But when I go to kiss her, when I go to feel the softness of her lips pressed against mine, the bugs are back with a vengeance. They come pouring out of her mouth in rapid succession, taking over her body until she’s sprouting wings, extra arms and legs. And her eyes…her beautiful blue eyes are now jet-black, soulless and focused on me.
Chapter 6
Kimberly
I’ve seen patients having hallucinations and psychotic breaks before, but nothing like what I witnessed with Bodhi. When I saw the orderlies and Dr. Rosenberg rushing him down to our medical wing on a gurney, fear and panic surged through my body. Thoughts of losing him and never being able to see him outside Serenity Springs almost had me on my knees. Before I knew it, I was running after them and barging into the room where Bodhi was being hooked up to an IV while his arms and legs were being pinned down.
And now I sit next to him while he sleeps, studying his face. Even behind closed eyelids, his eyes wander and he lets out the tiniest of squeaks, making me wonder if he’s dreaming…and if he is, is he dreaming about me?
It’s stupid, I know, to hope that I’m a thought in his subconscious. He probably has dozens of women who kiss the ground that he walks on, and for me to think or even hope that I’m crossing his mind is ridiculous.
But here I sit, imagining that I am, wondering what he’s dreaming about, and counting the hours until his eyes flutter open and the sea-blue orbs look into mine. I’m a hopeless romantic, and for the first time I’m letting my feelings show during my job. I know it can get me into trouble, and I need to either separate myself from Bodhi or pretend that he isn’t affecting me.
To do that is going to be hard because I want to know him. Not the boy-band musician side, but the side that he hides from reality. What did he do in his downtime before the coke took over? Does he enjoy the beach or a park, or is he stay-at-home type of guy? Everything I know about him comes from interviews and articles that people have written. None of those tell the true story of what a person is like on the inside.
Bodhi is restless in his sleep, and I automatically run my fingers down the side of his face without hesitation. He turns toward my touch and a small smile appears before going away. It’s easy to see why women fawn over him, with his strong jawline and those blue eyes coupled with his dark stubble. I was never a fan of a man’s five o’clock shadow until I saw Bodhi when he first started with Virtuous Paradox. His pictures don’t do him justice now that I’ve seen him in the flesh. The shots of him in the media are all Photoshopped and don’t show you that he has a very noticeable scar above his eyebrow. A picture in a magazine doesn’t show that his lip quivers just before he smiles. I hope that the life he leads in front of a camera isn’t the life he wants in private.
With each movement I look for ways to comfort him. I play music from my iPod, run my hands up and down his arms, and even clean up the dried blood from earlier when he popped his IV. I try anything to comfort him, to help him help his body heal. His path to recovery is going to be a long one and littered with struggles once he leaves here. Thirty days is not a long enough time to kick a habit, especially for someone in the music business. The chance of relapse will be great unless he’s able to exorcise all the demons. Unfortunately for him, that may mean losing some of his friends.
But are they really his friends if they let him become like this? I say no, but I’ve never been in his situation, just on the other end of it. I know what it’s like to watch someone you love become addicted and you’re unable to help. That alone is what led me to take a job with my father: to try to help, to be someone’s friend while they’re struggling during recovery.
I lay my head down next to his arm and close my eyes. There are many firsts that are happening for me, and they all seem to be centered around Bodhi. I’ve had patients go through hallucinatory breaks, but I’ve never stayed with them, not like this. We have nurses for this type of care, as I’m not qualified to handle the medical aspects. My degree is in psychology. I try to help figure out how people tick.
The tender feeling of my hair being stroked wakes me. I open my eyes and try to focus on where I am. The beeping, the white sterile walls, and a body next to me have me jolting up in bed. I cover my face when I see Bodhi staring at me.
“Oh my God, I fell asleep,” I say behind my hands as my heart races with anxiety.
“I guess that’s probably against the rules?”
Against the rules—yes, of course. So much of what I’m doing and feeling is against the rules. I nod and breathe deeply to steady my heart. “I shouldn’t have done that. I mean, it’s okay to fall asleep, but not on your bed.”
“It’s not like you were in bed with me.” From his tone, I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. In an instant I imagine what it’d be like to lie next to him, to have his body pressed against mine. To know if the abs that are on display in the Virtuous Paradox calendar are real or computer-generated. I pinch myself to clear my mind of such thoughts and remind myself that he’s a patient and I need to keep it that way.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
I go to stand, but he latches on to my wrist, halting my steps. “Don’t go,” he begs. I glance at the door and close my eyes. The torment I’m feeling is unrealistic. I’ve known this man for hours—not months, not even days, but hours—and I’m already willing to do as he says. No, I can’t. I can’t be weak despite what my body is telling me to do.
“I have to get some work done, Bodhi. I’ll check in with you in a little bit.” I break free and rush out of the room, letting the door close behind me. As soon as I hear the metal lock click into place, I take a deep breath. As a few of the orderlies walk by, I smile and square my shoulders. If I act like I’ve done nothing wrong, no one will suspect otherwise.
Rushing to my office, I go in and shut the door. I’m so stupid. I look at the clock and see it’s after 1:00 a.m. Daphne will be asleep, but I have to talk to her. I pull out my phone and call, only for it to go to voicemail. The thought of spilling my guts onto a voicemail is stupid. So I hang up and dial again.
“Are you in the drunk tank?” she asks, her voice groggy with sleep. I’m a shitty friend, but she knows I’d answer if she needed me too.
“I’m having impure thoughts about my patient.”
“Scandalous.”
“Be serious, D. I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Daphne yawns and I can hear her bed shift. “I think
you need to get laid. Mr. Hottie with a problem walks in all casual-like, and your lady bits are on fire.”
“Daphne,” I whine, drawing her name out as I open the door to my apartment. When I started working for my dad, he asked me if I wanted to live on the grounds, like he does. He had my apartment constructed to attach to my office so that I don’t have to walk across the parking lot at night to staff housing. My place is nothing fabulous—one bedroom, one bathroom, with a kitchen and living room—but it’s home.
“Listen, sweetie, there isn’t anything wrong with you. It’s natural to feel attracted to a good-looking man.”
“But he’s a patient.”