Page 16 of Vital Signs
"Trust me." His hand slid to my hip, fingers curling around the worn denim. The gesture looked casual, supportive, but the heat in his touch suggested something else entirely. "Just follow my lead."
Wright plastered on a concerned smile as he approached. "Hunter Song," he said, my name dripping with false warmth. "Well, this is unexpected. I've been worried about you."
Worried. Like I was a patient he gave a shit about instead of someone whose life he'd helped destroy.
"Dr. Wright." I barely managed to get the words out.
Wright's attention shifted to Misha. "And you've brought a friend. I don't believe we've met." Wright extended his hand. "Dr. Elliot Wright."
"Michael." Misha took the offered hand with that same sharp smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I work with Hunter."
"Work with Hunter?" Wright's eyebrows rose, voice dripping with sympathy. "I wasn’t aware Mr. Song was employable at the moment. Are you aware of his history?"
Fuck you, I thought and had to bite my tongue to keep from saying it.
"Hunter's helping me investigate a mysterious death," Misha continued. "One of your patients, actually."
Wright’s expression hardened. “May I see your badge, then?”
"Oh, I'm not with the police," Misha said.
"I see. Then on what authority are you here?”
“My own,” Misha replied smoothly.
Wright smiled, the fucking bastard. “Young man, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I don’t know what Mr. Song has told you, but… Are you aware of his history with opiates? They can cause delusions, you see.”
“I’m not fucking delusional,” I growled. “Tyler was here, and you knew he was having problems, yet you doubled the dosages on his experimental drugs, and now he’s dead!”
Wright's face went completely blank for a moment. "That's quite an accusation, Mr. Song." His tone remained infuriatingly calm. "The kind that could be considered slanderous if made publicly. But given your... condition... I'm sure you don't fully understand the implications of what you're saying."
I clenched my fists. “You fucking bastard. You killed him, and you know it.”
Wright turned to Misha. "I can't discuss my patients with outsiders due to HIPAA regulations. But I strongly urge you not to feed Mr. Song’s delusions, young man. I can recommend some excellent psychiatrists who specialize in addiction-related psychosis."
The gaslighting was masterful. Making me sound crazy, unstable, unreliable. All while sounding concerned and professional.
"We know Tyler was one of your patients," Misha said, voice sharp. “I have his prescription bottles to prove it.”
Wright’s smile faltered for just a second. “And you are?"
“Michael Laskin.”
“Ah.” Wright’s lip curled. “The apprentice mortician. And that accent… You’re the one from Paris. The damaged little bird who escaped Roche’s cage. I remember seeing your face on the news. Terrible what happened in Paris… But perhaps spending time with someone who shares similar... vulnerabilities... isn't the healthiest choice for either of you.”
Misha flinched. He actually fucking flinched.
Something dark and violent stirred in my chest.
"Back off," I growled. "You don't get to talk to him like that."
Wright's eyebrows rose. "How touching. The disgraced nurse defending the traumatized model."
My hands clenched into fists. Four years since I'd thrown a punch sober, but I was willing to break that streak. One hit. Just one, right to that smug fucking face.
Misha's hand found mine and squeezed.
I squeezed back, thumb brushing across his knuckles.
