A Need So Beautiful (A Need So Beautiful #1)(11)

When Harlin moves his hand, I can finally see the patch of skin—red, slightly raised. It’s about the size of a quarter, but it looks like it should really hurt. Only it doesn’t. At least, right now it doesn’t.

Harlin touches my chin and turns me to him. “Did something happen?” His hazel eyes are wide with protectiveness. I shake my head and press my lips together to assure him.

“I must have hit it on something,” I say, somehow knowing it’s not true. “Maybe at Plato’s.”

Harlin’s face softens as he balances me on his thighs, facing him. “You gotta be more careful,” he whispers, leaning forward to kiss the spot. “You know it makes me a murderous psycho to think of you getting hurt.”

I laugh. He’s exaggerating. The closest he’s ever come to murderous psycho was the time he told Mercy’s old landlord to drop dead for locking us out. But other than that, he’s even-tempered. Harlin is a gentle soul. Always has been.

His mouth touches my neck, and I put my hands in his hair, blinking slowly. But as soon as I close my eyes, feeling Harlin’s hand sliding to my waist, I see it. It’s all I can see: 5918 W. Broadway.

I straighten, trying to heave in a breath, but it feels caught. I wheeze and Harlin takes me by the upper arms and moves me over on the bed.

“Charlotte,” he says loudly, putting a hand on my cheek. “Are you having an attack?”

Not now! Not now! But I shake my head yes, making high-pitched noises as I touch at my chest, trying to stay calm. I knew this would happen. I waited too long.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, scrambling off the bed. “Stay here.” He moves quickly toward the bathroom down the hall. Harlin makes me keep an inhaler in his medicine cabinet. I have one at Sarah’s, too. But I can feel that my cover story is beginning to wear thin. Who has asthma like this?

My body is convulsing, lurching forward with each gasp. I should be there by now. I’m late. When I wait too long, the Need gets more powerful. More . . . painful.

The minute I hear Harlin’s bare feet on the wood in the hallway, I clutch my shirt closed and climb off his bed, slipping my feet into my shoes. My head is beating a steady pace with my heart and I wish I could just stay here, in Harlin’s room.

But I know I can’t. This won’t stop until I do what I have to—whatever is needed at 5918 W. Broadway. I stare out into the hallway, hearing Harlin open the medicine cabinet.

Turning away, I stumble toward his bedroom window, gripping the frame. Pushing it up takes nearly all of the strength I have left, but it’s the only way out. I can’t risk walking past the bathroom and having him stop me.

I put one leg at a time over the sill and step out onto the steel grid of the fire escape. I snake my body through the window until I’m out in the dark night, standing above an alleyway. I quickly move down the stairs, buttoning my shirt as I go. I pause once to feel the odd patch of skin on my shoulder, but I’ll have to look it over later. When I’m done.

My breathing improves now that I’m moving. My bones begin to warm a little. Just enough to tell me that I’m going the right way.

Chapter 4

It’s nearly twenty blocks later when I’m standing in front of a crumbling old warehouse, the number 5918 painted on the red bricks. The broken panes of glass are jagged like sets of sinister teeth. This is a really bad idea. There is no way in hell I’d be out here if it wasn’t for the Need. This side of Portland isn’t the safest place to be at night.

A wave pushes through me and I stumble toward the oversized metal doors. A flyer—the same one from Plato’s—is taped in the window. Next week there will be a community event to restore the building, something truly inspiring, I’m sure. But tonight it’s still just an abandoned warehouse. And a creepy one at that.

I step back. Need or not, there is no way I’m going inside. Chances are, there could be a junkie or dealer living inside. It wouldn’t be the first time the Need has put me in this position. Last month I walked into the dark back room of a restaurant. It was filled with drug dealers, their guns out on the tables. I told Anthony that his girlfriend was pregnant and needed him to straighten up. That if he didn’t, she’d leave and he’d never see his kid. I thought for sure I was going to get killed that night, but instead, he listened. And I walked out unscathed.

But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared. No . . . whatever it is I’m here for now, I can do it from outside. At least there are streetlights.

There’s an intense heat running under my skin, setting my shoulder on fire. I move the white fabric of my shirt to peek at it. The red blotch is darker now in the center. I feel my stomach turn at the sight. It wasn’t like this at Harlin’s.

I touch it because warmth is pulsating down my arm, seemingly from that spot. But as I brush the skin . . . it rubs off. I hitch in a breath, my eyes wide. I wipe my finger softly over the raised area again and another layer comes off. It’s like goldleaf on a cheap antique—just flaking away.

I’m starting to hyperventilate, but the pain seems to fade with each swipe I take. I press a little harder as I run my fingers over the spot and soon there’s no more skin there. I cry out at the sight of it and cover my eyes with my shaky hands. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. But the burning in my shoulder is gone and it’s pure relief.