Medicine Man (Page 64)

As soon as I say these words, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake. It’s like watching history repeat itself.

Wasn’t I here only a couple of weeks ago, saying the same thing to him? And didn’t he reject me?

This déjà vu is making me want to throw up and I can’t resist it this time. I put a hand to my stomach. It’s fucking dizzy.

Simon squints his eyes. “I think we’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?”

Yes. We have.

But then, I didn’t know the magnitude of feelings I’d develop for him in just two weeks. I didn’t know that he was harboring the same fantasies as me. I didn’t know the little things about him.

His little smirks, his sighs and groans. His heat and his skin. How he’s so patient and wonderful and caring. How he can’t fathom the thought of me hurting and how he beats himself up for the littlest things.

“You can’t lie to me, Simon.” I take a step toward him. “I know you. I might not know all the things about you. All the facts. But I know you. I’ve felt you.” Another step closer, as I continue, “You’re a good man, Simon. You have such a good heart and I don’t know why you don’t think so. I don’t understand it, but I swear to God, you do. I’ve never met someone like you. In fact, I don’t even think there is anyone like you.”

Somehow, my voice is still steady even as my body is shivering. I reach him, craning my neck up so I can take him in.

“You’re not some criminal from the wrong side of town. You’re not the man on death row. You’re the king, Simon. You’re my king. I-I was born for you. My illness, The Roof Incident. They aren’t random. I was meant to be here, and you were, too. Whatever I went through in my life, it was because I was meant to meet you. And you were meant to meet me, too.”

I go to touch his face, maybe soften him up a little bit, but he grabs my hand before I can make contact. His hold is fierce, painfully fierce, and I clench my lips against the pain.

“Are you done?”

“Si –”

He squeezes my wrist, harder than he ever has before, and a tiny hiss escapes me. He doesn’t let go, however. He watches me squirm. He increases the pressure and doesn’t ease up.

 On the night he took my virginity, he told me that I didn’t wanna see him lose it. I think this is what he meant. This violence. “Simon, please, you’re hurting me.”

That’s when he releases me. “Now, get the fuck out.”

I rub my wrist and stand my ground. “You did that on purpose. You deliberately tried to hurt me. I know that. You’re not like this. I’ve seen you all –”

He stops my words with a short, harsh burst of laughter. “God, I knew this was a bad idea,” he mutters, almost to himself before focusing on me with lethal eyes. “I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you. I knew you were young. You were reckless. You were emotional and still, I fucked you. Let me tell you how it is, Willow.”

This time, he moves in closer. He takes not one but two steps, three. Until he’s looking over me. A black, thundering cloud with gray eyes and a stubbled, hard jaw.

“I fucked you,” he says rudely. “Despite my better judgment, I fucked my patient. You’re young. Beautiful. There’s a wildness in you that called to me. And yes, you’re tight as fuck, Willow, and men like that. I’m a man, aren’t I? A weak, pathetic man who couldn’t resist a good fuck. That’s what it was. That’s what you felt. A man in heat. A man going for tight-as-fuck pussy. I don’t know how else to explain it to you. How much plainer I can get but this is it, you understand? It was fucking phenomenal, but it was just that. A fuck.”

I’m watching his mouth move, I’m seeing it happen, but I can’t believe it. I can’t believe the things he’s saying.

“No,” I whisper.

Or maybe I just shake my head.

Or maybe I do both.

Everything is a little confusing right now. It has been this way since I found out about the books.

“Yes. I don’t have feelings for you. I never did, and I never will. You’ll get out of here tomorrow like you were meant to. And we’ll probably never see each other again, like we were meant to.” He straightens up then. “But I’m not the kind of man who shirks away from responsibilities. If you feel inclined to report this, I won’t stop you.”

Report him?

Is that what he’s thinking of right now? That I’ll report him? Is that what’s going through his head when he’s breaking my heart?

“In fact, I’d encourage you to,” he continues with a grave face. “You don’t want someone like me taking advantage of you in the future.”

“I-in the future?”

“Yes. In the future.”

“Is that what you think about, when you think of the future? Me with someone else?”

“Frankly, I haven’t thought much about you and the future at all.”

I have so many thoughts inside my head. They are screaming and screaming, battering down my skull but for some reason only a whisper slips out. “You’re lying.”

He studies my face. His gray, harsh-as-winter eyes follow the path of my tears. Non-stop and never-ending but silent, unlike the chaos in my head.

Moving away, he walks to his desk, picks something up before turning around. I look down to find him offering me a tissue.

He carries it so casually as he replies, “I’m not you.”

Something happens to me then.

Something that I’ve experienced before for sure, but not with this intensity. Not with this ferociousness and savagery.

For reasons unknown, Simon Blackwood has always managed to make me smile, make me happy, make me calm.

So it’s probably fair, poetic even, that he’s the one to awaken the hurricane inside me.

He’s the one to make me fucking lose it.

All the screaming and shouting inside my head breaks free as I launch myself at him. I fucking ram my body against his like I’m a train wreck. A wrecking ball.

I don’t know what I’m doing except I know I’m screaming and my hands are moving like a windmill. My fists are colliding with something hard, something solid and all I know is that I wanna beat it, batter it, roar at it.

I wanna smash that solid, coiled strength and reduce it to what I am right now: broken and bruised.

And why not?

The man I’ve flown my body into doesn’t seem very inclined to stop me. Maybe he knows he deserves it. He deserves every single punch, every single kick, every single scratch on his neck, on his face, every single push and tug of his shirt, his hair.

He deserves all of it. All of my wrath.

I’m hitting him and hitting him and crying and sobbing, all the while calling him a liar.

Because he is. He has to be.

If he isn’t, then I’m fucking insane. I’m a psycho to think that he ever loved me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been going at him, slapping him, punching him, but one second, I’m striking his solid frame, flaying my own knuckles, and the next, I’m flying through the air, it seems, my legs dangling, my screams louder than ever.

There’s a band around my waist, a warm, alive band. Someone’s arm.

Through my rage and the blur of my tears, I see the crowd gathered inside the room. I see Simon all messed up, his shirt untucked, scratches along the line of his jaw and face.