Page 22 of Too Safe

“There you are,” Marilee admonishes when I numbly make my way to the front desk. “Where did you disappear to?” she demands.

I mumble something about taking out the trash, but before I’ve finished the sentence, she’s hurrying off down one of the halls.

“I need you to clean up the Rejuvenation suite,” she calls over her shoulder, and then she disappears through an open doorway.

I work on autopilot to clean the room she directed me to. It’s one of the largest in the facility, and it’s typically used for couples or small groups. I go through the motions of sanitizing the surfaces and tidying the space. I glove up and carefully dispose of the needles on the tray, then check the mini fridge to ensure it’s fully stocked.

I’m nearly done when I reach for a bottle of disinfectant and knock a manilla folder into the sink. I’m still a trembling mess from that parking lot face-off.

“Shit,” I huff out, gathering up all the papers. I quickly rearrange them in what I think is the right order, glancing over the documents to confirm. But my attention snags on the name at the top of the file:Kendrick Crusade.

Except….

Kendrick’s last name isn’t Crusade. It’s Tyler, or Taylor, or something along those lines.

Isn’t it?

Of their own volition, my hands flip open the second file. I’m not even surprised when I seeNicholas Crusadeat the top.

I know with absolute certainty his last name is Lockewood.

Why the hell were they here, and why did they feel compelled to use pseudonyms? Bad, obvious ones at that?

I’ve just set down the files when the door to the suite flies open.

“Ah, there they are,” a man mutters. And it’s not just any man. It’s the doctor in the white lab coat. The one who was talking to the guys before they snuck out the back door.

“Almost done in here?” he asks, making me jump. I peek up at him, but he’s not even looking at me. He’s making a note in one of the guys’ files. “I’ve got another appointment in thirty minutes.”

“Yep, all done,” I squeak, my voice shaky and hollow. I slip out of the room before the doctor has a chance to look up from the files, desperately hoping he didn’t bother to look at me and that I can avoid being pulled into the middle of whatever bullshit is going on here.

Fighting back angry tears, I take off toward the back room.

I don’t understand any of it, but the one thing I know is that I have too much self-respect to let someone disregard me and treat me the way Locke just did. I don’t need any sort of defined relationship, but I do need to share mutual respect with the person I’m hooking up with. If he thinks he can meet up with me in secret, then blow me off when he’s with his friends? Then fuck him.

Hot Girl: Don’t bother calling me later. Or this weekend. Or ever.

I stash my phone and snatch the full hamper from the corner and get started on another load of laundry. For the first time all week, I glance at the clock and do the mental math, counting down to when I can leave this place and crawl into bed.

Chapter 10

Josephine

There’sadistinctflavorof shame that comes with misreading a situation so badly. Honestly, I’m not surprised that Locke turned out to be a spineless asshole. But I am disappointed in myself for thinking he might be different.

Because I know better. I fucking know better than to trust entitled jocks who have never wanted for anything. I let myself get distracted by the gauges and his pop punk vibe, when in reality, he’s nothing more than a prick in disguise, walking around pretending to be something he’s not.

I squeeze my closed eyes tighter, banishing all thoughts of his gorgeous ink and ripped physique. On a deep exhale, I force away the sadness, trying to convince my mind to settle so sleep will come.

Hunter and I have plans to go to the gym early tomorrow—before it’s crawling with hungover coeds like it is most Friday afternoons.

On my drive home, I called her and filled her in. She made all the outragedtsksand asked all the expected supportive friend questions. She didn’t seem particularly surprised by the encounter, though, which makes me cringe even more. I knew better. She knew better… and yet.

Instead of letting me dwell on it, she changed the subject and insisted we figure out plans for the weekend. I’m beyond grateful for the distraction.

I swipe away an angry tear—an angry, indignant, pissed off tear, because that man-child doesn’t deserve my heartache—then flip my pillow over. Resting my cheek against the cool fabric, I make a promise to myself. When I wake up in the morning, I’m done. No more tears. No more thoughts of… what was his name again? Oh. Right. Nicholas Lockewood. One night is all I need to get over him. I never even got under him in the first place.

Resolved, I hug the quilt around me a little tighter, willing my brain to relax. I’ve never been a good sleeper, yet I’m a grouchy, emotional mess if I don’t get enough sleep.

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