cruel Pleasures
“Were you fighting someone?” She pauses and then goes for it. “Was it Archer?”
…so you sense exactly what is going on, don’t you? Some part of you at least.
“I’m still failing to see the purpose of this conversation.”
“You told me I fail see what’s staring me straight in the face. You said it was entertaining that I hadn’t. What did you mean?”
“Figure it out yourself.”
“What do you think I’m doing here? You said I thought I could do it. Do what?”
“Stop wasting my time.”
My lips part to snarl at her some more when I spy what she’s clutching in the palm of her hand. My attention shifts to the tiny vial filled with copper powder.
Spice.
I snatch her by the wrist and spit out, “Why do you have this?”
“The staff gave it to me?—”
“Do you know what this does to you? Do you understand the side effects?”
“I’ve taken it before. Last night. And for the first time when Archer took me?—”
“Hurst cannot be trusted,” I say, my grip ironclad on her wrist. “You’re not to take any more spice. Do you understand?”
She finally wrests her wrist free of me. “And I’m going to listen to you, a man who clearly despises me?”
“Which should tell you something. If I’m demanding you refrain from taking any more, stop being so unbelievably stupid and listen!”
“It’s a stimulant. It takes away stressors. It makes me stop…” She sighs, the sound uneven.
“Stop what?”
“You wouldn’t care. Nobody here does, right? Isn’t that the point? Everybody’s so conceited and self-obsessed, nobody gives a fuck about anything!”
I regard her under my severe study. Her face—full lips, round nose, brown misty eyes—has grief written all over it. Etched into her expression and curled into every note of her voice. Suddenly, I understand what this is about.
Her purpose in chasing me down. She’s seeking solace. Somewhere. Anywhere.
From anyone. Anything.
Which explains the spice.
“I won’t take any spice,” she haggles. “If you let me clean you up.”
Imani does what few before her have done—she seizes hold of my hand. She pivots on her heel and begins marching off as if I’m expected to follow. She’s leading the way down the hall.
Toward her bedroom.
I’m rarely, if ever, caught off guard. I’m rarely, if ever, thrown enough that I give up control in a situation and allow another person to drive what happens.
This becomes one of those rare moments.
Imani guides me from the hall into her room, tugging me over to the bed where she suggests that I sit down. A trance-like wave has washed over me that compels me to do so. I drop down almost catatonically, the movement jerky and unnatural.
Running water sounds from the bathroom. A drawer snaps shut. Wrappers crinkle as they’re opened.
