Page 14 of Vital Signs
Just like me.
My hands shook as I pushed through the glass doors, and not entirely from withdrawal. Being back in a medical facility made my skin crawl. Too many memories of who I used to be, what I'd lost, what I'd thrown away for the temporary peace of chemical oblivion.
Misha followed behind me, moving through the space like he owned it. No hesitation, no discomfort.
Watching him move made something tighten in my chest. The way he carried himself was all elegant lines and controlled graceeven in a shitty Ohio clinic. Like slumming it with me was just another performance.
Four years ago, I wouldn't have been able to afford the air he breathed. Now here we were, planning crimes together. And I was trying not to think about how good he'd look pressed against the nearest wall.
Focus. We’re here for Tyler. Justice. Not how Misha's jeans fit.
"Records desk is around the corner," I said. "Martinez should be working."
"Show me the break room first," Misha said.
I looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What?"
"My backup plan involves future access." His smile was sharp, dangerous. Made me want to see what other dangerous things that mouth could do. "This might not be our only visit."
"What if you get caught?"
"The key to getting in anywhere you're not supposed to be is confidence." He adjusted his leather jacket. "Look like you're supposed to be there and nobody asks questions. I had plenty of practice on Paris runways. If I can belong there, I can blend into a clinic in Ohio."
The break room was typical medical facility fare. Mismatched chairs, an ancient coffee maker, bulletin board covered in OSHA notices and birthday party announcements. Three nurses sat at a small table, eating lunch and complaining about a difficult patient. Their jackets hung on the back of their chairs.
"Stay here," Misha murmured. "Keep watch."
I scowled at being told what to do, but crossed my arms and did as he asked.
Misha walked straight into the break room and made a beeline for the coffee machine. As he passed the chairs, his hand dipped into a jacket pocket so smoothly I almost missed it.
The movement was pure performance. Controlled, graceful, the kind of thing you perfected under hot lights and camera flashes. That's when it clicked. The walk, the bone structure, the way he held himself. Misha wasn't just a mortuary worker. He was one of those models from the magazines Tyler used to flip through, pointing out the beautiful people living in a world we'd never touch. I knew I’d seen him before somewhere!
He poured himself a coffee and then walked out with the same casual energy.
Nobody even looked at him.
"Jesus," I muttered once we were down the hallway.
"Confidence," he said simply, showing me the keycard. "She won't even notice it's missing until her next shift."
Was it pathetic that his thievery made me even harder? Probably.
But watching Misha work—smooth, controlled, completely unrepentant about breaking rules—did something to me. Made me want to pin him against the wall right here in this hallway and find out if he'd look that calm with my hand around his throat.
Made me want to be the thing that finally broke his composure.
"You're staring," Misha said, not looking at me.
"You're a criminal," I replied.
"So are you." He tucked the keycard into his pocket. "Difference is, I'm good at it."
The arrogance was fucking hot.
We needed to get this over with before I did something stupid. Like kiss that smirk off his face.
The records area sat behind bulletproof glass, a necessity in a clinic that served everyone from suburban soccer moms to people like me. Carlos Martinez looked up when I approached. His eyes widened slightly, then his eyebrows shot up. When hetook in my hollow cheeks and shaking hands, his mouth turned down at the corners.
