The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(39)

I leave Liz’s office, chuckling slightly at the sight of the doughnut box in the trashcan. I bet Camilla threw out some perfectly good food to stay consistent with her earlier lie.

My head itches from the bandages, and I shudder at the thought of meeting new people while looking like this. On impulse, I make a decision to visit Doctor Searle across the hall from Liz’s office.

“You have to make an appointment,” the lazy-looking receptionist says, barely looking up from her computer. “We’re booked through this month.”

The conversation with Liz has altered some of my perceptions. I don’t feel as much hesitation about Guiding people to do what I want. Somehow, it’s better than Pushing them. It’s semantics, I know, but it seems to work for me. Without any guilt, I phase into the Quiet and make the receptionist realize that the doctor will indeed see me now.

The good doctor needs a similar treatment. Without it, he failed to see why he, a dermatologist, should be dealing with gunshot wounds. After he’s properly Guided, however, he gladly takes my bandages off, thus expanding his specialty. I even learn that my stitches will dissolve and disappear with time—so if all goes well, there will be no need to see another doctor. I’m healing quite nicely, all things considered. I just have to be careful when getting my next haircut.

The mirror in the doctor’s bathroom improves my mood another notch. There’s a small patch of shaved hair around the stitches, but nothing too obvious. If I brush my hair more to the side, you can barely see anything.

With that taken care of, I’m off to Saks Fifth Avenue.

If I’m going to a party, I need to get some clean clothes.





Chapter 19


Wearing my new getup, I return to the hotel. The leather jacket I bought for the occasion is a touch warm, but I should make a good impression on the Guides I meet.

My phone rings, and I see that it’s Mira’s number.

“Hi,” I say, picking it up.

“Hi Darren.” She sounds uncertain. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better today,” I say, trying to sound both cheerful and sick at the same time. “Thank you for checking.”

“That’s good,” she says, now sounding more sure of herself. “I’m happy to hear that.”

Mira is checking on my wellbeing? It’s both amazing and difficult to believe.

“So what are you up to?” she asks.

Suddenly, it hits me. She wants to see me. She’s just being coy about it. But I already have plans, and I know that I can’t bring her with me. Not to this party, not with her attitude toward Pushers.

“I think I’m going to try to take it easy tonight.” I feel like an ass for lying, but I see no other choice. “I’ll drink some chamomile tea and turn in early.”

“Add honey and lemon to your tea,” she suggests. “That’s how my grandma cured almost any ill. Well, that and fatty chicken broth, but I don’t recommend that one.”

“Yep, I’ll do the honey and lemon, thank you. I’d like to see you, though, as soon as I’m better—which should be after a good night’s sleep. Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?”

“Yes, I think I would,” she says softly and somewhat out of breath. Her voice sounds almost sensual. “Let’s get in touch in the morning. Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll call you. Thanks, Mira,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Say hello to Eugene for me. Bye.”

“Bye,” she says and hangs up.

Well, that was interesting. All of a sudden, I’m less excited about the party. If I hadn’t agreed to go, I could’ve met up with Mira tonight. I bet catching her in this weird, pity-inspired ‘let’s not kill Darren today’ mood would’ve been fruitful. By tomorrow, she might remember how she really feels about me.

The excitement about the party slowly comes back to me during my room-service meal as I speculate on the different ways the whole thing might go. I am all ready and psyched again by the time I get a text from Liz.

Where are you now?

I text her my hotel address. I guess I trust Liz with my life at this point. Then again, if something goes awry, I can always switch hotels.

The limo will pick you up in ten minutes.

Now I’m impressed. My therapist definitely knows how to get attention. A limo to a party is seriously stylish.

I’m downstairs when I see the limo pull up. It’s a black, high-end limo, not one of those new Hummer-types. It comes fully equipped, right down to a guy in a chauffeur hat who calls me Sir and opens the door for me.

On the way, the driver doesn’t talk much, and I return the favor. I only have time to drink half of my glass of champagne before we arrive somewhere in the Meatpacking district. I don’t recognize the place, but Liz is standing outside. She looks stunning. Her usual office attire is already sexy, but it pales compared to what she’s wearing now. I have to make a concentrated effort to keep my eyes above her neck.

“I’m glad you came,” she says. “Let me show you inside the place.”

We go past the long line and the huge bouncers as though we’re invisible. I have no idea if Liz just used her persuasive power, or if Guides own this club and Liz comes here so often that the bouncers recognize her. We also don’t pay anything, even though places like this usually try to get you to pay a cover or buy bottle service to get in.