I stare back.
“What?” I ask her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
She smiles. “I’m just happy to see your eyes open. I know this is going to sound stupid, but you were in a bad way on Goose Beach. And I haven’t been able to get those images out of my head. So it’s nice to see you wide awake and perfectly fine. I’ll have something to replace those bad images with now.”
Well, the idea that I’m perfectly fine is debatable. But I’m a little puzzled. She seems genuinely concerned, truly troubled. And she doesn’t even know me, so why should she care?
So I ask her that.
And she’s the one who’s puzzled now.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she asks, and then she pulls on her full lip with her teeth. My gut clenches again as I catch a glimpse of her pink tongue. “Anyone would be concerned. And it was the first time that I’d ever tried CPR. I don’t even know if I did it right. And it was the first time I’d ever seen someone overdose. I wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong when I first found you. But you didn’t seem like you were just drunk. I’m glad I called the ambulance.”
I stare at her now.
“You called the ambulance?” Interesting. I wonder what the hell happened to Jill? She probably left me to die, the fucking whore. You get what you pay for, I guess. A few snorts of coke apparently don’t buy much.
Beautiful Girl nods. “Yes, I did. The girl who you were with wasn’t too happy about that. But I thought you needed it. And it turns out that you did.”
Ah, so Jill was there.
“There was a girl with me?” I raise an eyebrow, probing to find out what happened with Jill.
Beautiful Girl shakes her head. “Not at first. She came while I was trying to decide what to do. She was mad at you for something-until she saw the condition you were in. And then she got hysterical. She left when the paramedics arrived.”
That sounds about right.
“Well, thank you for calling help,” I tell her slowly, eyeing her, taking her all in. “I’m Pax, by the way.”
She smiles. “I know. Stalker, remember?”
I smile back. “Well, you have me at a disadvantage. Because I don’t know you.”
And that’s a damn shame.
She holds out her hand and I take it. Hers is small and soft, almost fragile.
“My name is Mila Hill. It’s very nice to meet you.”
And it is.
I know I should tell her to run far, far from me, but of course I don’t. She’s like a ray of sunshine in this bleak hospital room and I soak her up. She’s got good, healthy energy and I like the way it feels to talk with her.
She’s like a breath of fresh air.
I may be the Big Bad Wolf, but even wolves need to breathe.
Chapter Four
Mila
I stare at the man in the bed, at this tattooed, hard man.
Pax Tate is beautifully sexy in a very masculine way. There’s not an ounce of fat on him, he’s muscled and strong. I can see that from here. He’s got an air of strength about him, like nothing is too much for him to handle, although his recent overdose contradicts that notion. I feel like there’s a certain sadness to him, probably because his eyes hint at things that I don’t yet know about him, troubled things. His body is hard, his face is hard, his eyes are hard. Like stone.
And even still, I am pulled inexplicably to him.
I can’t explain it. It’s not logical.
Maybe it is the vulnerable look hiding in his glittering hazel eyes; the eyes that almost seem warm, but contain too much past hurt to quite allow that, so they appear hard instead. Maybe it is the devil-may-care attitude that exudes from him. Or perhaps it is the jaded look on his face, the expression that tells me that he is simply waiting for me to show that I am only here because I want something from him, which isn’t true, and part of me wants to prove it.
I don’t know why I’m here, actually.
I don’t have a good reason.
I reach over and graze his hand with mine, right in the spot where his thumb forms a V with his index finger. There is jagged scar there in the shape of an X and I remember seeing it the other night.
“How did that happen?” I ask Pax curiously, as I finger it. It’s clearly old, but it’s apparent that it was a really deep cut. The scar hasn’t faded much, but the edges have that fuzzy look that old scars get. He looks unconcerned as he shrugs.
“I don’t know,” he tells me casually. “I don’t remember getting it. There are a lot of things in life that I don’t remember. It’s all part of it, I guess.”
“All part of what?” I ask. I feel like he is baiting me, challenging me. But challenging me to what? It almost feels like I’ve been invited to play a game, but the rules aren’t going to be explained.
“Part of what happens when you fuck your life away,” he tells me, his voice harsh now, cold. I feel the urge to shiver from it, but I don’t. Instead, I simply pull my hand away from his. His eyes meet mine. He notices my retreat.