Twisted with Chaos_A CASH BAR NOVEL by Hayley Faiman

Author:Hayley Faiman [Faiman, Hayley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hayley Faiman Books, LLC
Published: 2019-04-29T04:00:00+00:00

ROXANNE

I sit in the corner of the room, my back propped against the concrete wall. My eyes focus on the drain in the center of the room. It’s the only thing that I can actually focus on at the moment. Anytime I try to think about Houston, about the Notorious Devils, Carson, or Maîtriser, my mind starts to spin out of control.

The drain is my only focus point at the moment. I’ve gone to the bathroom a dozen times, just to stretch my legs, for something to do. It’s been less than forty-eight hours and I can already feel myself deteriorating. I’m unfocused and beyond restless. I don’t know what comes next, maybe mania, maybe depression, maybe delusions or hallucinations. It’s a fucking crapshoot.

There’s a noise at the door and I lift my gaze, wondering if Maîtriser will be coming back. I haven’t seen him since he told me about Melodie. I refuse to think of her. She betrayed me, but it wasn’t purposely, she probably just didn’t want to lose me. If I lived at the compound with her, then we could still be friends. I understand that. I would have wanted her to be with me at the Devils’ clubhouse if I could have.

The door opens, light spills in and I wince, my eyes already unused to the brightness. I’ve been in this dim, dank concrete room for at least two days, maybe three. Time isn’t important down here, or ever again, for me.

“You look tired, Roxanne,” Maîtriser points out.

I’m exhausted, not tired, downright exhausted. I haven’t slept even for a moment since I was brought here. I’ll probably never sleep again, which will make everything in my head a million times worse. I’m lucky that I’m coherent enough still that I know what will come next. Therapy has helped with that, with being able to identify my feelings, and my body’s reactions—for now.

“I am,” I admit.

There’s no reason to be nasty to this man. Being here, with him, it was my choice. My life for the lives of all the people that I love. It’s a small price to pay, and I’m willing to hand over my life and my sanity for them.

“It’s time you get up now, shower and then come back here to me,” he gently instructs.

Lifting my gaze from the drain, I look up to him and I’m surprised to see that he’s changed out of his leather cut, jeans, and t-shirt. He’s wearing a pair of slacks, a button-down crisp white shirt and his hair is combed and slicked back. He doesn’t look like the biker he once did. He looks different, scarier even.

“You changed,” I mention, lifting my hand toward him.

He hums with a nod. “A leader of my stature doesn’t wear jeans and cotton t-shirts,” he informs me.

Slowly, I stand on shaky legs. My hair is dirty, my body even more so. I do need a shower, desperately. If I’m not forced, hygiene is not the top of my priority when I’m not medicated.

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