The Treatment (The Program #2)(14)

A hurt sound escapes my throat as her question brings up pain I can’t associate with any specific memory. But suddenly I hate her. I can see exactly what she’s doing, how she’s trying to provoke me.

“You know damn well I can’t remember,” I tell her. “But I can assure you I’m not going to kill myself now—if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Dallas chuckles, sipping again from her drink. “Why would you think I’d want that?”

I glance over to where James is waiting at the bar, handing cash to the tattooed bartender before swirling the red liquid in one of the cups with a doubtful look. Dallas makes a tsk sound.

“Oh, please, Sloane,” she says, leaning closer to me as we both watch my boyfriend. “If I wanted James—really wanted him—I wouldn’t need you dead to take him.” I’m about to slap the drink out of her hand and tell her to sober up before I punch her lights out, when James is there, setting a cup in front of me. He doesn’t even acknowledge Dallas.

“No idea what this is,” he says to me. “But it’s the only drink they serve.”

“It’s called Bloodshot,” Dallas says. “It makes you feel things.” She grins when James glances over his shoulder at her, her lips tinged with the red liquid. She reaches to run the backs of her fingers over James’s bicep, and rather than flinch away, he stares at her like she’s lost her mind. “I’ll see you later,” she murmurs intimately to him before strolling away, earning a few eager looks from the other guys in the club—including the pierced one who’s still against the wall. When Dallas is gone, James sits.

“What the hell is wrong with her?” he asks, picking up the cup and smelling it before taking a tentative sip.

“She’s psychotic,” I say, and take a long drink to block out the doubt and worry. The taste is unbearably sweet at first, and I make a face after I swallow it. I don’t believe Dallas. She couldn’t have James—not even if I was dead. James blows out a hard breath, examining the drink.

“This is strong,” he says, pushing it aside.

I nod, taking another sip. Heat crawls down my throat, spreads through my chest—but I like it. I like how quickly it makes my body relax, my thoughts blur. I finish my drink, observing the room until James leans closer to talk next to my ear, his arm casually over my lap.

“I think that dude is on something a little heavier,” he says, motioning to the guy I’d been watching. But I’ve lost interest in the suicidal kid.

My mind swirls with comfort, and as James’s fingers draw patterns into my skin, desire. He’s midsentence when I turn and kiss him, catching him off guard for only a moment before his hand is my hair and his tongue is in my mouth. The world fades away and it’s just us, murmuring I love yous in between kisses. I’m feeling so much and thinking so little. Soon I’m out of my chair and dancing in the middle of the crowd, James pressed against me as the music builds walls around us.

Red drinks. Sad eyes. I kiss James, threading my fingers through his hair, wishing we were anywhere else. And then we are. James is leading me through a dark maze before he backs me up against a cool wall. I’m out of breath as he pulls my thigh up around his hip. He kisses my neck, my collarbone. “James.” I breathe deeply, ready to be lost completely when a bright light floods my vision.

“Hey!” a deep voice calls. James stays against me but turns toward the light, lifting his hand to block the glare. “You two can’t be in here,” the man says.

It takes too long for my focus to clear, to find we’re in some back room next to crates and boxes. My palm touches the exposed block wall behind me as light from the club filters in the open door. I’m not drunk. This is something different, something better.

“I think they put something in my drink,” I murmur as James steps back. I try to straighten my clothes, but James has to catch me by the arm when I nearly trip on my high-heeled boots. James, still flush, takes a second to realize what I’ve said.

“You sure?” he asks. Confused, he glances around at where we are, at me, and then curses under his breath. “Yeah, they did,” he agrees. I let him walk me to where the bouncer is hold-56

ing the door open. When we pass him, he shakes his head, looking more annoyed than angry.

“Keep it in the club or take it home,” the bouncer calls after us. James chuckles and tells him he’ll try his best.

When we escape into the smoky room, James pauses to look around. Low voices and loud beats surround us, and they sway me once again. I’m in a hyper-reality where nothing is wrong, nothing hurts. I like this.

“Do you feel okay?” James asks, his eyebrows pulling together in concern. I want to touch him, and I reach to put my hand on his cheek. I think about how much I love him, and before I can tell him, I get on my tiptoes and kiss him again.

“I want you,” I murmur against his lips. I’m suddenly convinced I need him, need that closeness in a way I never have before. The intensity of our touch, his mouth against mine—

“Sloane,” James says, taking my hands from his body. He leans down so his eyes are level with mine, smiling. “Although I’d like nothing more than to tear off those ridiculous clothes, I’d prefer to do it in private.” He nods his chin to the scene around us, and I’m reminded we’re still in public. I touch my forehead, trying to make sense of my feelings. I blink quickly and look back at James.