Page 9 of Vital Signs
I lay in the darkness of my borrowed bedroom, staring at the ceiling as morning light crept around the edges of the blackout curtains.
Hunter. Even thinking his name made my pulse race. Every time he looked at me, my pulse kicked up like my body couldn't decide if it wanted to run or get closer.
"Arrête," I whispered to myself, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes.Stop this.
The digital clock on the nightstand showed 6:47 AM. I'd been awake since the nightmare had jolted me upright, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints. Same dream as always. Roche's soft voice. The needle. The sensation of sinking beneath dark water while remaining conscious.
I sat up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood floor chilled my bare feet. My reflection in the mirror across the room looked like a stranger: too thin, too pale, darkcircles beneath my eyes. I touched the scar on my jawline, a thin white line almost invisible unless you knew to look for it.
Paris was both a lifetime ago and merely yesterday.
The Laskins had given me this room eighteen months ago, when I came to America with Xander and Ash after the nightmare in Paris. A sanctuary within their sanctuary. They'd asked no questions, made no demands. I still didn't understand why they'd taken me in, but I was grateful.
With a sigh, I got up and started to dress.
There was a time when the ritual of dressing was something I looked forward to. Back when I lived for the Parisian runways, red carpet galas, and the way photographers and designers alike fought over the chance to dress me. Once upon a time, fashion was my kingdom, and I was a king, or at the very least, a prince.
Now, fashion was functional. I kept my shirts buttoned, hiding the scars that I'd once showed off proudly in photo shoots. I'd traded plunging necklines and mesh panels for high collars and ivory buttons.
I paused in front of the mirror, running my fingers over the tattoos that now covered my top surgery scars. The left side bloomed with delicate cherry blossoms, pink petals unfurling along branches that wrapped around my pec and curved toward my heart. Life, renewal, beauty rising from necessary wounds. The right side told a different story: an anatomical rendering of muscle and sinew torn open, revealing clockwork gears beneath.
Fashion magazines had once called me "duality incarnate" and "the queer revolution personified." I'd weaponized my body against conservative sensibilities, each runway appearance a deliberate provocation. Now I hid behind layers of fabric, high collars, and long sleeves that revealed nothing of the person I'd been. The person Roche had systematically dismantled.
My phone vibrated, and I picked it up. "Oui?"
"Just reviewed the security footage from last night," River said. "Saw someone picking the lock on the service entrance around midnight. Everything okay over there?"
I hesitated. River Laskin was not someone you lied to easily.
"Someone broke in," I admitted, keeping my voice neutral. "I handled it."
Silence stretched. "Anyone I need to worry about?"
"No. Just someone looking for Tyler Graham. A friend. He just wanted to see him."
"And you let him?" No judgment in River's voice, just curiosity.
"Yes."
"All right," River said after another pause. "Need me to fix the lock?"
"Already done." I had repaired it after Hunter left. "River, would it be all right if I took today off? I'd like to go speak to this Doctor Wright. See what I can find out."
"Take whatever time you need," he said after a minute. "Family meeting tonight. Seven o'clock. Annie's making meatloaf."
"I'll be there," I promised.
After ending the call, I grabbed my laptop, headphones, and a small notebook. The Laskin house was quiet as I descended the stairs.
I left a note on the refrigerator:Gone to Athens. Back for dinner. - M
The drive into Athens took just under ten minutes, the road winding through barren winter trees, frost crystallizing on bare branches that cracked and popped in the bitter cold. Ohio landscapes were still alien. So much emptiness. So much space between people.
Athens in January pulsed with renewed energy as students returned for the winter semester. Students rushed betweenbuildings, breath clouding in the frigid air, faces buried in scarves bearing Ohio University's green and white colors.
I found parking near Court Street and walked two blocks to The Front Room, a coffee shop frequented by students and faculty. I ordered a double espresso and claimed a corner table with my back to the wall, positioning myself to see both the entrance and the street through large windows. The espresso arrived in an oversized mug. I grimaced at the first sip. Over-extracted and watery, but caffeine was caffeine. I would drink motor oil if it kept the nightmares at bay.
I positioned my laptop to shield my screen from curious eyes and placed my headphones over my ears, selecting a Gesaffelstein track that had once thumped through Paris's most exclusive nightclubs. The dark, industrial techno wasn't Bach's elegant mathematics that Roche had forced me to listen to during his "sessions". This was my music: pulsing, relentless, alive. Before Paris became a nightmare, I'd danced to these beats until dawn.
