Page 53 of Wicked Spite
“Bullshit,” I spit back before swinging at him, feeling my fist connect with his jaw. My knuckles split open and finally I feel something.
A flurry of movement as Lincoln and Ramsey rush to hold me back while Memphis stumbles backward, eyes wide.
I barely register the nurse walking past us with a gurney until she snaps at me.
“Chill the fuck out,” she snaps, her voice grating on my damn nerves. “This is a hospital, not some goddamn cage match.”
I throw my hands up at the nurse before my mask falls over my face and I smirk and give Nurse Ratchet a shrug. “Sorry, emotions are high. My brother is in a coma, ya know?”
“Yeah, well, if you haven’t noticed everyone has a loved one here. If you don’t calm down, security will drag your ass out of here!” the nurse yells over her shoulder as she hurries away.
“Come on,” Reagan says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the hallway. Her touch is firm and unyielding. I can feel her nails sink into the wrist and I glance down at them before dragging my eyes up to her face. She smirks and shrugs and I hate her. I want to strangle her because the fact that she knows that I needed the pain, the reminder to ground me. I let her lead me away, my mind still reeling from the news.
“And just where are you taking me, hellfire?” I ask, following her down the labyrinthine hallways.
“Somewhere where you aren’t going to stab the doctor,” she answers, not looking back. We walk in silence, the only sounds being our footsteps on the linoleum.
Finally, we reach a small chapel. Reagan pushes the door open and ushers me inside. The air is cool and still, a stark contrast to the turmoil outside.
“Great,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe we can pray for a miracle. I’m sure I have a fuck ton of karma built up that the Almighty sky daddy will grant my wish.”
“Just shut up.”
“Fine,” I mutter, slumping into a pew. “But don’t expect me to suddenly find God.”
“Would be a bit hypocritical of me,” she retorts, sitting beside me. The tension between us crackles, but for now, it’s enough just to sit in silence, letting the weight of the world press down on us.
I glance around the dimly lit chapel, its stained-glass windows casting muted colors across the polished wooden pews. The flickering candles at the altar throw erratic shadows, making the place look haunted. “Isn’t there supposed to be a priest or some shit here?” I mumble, my voice echoing in the emptiness.
Reagan snorts, a small sound that cuts through the silence. “It’s a chaplain, and he’s probably doing room visits right now.”
“Great,” I say with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “Chaplain plantain. And here I was hoping to confess all my sins.”
“Not Catholic,” she says, her lips twitching into a wry smile. “This place is non-denominational.”
I lean back, letting my head rest against the cool wood of the pew. “You know way too much about this place. You got a secret past as a holy roller?”
She shrugs, looking away. Her profile is bathed in the shifting colors from the stained glass, making her look almost ethereal. “I’ve spent some time in places like this years ago.”
For a moment, her words hang heavy between us. The chapel feels like it’s closing in, and I want to know why the fuck she’s spent time in hospitals and chapels and everything fucking else.
A sudden urge to break the tension makes me blurt out, “Ever thought about fucking in a confessional? Like a ready-made glory hole.”
Her laugh is sharp but genuine, cutting through my dark thoughts like a knife through butter. “Again, this isn’t a Catholic chapel, you fucking pervert.”
“Fine then,” I say, throwing up my hands in mock defeat. “No pious fantasies for me. Still, the glory hole could do it for me.”
Reagan rolls her eyes at me, but I can see the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “You know, it’s either fight or fuck with you. Ever since we crossed that line, it’s like sex is the main thing on your mind.”
I snort, shifting closer to her on the wooden pew. The scent of old wood and burning candle wax mingles with her mint and eucalyptus scent. “I’ve always been this way, hellfire. Don’t flatter yourself thinking you’ve escalated it. Horny is just my baseline.”
She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away when I slide my hand between her thighs. My fingers toy with the frayed edges of the holes in her jeans, tracing light circles on her skin. The chapel around us hums with a quiet reverence, but inside me, chaos is running free.
My eyes drill into hers. “If Graham dies…if they tell me he’s not going to wake up or walk out of this hospital, I’ll fucking lose it. You’re my wife, so you can’t say shit about fuck when it comes to what I do next.” My voice is low, dangerous, swimming in the depths of rage and despair.
She scoffs, but it’s bitter and tight. “When have I ever given you the impression I’m going to cry to the law about any-fucking-thing?” Her eyes burn with something fierce and untamed.
We stare at each other in silence, the weight of our words pressing down on us. The light on her face now makes her look wilder, more dangerous. And it draws me in like a mothto a flame. My obsession with fire might finally have a match because my obsession with Reagan Goddamn Blackwood is battling for the top fucking spot.
