Sneak Attack (Tapped Out 2)

Dr. Phelps consulted her slim bangle watch. “Three minutes. Have you turned to combative sexual activity to feed your compulsion to self-harm through your physicality?”

Back on that again. “Say what?”

“Do you fuck violently because it satisfies your need to fight?”

The pleasant tone fooled me for a full thirty seconds until the good doc’s question permeated my brain. “I’m pretty sure I fuck for the same reasons everyone else does. I might be broken in a lot of ways but I still have basic physical desires.”

That knowledge had caused me plenty of heartache last winter, but the last eight months had changed me. Tray had changed me. As much as I might sometimes want to brain the guy with one of Carly’s slotted spoons, I couldn’t deny all the ways he’d helped bring me closer to the regular person zone.

Closer was the most I could hope for. Even that was a freaking miracle.

“There are more reasons to copulate than physical needs.”

From sexual activity to fucking to copulation. My head was spinning. “I know that. Some people just use it as an excuse to spoon. Or spork. Or whatever the hell it’s called.”

“But not you.”

“I don’t like getting hot when I sleep.” I pushed to my feet. “Look, Doc, awesome sesh. I’ll see you next—” Lifetime. Century. Millennia. “Week,” I finished, bending to grab my backpack.

Dr. Phelps rose. “I’d like to ask you again to reconsider having Tray join us.”

I stopped dead and shot her a glare over my shoulder. “Why? He’s fine. He’s not like me.” No one was.

“I think your relationship could benefit from couples’ counseling. What one partner endures affects the other. You said he went through some troubles of his own. Perhaps if you shared your difficulties together, you could reach a new level of understanding. With my help, of course.”

“No. He’d never do it. He’s fine,” I repeated. “He’s annoyingly well-adjusted, even with his ‘difficulties’.”

“He’s your touchstone, Mia. I truly think any breakthrough you achieve would be facilitated by his involvement.”

“You just want to tell him I mentioned fighting again. I’m not stupid.” I hitched up my backpack and headed for the door.

“Mia, constantly deflecting blows that aren’t intended will hinder your recovery.”

Fighting metaphors and a mention of my “recovery”—who the fuck recovered from being imprisoned in a pretty cage at fourteen, I wanted to know—were a recipe to send me slamming out of Dr. Phelps’ beige wonderland.

I’d be back. She knew it. I knew it. But still, we played the game.

On the way out of the building, I stopped in the ladies’ restroom. It was a lovely purple with sweet-smelling soap and creamy lotion for hands stressed from the rigors of digging into broken brains and hearts. I bypassed the fancy female stuff and dug out dark red lipstick and eyeliner from my bag. I’d taken to wearing them occasionally, mainly because I knew Tray liked it when I wore girlpaint. He never actually said. He wouldn’t. So I did it for him, in my own way.

I layered the makeup on until my eyes appeared soaked in black. Rubbed the lipstick over my lips until they swelled from the pressure.

A quick look in the mirror proved I looked badass on the outside though I felt positively numb inside. But appearances were important. Sometimes the most loving thing you could do for someone you cared about was to act as if you were okay. If you made them believe the cracks you’d sewn together with cheap thread were holding, maybe eventually the lie could become truth.

I capped the tubes and marched out, head held high, chest still so tight that I didn’t dare take a deep breath for fear my ribs might shatter.

Out on the street, I hailed a cab. Tray was probably still studying his huge stack of science books in the library, but he’d be home sooner rather than later. Just to be safe, I wouldn’t take the time to walk home in case he left school early. It wasn’t much, but at least I could be physically present for him if not always emotionally.

As the cab swung to the curb, my phone went off in my bag. A text ringtone, not a call. My stomach dropped to my sneakers. Shit. It wasn’t the right time for my hang-up caller. They called religiously between eight and nine a.m. and eight and nine p.m. I’d learned to keep my phone off at those times. So maybe it was Tray.

Just like that, my muscles unlocked and warmth surged through my general heart area. I still wasn’t fully convinced I had one. Maybe the whole concept of that organ was an urban legend, built to give girls like me something else to feel inadequate about.

Like I didn’t have enough.

The cabbie leaned across the passenger seat. “Hey lady, you getting in or what?”

Ignoring him, I grabbed my phone and read the text from an unknown caller. My hang-up caller was also unknown but this was a new number. The three-word-message blurred under my intense focus, but it repeated in my head even when my eyes went blind.

I see you.