Lovegame(107)

“I’ll call 911,” he says, already pulling his own phone out of his pocket.

“No! Not 911. I need to call her doctor.”

“Her doctor?” He looks at me incredulously. “She drugged you and covered you in blood—blood that we don’t know the origin of, by the way. And then she nearly shot both of us. You need to call the police.”

“That’s not—” My voice gives out and I clear my throat, start again. “That’s not how we do things. Please, just get me my phone. I think it’s on the bed.”

Ian doesn’t look happy, but he does what I ask, yanking at the bloody covers until he finds my phone. But instead of giving it to me, he carries it into the bathroom. I hear water running and seconds later he’s back, holding a damp washcloth in one hand and my phone in the other.

“Here,” he says, holding out the washcloth. “Do you want to wipe your hands first?”

I follow his gaze to my hands which are still covered in blood. “Oh, right. Thanks.” I take the rag in my injured hand and spend a few seconds cleaning my good hand before I reach for the phone.

“Can you call your doctor, too?” he asks as he hands it to me.

“My doctor?”

“You don’t even know what she drugged you with—or how much she gave you.” Disapproval is rolling off of him in waves. “Plus that cut on your hand is probably going to need stitches.”

“I need to take care of my mother first.”

His jaw clenches, and I can tell it’s taking every ounce of restraint he has not to just take over and order me to do things his way. He doesn’t though. He just crouches down next to me while I search through my contacts for my mother’s psychiatrist.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” I tell him as I finally find Dr. Reece’s number. “The drugs are wearing off. I can handle this from here.”

“Don’t push me, Veronica. This is your world and she’s your mom, so I’m trying to let you do this your way. But don’t push it.”

“Maybe you’re the one who shouldn’t push it. Considering you’ve been lying to me since we met.”

I don’t look at him again as I swipe across Dr. Reece’s number.

It’s his personal cellphone and he answers right away—he is the psychiatrist to the stars for a reason, after all—and I start to give him the bare bones of the situation. I’m barely a minute in before he tells me that he’s on his way.

“Are you alone with her?” he asks, and I can tell from the strained note in his voice that he’s moving fast.

“No.”

“Good. Keep it that way. And keep her calm. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Call me back if anything else happens.”

He clicks off and I’m left sitting there, with my mother curled up on my lap and Ian crouched down beside me. There are so many emotions rioting around inside of me right now that I don’t know how to feel, which one to concentrate on. So I lock them all down, barricading all of my feelings deep inside of myself so I can deal. So I can hold it together until Dr. Reece comes.

It’s a precarious state to be in and I can’t help feeling that one wrong move will shatter everything. Will shatter me—beyond recognition this time.

Ian must realize how close I am to the edge, because he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to explain himself, doesn’t try to convince me again to call the police or hear his side of the story or call my doctor. Instead, he just sits there with me, a silent presence as my mother mumbles nonsense to herself.

God. I can’t believe this is my life. Can’t believe that in the space of a week my carefully constructed house of cards has collapsed so completely.

“Don’t let them take me away,” my mother says suddenly, and I realize she’s been tracking better than I thought she was. “Don’t let them put me in that place again. I’ll be good. I swear, I’ll be good.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. Just continue to sit there and let her use me as a pillow. I should probably stroke her hair to calm her down like I usually do, but I can’t bring myself to touch her. Not now. Not yet.

“I just wanted to matter,” she whispers, her voice haunting in the quiet room. “I just wanted them to pay attention to me, too.”

“Who?” I ask, but I already know the answer. When it comes to this question, I always know the answer.

“Everyone came back around when your father died. I was on all the magazine covers, in all the newspapers. Everyone was talking about me. Salvatore Romero’s grieving widow. I got three film roles from it, remember? They were good roles.” She looks up at me, a wistful smile on her face that makes me shudder. “I had fun. Remember?”

“I do remember,” I answer, using every ounce of acting ability I have to keep my voice steady. She’s talking about my father’s death like it was nothing more than a way to boost her faltering career. I’ve always known she used it as such, but to hear her talk about it so calmly, so rationally even while I’m sitting in the middle of this…it’s chilling.

“But then time passed and everyone went away to other stories and other stars. I needed something big,” she tells me as she pushes herself off my lap, her eyes wide and pleading. “You understand that, right? I needed something huge to bring the attention back.”