Rough Edge (The Edge #1)(33)

“What about Warren?”

“I need someone to ID the incident so we can do CPT with Warren or whomever.” Cognitive Processing Therapy was a simple reliving of the trauma, but if the patient wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, or was in denial that a trauma had occurred, that was a different kettle of fish.

“Messy. What are the symptoms?”

“Patient thinks he’s being watched.”

“Oh, shit! I have to tell you something.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “This is apropos of nothing. Ronin’s working at Blackthorne Solutions.”

I should have told her no right there. Should have said I didn’t want anything to do with his crazy bullshit.

Instead, I raised my eyebrows and put on a face that said, “Tell me more.”

“I got a test subject request from Aberdeen for symptoms relating to… check this out… a feeling of being watched.” She pinched her fingers together at her forehead and spread them out, letting them flutter as they moved away from her head.

“And this leads to Ronin how?”

“It was an old form and his name was still on it.”

“So he was working on that when he left?”

“I think so. Do you want the form?”

“Maryland’s not an option.”

“But Ronin’s here…” she singsonged. “You could see what he’s got going at Blackthorne.”

“No.”

I was too quick to deny. Blackthorne was a military contractor that took payment from governments and corporations. They sent security personnel into war zones, used mercenaries and special operators to manage power vacuums in small countries, and developed weapons for the Pentagon.

I didn’t want the form, but if I really did have a patient like Caden, I’d get it.

“I mean, maybe.” I changed my answer.

“Let me know.”

We moved to other topics. She asked how my proposal from Tina was coming. I asked about art therapy and the NEA. We didn’t talk about Blackthorne or my patient again, but I didn’t stop thinking about it. Even after I found someone for Caden and he got his ass on a couch for a session, I made sure I had an updated number for Ronin.



* * *



Caden hadn’t wanted to meet Ronin for dinner. Hadn’t wanted to tell him a damn thing. Didn’t like him or trust him. But we were out of options, and he knew it.

When we got home from Gotham, Caden silently helped me with my coat. His fists were tight and his eyes burned. His muscles were taut under his shirt, and he smelled of need. My body reacted by sending a flood of fluid from my mouth, which had gone utterly dry, to my crotch, which was suddenly dripping.

“Greyson,” he said.

He reached around me and flipped the deadbolt, then stepped away enough to frame the whole of my body in his sight. His eyes coursed over my edges and curves while he flexed his fingers.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

No answer.

“Now? Is it the Thing?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” I started unbuttoning my blouse, helpless against the smile creeping across my face.

“Say yes.” His fingers went from flex to fist over and over as if he was stopping himself from using them.

“Yes.”

I undid the second button but never got to the third before he ripped the shirt open, sending buttons flying. He pushed me against the wall, hand under my bra, squeezing my breast.

He shoved his other hand under my skirt and found my wetness. “That’s right, baby.”

I was pushed down onto my knees with my bra over my tits and my skirt half over my waist. He undid his jeans and pulled his cock out like a weapon. A drop glistened at the tip.

Pushing the back of my head forward, he guided himself into my mouth. “Take all of it. And make it wet. You’re going to need it.”

I opened my throat and let him fuck my mouth. Spit dripped from my lower lip. I groaned, vibrating for him when he was deep in me. He came down my throat and watched as I swallowed.

Looking up at him, his still-erect cock in the foreground, I could tell we weren’t done. He was still half animal.

I was getting better at knowing which man I was looking at.

He stripped me down and we began in earnest.





Chapter Sixteen





CADEN





Blackthorne Solutions.

The dark room was about six feet by six feet and painted black. I sat in a chair in the center, a clicker in each hand, keeping my eyes on the dot of light on the wall in front of me. To the right and left, in my peripheral vision, photos were projected in pairs at a faster and faster pace.

RIGHT: A child in a pirate costume.

LEFT: A child with a black eye.

(click left)





I answered as I was told, choosing the more violent image without forethought. The Thing didn’t have a say. But it wanted one. It had opinions, and I had to think around it before I clicked.

RIGHT: Viet Cong shooting a man in the head.

LEFT: A flower with drooping petals.

(click right)





It was always there now, starting as a whisper in the shadows and growing into a scream in the darkness every day, every hour, every breath.