Page 1 of Hide and Seek
1
HARPER-RAYN
Quick question. If I said that I enjoy chatting to rotting corpses, just how quickly do you think I’d be sedated and put in a straitjacket? I’m not crazy, I swear. But a few nights in an asylum kind of sounds like fun.
Crap. That’s the type of shit that crazy people say.
It’s not like I’m talking to dead people in a weird way. Nobody needs to call me a witch and chase me through town with pitchforks and torches. And no, I’m not some messed-up ventriloquist who’s shoving her hand up dead people’s cold asses and using them like puppets just to have someone to discuss conspiracy theories with.
I’m a forensic pathologist at Blackstone Private Hospital. Well, almost. Okay, that’s a lie. I’m only twenty-eight and in my second year of residency. I still have another two to go and then another year of fellowship after that before I can officially claim the title. But I’m well on my way there.
In short, I perform autopsies for a living.
To be honest, it’s generally a lonely job. Well, for those who opt to take the night shift like I do. We have an abundance of crime here in Blackstone. During the daylight hours, the hospital morgue is buzzing with activity: supervisors, technicians, coroners, medical examiners, and administrative staff. But during the night, it’s mostly just me and the night janitor, Vincent, or the occasional detective who can’t possibly wait for me to type up a report before hounding me for answers. It’s part of the reason why I like it so much. It’s peaceful.
I’m trusted to work alone, and sure, that’s not usually how this is supposed to go, but I’m excellent at what I do. I have impeccable reports and rarely make mistakes. All of my work is checked by the senior forensic pathologist come morning, but they simply can’t keep up with the workload during the day. Having me run autopsies and keep on top of reports through the night makes our team work.
Bodies roll through this basement morgue like a revolving door, and when they really start piling up, I’ll ask for one of the pathology assistants to help me out. But for the most part, I prefer to work alone.
I like my peace. I like to be left the hell alone and kept away from other people’s drama, but that doesn’t mean I can go a whole day without running my mouth. I need that outlet, so I talk to my corpses. Though maybecorpseisn’t the right term for them. Patient, perhaps? Customer? My opportunity to play Operation in real life? Who knows?
All that matters is that I’m not entirely going crazy while locked in the morgue, and while these bodies that wind up on my table can’t exactly offer me an intelligent or engaging conversation, at least I have an outlet to keep me from losing my mind. Though if you asked my mother, she would assure you that I’m already well on my way to insanity, because what kindof smart woman gets so far through her medical training only to specialize in forensic pathology? According to her, I’m nothing but a disappointment. I could have been a world-class surgeon, someone for her to brag about to all of her friends. But instead, I play with dead people.
Mothers, right? Always our harshest critics.
There’s not a single thing about me that she approves of. The way I wear my hair. The small apartment I chose to live in, despite my ability to rent something larger. My style of clothing. My tattoos. But most of all, my job.
If Mom had her way, I wouldn’t have pursued a career at all. I’d be married to a millionaire and doing brunch with the girlies at the country club. I’d be wearing designer outfits with red-bottom heels while clutching my pearls at the audacity of the younger generation. To me, that’s the perfect setting for a horror film. My sweet depraved soul prefers independence and I sure as shit don’t need to be some rich man’s pretty little wifey in order to have a fulfilled life. I’m doing more than okay on my own. You know, apart from the talking to dead people thing.
My phone chimes from its spot on my desk, and a grin pulls at my lips, knowing there’s only one person who’d be texting me at this time of night—Laith Mitchell, aka, the only man with a one-way ticket straight to my vagina. He’s one of the only people in my life who’s never pushed for more than what I’ve been willing to offer and I appreciate that more than he will ever know.
I wouldn’t exactly consider him one of my best friends. We’re not braiding each other’s hair and spilling all of our secrets, but he’s definitely someone who makes my days a little bit brighter. Life wouldn’t be the same without him.
Glancing over the body on my table—a forty-six-year-old father of three who was suspiciously killed in his office building yesterday—I finish up my autopsy and make sure I have all my samples prepared to be sent over to the lab. If I’m right—andI usually am—this man ingested a lethal dose of cyanide along with his turkey sub.
The only question is, how the hell did it get there?
My guess; the wife. It’s always the wife, and nine out of ten times, I’m on her side. You’d think men would learn their lesson about crossing a woman. If history has taught us anything, it’s that a woman scorned is a woman you should fear.
After closing up the body and doing my best to make it appear as though this man didn’t just have his chest cracked open, I zip up the body bag before rolling his corpse into the refrigeration unit.
The moment I can, I peel off my black gloves and toss them straight into the trash. Despite having my skin protected and untouched during my examination, I can’t resist making my way over to the sink to scrub my hands until they’re raw. While I love my job, there are more than just a few downfalls to it, but I wouldn’t change it for anything.
Once the mark of death has been scrubbed from my hands, I drop into my chair before searching for my phone. I could have sworn it was over here somewhere. I move a stack of reports around, shuffle my keyboard aside, and when I feel a strange vibration right under my ass, I finally find it lodged somewhere beneath my scrubs and my crack.
I let out a heavy sigh. Typical. I’m always leaving my phone in stupid places, and I’m not ashamed to say it’s not the first time I’ve almost cracked the screen under my ass. Probably won’t be the last either.
After retrieving my phone, I swipe my thumb across the screen, and a stupid grin rips across my face. Just as I expected, there’s a new text from the one and only Laith Mitchell.
Opening the text, I find exactly what I was hoping for. And just like every time I open a text from Laith, I can’t help but laugh at the name I saved him under the very first night we met.
Big & Long Schlong #2.
And no, I’m not exaggerating. Laith has always been overly proud of his large appendage. But I won’t lie, the whole number two thing is a bit of a sore point. I’ve always had a very healthy sex life, and before Laith, there was a string of men I could always count on, including Big and Long Schlong number one. But the day Laith came striding in with his cocky attitude and his dick swinging around like an elephant’s trunk, the others seemed to fade into the dark abyss of past lovers.
We’ve been playing the casual game for three years, and when it comes to sex, we’re more than compatible. As far as I’m concerned, it works because neither of us has ever wanted more, and while there’s certainly a real attraction and a potential for something in the future, it’s not what either of us wants right now.
My phone rings immediately, and an amused scoff rumbles through the back of my throat. “Yes?” I say, answering the call and wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder. Then as I wait for his response, I turn to my computer screen and madly click the mouse to get it out of sleep mode.
