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Honey steps closer to me, his hand resting on my waist. The warmth of his hand seeps through my top, and I try not to let my heart rate spike at the contact. With the weight of everything I’ve been running from crushing me, I need someone to hold onto.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“It’s fine,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just tired of running. And I feel guilty.”
Honey’s hand tightens slightly on my waist, and I look up to meet his gaze. His eyes are the warmest shade of brown I’ve ever gazed into, and there’s something in them that makes me feel safe, even though I know I shouldn’t because he’s a killer like me. But in this moment, I don’t care. I lean into him, craving the closeness.
“Why do you feel guilty?” he asks, his tone laced with genuine concern.
“We’ve not spent much time together.” I shrug.
“We have time. There’s no pressure. It’s been an intense introduction to life in the asylum. It’s not always like this, I promise.”
“But, the others—”
“May just need you a little more than I do right now,” he interrupts softly.
I try to hide my hurt but he sees it flash across my face, hears it in my wounded question: “You don’t want me?”
“I always want you, darlin’. But I’m good. Steady. Stable.”
“You’re a stable psychopath?” I tease, trying to lighten the moment. Honey doesn’t let me though. There’s no hiding my real feelings behind glib jokes with him. He sees me.
“I’m probably the stablest psycho you know. Some of the others, theyneedyou more than me. I’ve got time. I can share, and I know you’re more than worth the wait.”
His words ease some of the guilt that’s been settling in my chest. I didn’t even realise how tied up in knots I was over this. I like all of them. Like the weird relationships I’ve forged with each of them, even in a relatively short space of time, but once I realised it was more than just sex and a good time and making the most of a shit situation, things changed for me. I’ve been feeling so torn about not splitting my time with them equally. Between being sent on missions, continually tortured and surviving several attempts on my life, if I’m not recovering, I’m fucking. And I feel like I need a damn timetable to fit them all in. But I crave more than just a physical connection too.
But then a part of me, the part of me who’s not backing myself and claiming I’m a ten, wonders if they feel the same. Am I just easy pussy? It feels like a genuine connection with most, if not all, of them. But what if I’m projecting my desire to belong onto them when I’m just a hole to fuck?
“Stop that, Kayla,” Honey scolds me gently, seeing my thoughts as if they were projected into the sky like the bloody bat signal. “I’m crazy about you, was from the minute you walked in in that god awful orange jumpsuit. I can’t speak for the others, but I reckon they feel the same. This is real, not convenient.”
As the lift arrives at the art room, I pull away from Honey’s touch. I need to focus on something else. I need to release the pent-up emotions inside of me. I give him a quick kiss goodbye, step out of the lift and wave to him as the doors slide shut.
Alone, I walk over to the paint table and pick up a brush, dipping it into the nearest pot of black paint. Without even thinking about it, I start painting black streaks on the nearest blank canvas with all the energy I can muster. The sound of the brush scraping against the canvas is the only sound in the room for a while.
A pained hiss breaks me out of my trance and I drop the paintbrush in surprise. Whirling around, I scan the empty space looking for the source of the sound.
“Danny?” I call out, praying I’ve remembered the art counsellor’s name right. “Are you here?”
Silence.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
I’m not afraid, more pissed off that my solitude has been interrupted.
When no one answers, I abandon my sloppy black painting and begin to stalk around the room. Unarmed, like a fucking idiot.
The problem is, the space is vast, and with the elevator shaft right in the middle of the room, there’s parts of the studio that I can’t see from where I’m standing. Not to mention, massive canvases and backdrops in the way.
“Danny?” I whisper. “If you’re trying to scare me, I don’t appreciate it.”
No reply, but I swear I hear a pained groan, muffled but close by.
I take a deep breath and work my way towards the back of the room.
The back of the studio is clear, but I reckon Danny has a room off to the side somewhere. I hunt around for it, eventually spying a ginormous canvas on wheels, which I roll out of the way. There’s an unmarked door behind it, which I try.
It’s unlocked.
