A deep frown knits her brow. “How about we start the group, instead.” It’s not a question. “I’m thinking today we focus on personal control.”
Standing beside an easel holding a dry-erase board, she scribbles down illegible words that look like chicken scratch. I take my sketchpad out of my canvas bag and open it up to my recent work in progress. I’m not completely ignoring her. I have half an ear of what she’s saying, but she’s not saying anything I haven’t already heard. It’s going to be ninety minutes of her droning on and on. I can get my sketch done in that amount of time. The sound of Regina’s voice fades into the background as inspiration takes hold of me. I lose myself in my artwork, my fingers laboring across the charcoal-covered page to conjure a demon. One of mine, more than likely. Another entity inspired by my fascination with the macabre drawings. The more gruesome, the better it seems.
There’s a monster on my page. He’s made up of slashing, angry, bold, black lines and shadows. He has stygian black eyes and claws that seem to extend from the sketchpad with the intent of snatching me from my contrived bliss. It’s the sound of the door banging close that draws me back to reality. Like everyone else in the room, my eyes automatically fly to the entryway. Instant recognition has my heart lurching painfully against my chest, while my mind races.
What’s he doing here?
That silent inquiry ricochets inside the walls of my mind as I survey him. Black hoodie, black, fitted jeans, and scuffed, black boots sum up the whole outfit. He has rock star hair today, mussed around his head like he just rolled out of bed. There’s a presence about him. It’s something so unmistakable, patented only to him, that I can’t seem to deny or resist the draw. It has me sitting up a little straighter in my chair. That magnetizing appeal he wields so well is the reason why I stare like he’s the Second Coming. It’s also why when I try to swallow, it feels like the Sahara has made a temporary home inside my mouth.
“Hi,” Regina greets with a tight smile, breaking the awkward silence his entrance ushered in, “welcome to the group.”
He says nothing in response, only hands her a folded piece of paper before he walks away. He has a slow, lazy gait. Unhurried, like time itself should move in accordance to his progression. Dropping my gaze is almost reflexive when he saunters past me. I would hate to be caught looking. Hate for him to discover my odd fascination with him, and become weirded out by it. Tension sets my spine ramrod straight when he takes the seat next to me. Sweat pearls along my skin making me feel oddly cold and hot all at the same time. The next hour and fifteen minutes is sweetly unbearable. Trying to concentrate on sketching becomes a task I can’t commit to. From my peripheral, I see him but not very well. And when I tell myself not to look, the desire to do otherwise is so strong it’s hard to fight it. I find my head turning more than a few times, my eyes trailing the exquisite structure of his face. He has a wide forehead and low, hooded brows set over slumbering eyes. With him sleeping, it’s easier to look at him. I take in his angular jaw, the cleft in his square chin that leads to the grim line of his full mouth. The small, white scar slashing down the corner of his top lip is noticeable this close up. There’s a slight crook in his nose but it barely detracts from his masculine beauty. Resting on blessedly high cheekbones are full, dark lashes that match the jet of his hair. It’s styled in an undercut, trimmed low all around except the top, which he’s gathered in a short ponytail. My eyes return to his mouth, specifically to the scar, and it’s while I’m wondering how he got it that Regina calls the end to the group.
“All right, guys, I’ll see you next week. Great session today.” I wouldn’t know. I’ve been preoccupied gawking at my living muse. While everyone gets up and files out of the room, scraping chairs back and speaking a little too loudly, Maddox remains sleeping. Completely unbothered by the noise. I push away from the table, ready to follow behind everyone else in exiting the room except I find myself lingering back and even before I can process the next thought, my hand is reaching out to him with the intention of waking him up. It’s completely stupid and uncharacteristic of me, and luckily my nerves come into play in the next second, stilling my hand and curbing my short bout of insanity. With my hand still hovering inches from his tattooed shoulder, I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Inferno hot. And maybe it’s my overactive imagination or maybe just wishful thinking, but his skin is like a magnet that exerts a pull on my fingers so powerful I have to curl them into a tight fist to keep myself from touching him.
You need to go.
It’s a simple command that my mind whispers.
Don’t be creepy.
I silently scoff at that.
Too late.
Grateful that his deep sleep has spared him of my eccentricities, I gather my things and vacate the room as fast as I possibly can, only to trip over my feet in the corridor. I’m quick enough in catching myself before I go sprawling to the floor, but it doesn’t save me the embarrassment. The three women who’d been standing near the door chatting understandably snicker as I walk by. It’s with reddened cheeks that I step inside the mercifully empty elevator shaft. I’m reaching over to press the L button when I see him coming. He smoothly makes it inside before the double silver doors close at the center. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to act. All there is is the heavy vibration of infinite silence occasionally interrupted by the whirring wires of the elevator gradually bringing us down to our mutual destination. In this tight, enclosed space, I become too conscious of his force. He’s gravity and I’m merely debris, completely drawn in by his influence. I can feel the irregular beats of my heart knocking against the bars of my rib cage, playing out the rhythm of my unease. With every choppy intake of breath, I take his scent into my lungs. It’s a scent distinct only to him. It’s a mixture of sun, wood, and freshly cut grass. There’s a spicy base note that lingers like melted chocolate on my tongue. It’s hell on wires that lasts too long but isn’t long enough when the elevator finally grounds to a stop. I step out first and I’m proud of myself for fighting the impulse to turn and look behind me. Taking a bracing breath, I conquer the revolving door once more and walk outside. Looking to my left and then my right, I finally see Rachel’s car in the second parking lot as it slowly makes its way to me.
“Next time,” I gasp sharply, my eyes wide, “you should just touch me.” He delivers the words with hushed gruffness. The whisper of his warm breath against my ear and neck sends a foreign sensation ribboning down my spine. He walks away in the same instant Rachel pulls up. My skin is prickling, my heart racing erratically. Standing paralyzed on the sidewalk, I watch his retreating back. Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he steadily makes his way to the parking lot until he disappears from my view.
“Aylee, sweetheart, are you okay?” It takes Rachel’s inquiry to snap me out of my temporary paralysis. Opening the rear door, I glide inside and firmly close it behind me.
“Yeah.” I buckle my seat belt. “I’m okay.”
Anxious to see if she’ll mention Maddox, I wait with bated breath.
“How was therapy?”
A quiet exhale deflates my body as I slump back into the seat. “Fine.” I’ve never been very forthcoming with my replies about therapy anyway, so when I answer back with one-word syllables it isn’t anything unusual. But I’m distracted. My gaze is focused outside the tinted window. Rachel has to take the next left to navigate out of the hospital parking lot. Unconsciously, I move closer to the door, turn my head completely now, as my gaze bounces around. Searching…searching for a glimpse of him. Nothing. He’s nowhere to be found.