Page 17 of Misery and Ecstasy

He’s hurting.

Who does he have to lean on?

How much of himself has he already given to become who he is today?

And what happens when there’s nothing of him left to give?

CHAPTER SEVEN

DRAVEN

When I wake up, every inch of my body aches.

I don’t want to move, but at the same time, I can’t stop my limbs from stretching in different directions, causing my sore muscles to groan in protest. As my pained body wriggles, the unmistakable squeal of leather rubbing against leather reminds me I’m not in my bed. My eyes shoot open, and the unfamiliar, darkened room bleeds into view.

I sit up quickly, which is a huge mistake. My head starts to throb as though it’s been thoroughly beat with a blunt object. A blanket I don’t remember covering myself with falls from my chest, folding over onto my lap as I look around.

Diplomas on the wall.

A desk, set diagonally in front of the corner of the room.

An arm chair and a coffee table.

Doc Caraway’s office.

I barely remember coming here earlier …today?

The sky is dark outside of the window, the only light streaming in coming from the street lamps.

Fuck, what time is it? What fucking day is it?

I pull my phone from my jeans and try to power it on, but it’s dead as a doornail. Putting it away again, I relax back onto the sofa and rub my eyes. Dazed, I remain seated for a couple moments.

What am I still doing here?

Why did she let me sleep?

Whatever the reason, I’m grateful. It’s better than being at home, getting reamed out by Royce.

I guess it’s a good thing it’s the middle of the night. I can sneak into the compound while he’s asleep and go a little longer without his wrath. I deserve it, but I don’t need it. The mental tongue lashing I’ve already given myself was severe enough; Royce can’t come anywhere close to making me feel worse than I already do.

I pull the blanket off my lap and stand. I’m still a little unsteady on my feet, but I’m much better than I was when I woke up in the police station. Folding the blanket, I drape it over the back of the sofa before quietly exiting the room.

My intention is to leave the house immediately.

Go outside, light up a cigarette, and find a way to call Atty to see if he can come get my ass so I don’t have to trek the three mile walk home. It feels wrong, being in the doc’s house so late at night, despite the fact that she knows I’m here. And despite the fact that I’ve broken into and snooped around people’s houses at night before with no issue whatsoever.

But my curiosity gets the better of me.

I approach the double doors on the opposite side of the foyer that I followed her through when we first got here. Wrapping my fingers around the handle, I expect to feel disappointment at being met by a locked door.

Only it’s not locked.

Does she have a death wish?

Doesn’t she realize she’s sharing her house with a murderer?

I don’t know what she and Delilah or Harleigh have discussed in the past, but I’d be surprised if she didn’t have at least an inclination of the crimes the club has committed.

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