Page 27 of Torched Spades
That’s a lie.
I know exactly why I did it, and it’s not a what, but awho. A man who looked me in the eye last week and went into extreme detail about how red lipstick tripped the same sexualized response he got from setting fires.
I’d asked about surrogate outlets to analyze his response.
I never expected to question it.
Red lipstick.The answer came too quickly to be believable. For true pyrophiliacs, thereisno substitute. Either they’re all in or all out.
That’s why after Johnny left, I spent hours examining every notation in his previous doctors’ files, then decided to put my findings to the test.
However, that was then. Now, the thought of seeing him after seven long days sends goosebumps scattering across my heated skin—a sensation as contradictory as the man himself. Johnny Malone is a walking paradox. Intense and all-consuming one minute then apathetic and distant the next.
I wonder which version I’ll get today?
The question lingers as my phone rings for the fifth time since Saturday. I don’t bother looking down at it this time. I have no intention of answering his call, especially not now. Silencing the ringer, I shove the whole damn thing in my desk drawer and slam it closed.
Damn it!I told him to give me some space, not blow up my phone. Now he’s one call away from me clarifying my point with a block.
Closing my eyes, I exhale and regroup, pushing one man out of my head before I make my way toward the lobby and it’s consumed by another.
“Mr. Malone,” I say, a plastic smile painting my face.
He rises from his chair and stalks toward me, a predator wrapped in denim and darkness. I mask a wave of disappointment that the slight stubble he wore last week is gone. Not that his clean-shaven jaw isn’t a chiseled work of art, but something about that barely there beard exuded danger.
You’re his doctor, I remind myself. Then he smiles, and his wolfish grin sends my credentials flying out the window and a rush of heat to my not-so-professional parts. I return his smile, and I’m rewarded with a flirtatious wink as he brushes by me.
I sigh softly, immediately clenching my teeth.
A breathy sigh, Becca? Really?
Closing the door behind me, I avoid direct eye contact as I take my usual seat in the chair opposite him. Still, I can feel his sharp gaze on me as I cross my legs.
Background…I remind myself.Get him to divulge the details of his life before becoming a social pariah.
But the moment I look up, my brain shuts down. Instead of a thought-provoking question, all that comes out is, “You shaved.”
Smooth.
The look he gives me is so disjoined, for a moment, I wonder if he heard me. But then his vague frown tips into another arrogant smirk.
“You like it?” He swipes his fingers across his chin. “Something I heard last week may have prompted it.”
Don’t ask. Donotask.
“And what was that?”
Fuck.
“Someone told me in order to change who you are, you have to remove anchors holding you to the person you were.”
Andthisis what he got out of that conversation?
“That was metaphorical, Mr. Malone. I was referring to mental anchors—psychological weights holding you down. I didn’t mean for you toliterallychange your appearance.”
“Huh…” He drags his tongue across his teeth, taking my focus along for the ride. “Well,thatinformation would’ve been useful a few days ago.”
The bastard’s toying with me…
