Dollars (Dollar #2)

My black boxer-briefs would do. After all, in the pitch black yonder, who was there to see me?

Walking to the side of the vessel with its thirteen floors to the unforgiving blue glass below, I unbuckled my belt, kicked off my shoes, and tore off my shirt.

The moment I was free from human costume, I opened the railing and dove off the side.

YESTERDAY WAS BRUTAL.

Once I let go—once I allowed my soul to take over and weep for everything I’d been through, I couldn’t stop.

All night, I sobbed.

All day, I wept.

And by the time the sun rose and then set again, my face ached, my tongue throbbed, and my head howled with dehydration.

Staff members had tried to get me to eat, ignoring my naked form sitting on the floor amongst a destroyed suite to ply me with cake and feel-good food.

I didn’t want a single crumb.

Feathers from the pillows fluttered around the space thanks to the sea breeze. Curtains hung haphazardly on their rails, side tables rattled on their sides as the boat rode gentle waves.

I hadn’t been able to flip over most of the larger furniture—bolted in place for high seas or hungry storms—but the soft furnishings hadn’t escaped my wrath.

I knew I was only harming myself by exuding so much energy in tears and refusing to eat or drink. But I needed to hurt myself. For the first time, I was the one in charge of the pain and the discomfort suffocating me.

I took ownership of that. I controlled that. It was liberating to be the brute for a change, even if it was me, myself, and I who I hurt.

Exactly forty-eight hours after Elder had left me, the only other male I was allowed contact with entered my annihilated room.

His kind eyes widened, taking in the destruction before pressing his lips together and crossing the space to the bed where I huddled beneath a salvaged sheet.

“Hello.”

I squeezed my eyes, knowing exactly why he was here and ready, but not quite ready, to accept his help.

“I hear you’ve had a rough couple of days.” Standing close, he rubbed the mattress beside me. “May I?”

I didn’t open my eyes or give him permission, but he sat anyway, carefully keeping his body from touching mine. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Such a simple question but loaded with far too much. My gaze flew wide even as my tongue stung from where I’d bitten it by accident two nights ago. Even if I did want to talk to someone, to remember what it was like to hold a conversation and purge this filth inside me, I couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not until my tongue was knitted back together.

Dr. Michaels nodded in understanding. Looking at the tumbled bedside table and the scattered items on the floor, he pointed at the notepad and pen strewn haphazardly. “I meant, do you want to write it down? We can discuss it that way?”

I merely stared.

He cleared his throat after an uncomfortable minute. “Okay, we’ll leave therapy for another day, how about that?”

Therapy?

I wrinkled my nose. Was that what he thought I needed? Was I mentally ill? A basket case who needed rehab from life?

Wouldn’t my mother love that?

She’d jump at the chance to be my psychologist. The more screwed up her patients, the better.

He held up his hands. “Wrong word. Sorry, professional habit. You don’t need therapy in the normal sense. But I do think you need to talk to someone. You’ve been alone for so long—or at least I think you were alone.” His face whitened. “Were there others? Did Mr. Prest save more than just you?”

His questions fell on appreciative ears that he was willing to chit-chat, but I had no interest in replying. I hadn’t even had the energy to write to No One during my crying purge. The thought of others living what I had hollowed me with grief. I rolled over, tucking the sheet tighter against me.

What happened to the girls I was sold with at the Quarterly Market of Beauties? Were they still alive or mostly dead by now?

“Okay, I know when a social call isn’t wanted.” Michaels rubbed his thighs. “However, before I go, I must ask you to sit up. I need to inspect your tongue and discuss a few other medical issues.”

I looked over my shoulder. Now I’d stopped crying, all I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep for decades and wake up a better person, a saner person, and someone who had no aversion to speech so she could blurt out her story and move on.

“Please?” The doctor motioned for me to sit, even grabbed a pillow from the floor (only half unstuffed), and fluffed it against the ruined bedhead. “If you don’t mind, we’ll get it done as quickly as possible.”

Not wanting to disappoint him, I slid upright and settled against the pillow. The sheet fell around my waist. I didn’t think anything of it.

Michael’s gaze flickered to my chest for the barest of seconds. He cleared his throat then resolutely locked eyes with me. Any sign of a normal hot-blooded man vanished under the authoritative presence of a doctor who had seen patients in all stages of undress.

“May I?” He scooted closer, hoisting a bag I hadn’t noticed onto the bed beside him.

I didn’t nod, but he must’ve seen approval in my eyes because he reached forward, running his hands over the glands in my neck and gently prying my mouth open.

I allowed it, holding my breath as he inspected my stitched tongue.

I watched his face carefully, wanting to catch any worry or concern he might have on the status of my healing.

His face tensed.

I stiffened in response.