Page 20 of Vital Signs
My body's favorite trick when the stress got to be too much was to shut down. Disappear. Let time pass without me having to be present for it. The hypervigilance that kept me alive also had a breaking point, and when I hit it, my brain just... left. Took me offline until it decided I could handle existing again.
I sat up slowly, fighting the nausea that rolled through my stomach. My head was stuffed with cotton, heavy and disconnected from my body. Standing up took three tries. When I finally managed it, I caught sight of myself in the dresser mirror and my stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Jesus Christ.
The man staring back at me looked like he'd been hollowed out with a spoon. My eyes had dark circles carved beneath them, making me look like I hadn't slept in weeks instead of hours. My hair stuck up at odd angles, and there was something fragile about the way I held myself. Something broken.
This was what everyone saw when they looked at me. No wonder the Laskins treated me like I might shatter if they spoke too loudly.
Shame burned its way up my throat. I looked exactly like what Roche had made me. A beautiful thing he'd systematically destroyed, piece by piece.
Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck letting him win.
I could remember what it was like to be powerful. To walk into a room and watch every conversation stop, every head turn. Toknow exactly what I was worth and demand it without apology. That man wasn't gone. He was just buried under two years of fear and careful living.
Maybe it was time to dig him up.
Hunter had looked at me today like I was worth something. Like I was more than just trauma wrapped in expensive clothes. And when we'd stood together facing Wright, I'd gotten a taste of that old power. The confidence that came from knowing exactly who I was and what I wanted.
What I wanted was Hunter. And I wasn't going to get him by playing it safe. By being the broken thing everyone expected me to be.
Tonight, I'd face my family. Convince them that Tyler deserved justice. And then Hunter and I would break into Wright's clinic together. I was going to make sure he saw exactly who he was partnering with. Not a victim. A weapon.
I went to my nightstand and pulled out the small wooden box I kept hidden in the bottom drawer. The joint inside was perfect, rolled with artisanal cannabis that cost a fortune.
I lit up and took a long, slow drag. Roche was dead and buried and couldn't reach me here. The tension in my shoulders started to ease as the cannabis worked its way through my bloodstream.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the playlist I'd built during my modeling days. The bass line thrummed through the walls, through my bones, reminding me what confidence sounded like. What being young and queer and absolutely fucking unstoppable was like.
The second hit settled deeper, loosening knots of anxiety I'd been carrying for so long I'd forgotten they weren't supposed to be there. I started moving to the music, small movements at first. Just my shoulders. Then my hips. Letting my body remember what it was like to take up space instead of trying to disappear.
My body also remembered other things. Hunter's eyes on me at the coffee shop, tracking my movements with an intensity that made my skin prickle. The way he'd stiffened when I'd pressed against his back at the clinic. His hand squeezing mine.
And the way he'd looked at me when I'd stolen that keycard? It was like he wanted to pin me against the wall and find out if I'd keep that calm composure with his hands on me.
I wanted to find out too.
I opened my closet and ran my fingers over expensive fabrics I rarely wore anymore. Past the safe blacks and grays I'd adopted since Paris, back to the pieces that had made photographers fight for the privilege of dressing me.
My body had changed since Paris too. Two years of physical therapy and careful workouts to reclaim muscles that trauma had stolen. I was leaner now, harder. The softness Roche had preferred was gone, replaced by strength I'd built specifically to never be powerless again.
Strength that would let me climb through clinic windows tonight. That would let me move silently through dark hallways. That would let me press Hunter against a wall if the opportunity arose.
And I'd make sure the opportunity arose.
I ran my hands down my chest, over my ribs, feeling the firmness beneath my skin. Hunter's hands would follow the same path later. I'd make sure of it.
I stripped off my sweat-damp clothes. From my dresser, I pulled out fresh boxer briefs and my packer, the silicone weight familiar and comforting as I positioned it properly. Such a simple thing, but it filled out my underwear the way it should, made all the difference in how the jeans would sit, how I'd carry myself.
How Hunter would see me.
Because he would see me tonight. Really see me. Not the mortician in professional black. Not the traumatized model everyone treated like glass. The real me. The one who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it.
I pulled on a fresh pair of slim black jeans and immediately became more like myself. The denim hugged in all the right places, showing off the body I'd spent years perfecting on runways and in gyms. Hunter had noticed today—I'd caught him looking. Tonight, I'd make sure he couldn't look away.
The full-length mirror showed someone different now. The cannabis had smoothed the sharp edges of panic, and the music was reminding my body how to move with purpose instead of fear. I worked my hands through my hair, styling it into the perfectly tousled look that had once made photographers fight for my attention.
Would Hunter want to run his hands through it? Pull it while he kissed me? Fist it while I—
