Page 98 of Broken Dream
A silence descends upon the room, heavy and thick.
Peter clears his throat, breaking the tension. “Dr. Lansing, we understand how desperate you are for a second chance, but desperation can cloud judgment.”
I shoot him a nasty look. “Are you implying that my judgment is impaired?”
“No one’s implying anything,” Dr. Frohike interjects. “These are just precautions we have to take to ensure everyone’s safety.”
“Everyone’s safety,” I echo mockingly, “or the hospital’s reputation?”
“That is not fair, Jason,” Peter retorts, a harsh edge to his voice. “This is not about our reputation. This is about you, your health, and your well-being.”
“Is it?” I shoot back, my blood boiling at their condescension. “Or is it just another way to cover your backs? Just in case the ‘world-renowned surgeon’ fails?”
“Dr. Lansing,” Dr. Steel says, her tone still annoyingly diplomatic, “nobody here doubts the strength of your resolve or your right to pursue this procedure. And we certainly don’t doubt Dr. Patel’s skills. We are merely trying to ensure that you take the step with an understanding of all possible outcomes.”
“You think I haven’t thought about the possibilities?” I snap back.
“I’m sure you have,” she replies calmly. “But have you truly prepared yourself for them? Even the worst ones?”
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to still the whirlpool of emotions threatening to spill over. “I’ve lived with the worst outcomes already,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I lost my family, my career is in shambles, and every day is a constant reminder of what I used to be.” I meet Dr. Morgan’s gaze with daggers in my eyes. “You were supposed to help my wife. And she killed herself. She’s dead because of you. And I won’t leave my fate in another psychiatrist’s hands.”
I walk out of the room, rage boiling inside me.
And I know exactly where I need to go.
Chapter Thirty-One
Angie
I’m immersing myself in my psychiatry textbook when?—
I jerk.
Someone is pounding on my door. Tillie starts yapping.
I rise, leaving my book on the couch, and walk to the door. When I look through the peephole, my heart lurches.
Jason.
He’s wearing his leather jacket, his hair is mussed, and he has a crazed look in his eyes.
His gorgeous green eyes that I can’t resist.
I put Tillie out quickly and then open the door. “Jason? Why are you pounding?—”
He grabs me, crushes his lips to mine.
He tastes of desperation and fear. I try to pull back, but his grip is firm, like a vise around my waist. When he finally pulls away, his breathing is as labored as mine.
“Jason,” I whisper against his lips. “What’s wrong?”
“I need you,” is all he says before devouring me with another punishing kiss.
And I let him.
I have no idea what this thing is between us. He’s my teacher. I’m his student. He’s thirteen years older than I am.
And I don’t care about any of that.
