“God, they could have killed you.”
“When the EMTs arrived, my sugar levels were dangerously low. They injected me with glucagon to raise my blood sugar level.”
“As your bodyguard, I’ll be monitoring your glucose levels.” He pulls out his phone and shows me the Dexcom app. “I’m already set up to access your glucose monitor. I might as well get into the habit, right?”
“Sure.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “Please don’t sound so enthusiastic.”
An unexpected snort escapes me as I’m caught off guard by his droll sense of humor. I’ve only talked to the guy for half an hour, and he’s already got me laughing. That’s a surprise.
Is it wishful thinking on my part to wonder if my new bodyguard might not be so bad after all?
Yes, you idiot.
You shut up.
Chapter 6
Jason Miller
Once Layla’s sound asleep, I slip out of her room so I can phone Ian from the hallway. He made me promise to call him as soon as I got a chance.
He answers on the second ring, his voice drowsy. “Hey, Jason.” He yawns. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No, I was up waiting for your call.”
“She’s fine. She’s sleeping.”
He lets out a relieved sigh. “I’m so glad to hear that.” Then I hear him whisper to Tyler, “Jason said she’s okay. She’s sleeping.”
I hear the rustling of fabric. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No. Perfect timing, actually. We’re just getting into bed. I’m putting the call on speaker so Tyler can hear, too.” He pauses for a moment. “She’s still having nightmares and wakes up screaming, so be prepared. You know she witnessed the drug dealer shoot and kill Sean. She was drugged after that, so the rest is pretty much a blur. She remembers just bits and pieces of being held captive in the warehouse, but it all jumbles together. It’s the stuff of nightmares, you know? Girls screaming, crying, begging. Layla was beaten repeatedly. She doesn’t remember a lot of it, but she has the bruises and cuts on her body to show for it.”
“I saw some of the bruises.” My stomach knots when I think about the bruises around her neck. They look like they were made by someone choking her. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep a close eye on her. You guys need to relax and get some sleep.”
“Thanks, Jason,” Tyler says. “Good luck tonight.”
“No need to thank me.” I feel honored to be the one chosen to protect this girl. I’ll gladly be her guard dog. I won’t let anyone hurt her ever again.
Just before ending the call, Ian throws out one more useful tidbit. “She keeps her phone and earbuds on the bedside table. Listening to music is one of her best coping mechanisms. If things get bad, turn on the music and put her earbuds in her ears.”
After the call, I slip back into Layla’s room to check on her, and I’m relieved to find she’s still sleeping soundly. I head into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar so I can monitor her, and get ready for bed. I usually take a shower at night, but I decide to skip it. If she calls for me, I want to be sure I hear her.
Once back in the room, I make up the sofa bed. I’ve got my duffle bag with me, containing a few changes of clothes and toiletries. After changing into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, I try to get comfortable on the mattress. This thing is rock hard, and I can feel springs poking me. I don’t know how Tyler and Ian stood it for so many nights. I guess now it’s my turn. Oh, well, I’ve slept in worse places.
As usual, sleep eludes me. My senses are focused on Layla who’s sleeping ten feet from me. I’m hyperaware of her every movement, every breath and sigh, every rustle of the sheets as she changes position.
I often get like this on a new assignment, edgy and restless until I get a good read on my new client. Until I learn their habits inside and out, their likes and dislikes. What scares them. What worries them. This is the first time I’ve had a client who suffers from auditory hallucinations. I’ve been doing my research, reading everything I can find about the condition, from medical textbooks to science journals to firsthand accounts written by people who suffer from the condition.
Layla hears a mean girl voice. That’s how she describes it.
I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a hateful, demeaning voice in your head day and night, tearing you down constantly, criticizing you. That’s got to be hard on anyone, but especially on a young woman. Layla’s just twenty-one. She’s at a vulnerable age when people are trying to discover who they are and find their place in the world. Hearing voices that tear you down day after day doesn’t make that easy.
After lying here for an hour and still unable to sleep, I open up the Kindle app on my phone and resume reading. If I’m going to help Layla, I need to learn everything I can about her condition.
Just as my eyelids start to grow heavy, and I’m thinking about putting away my phone, I hear a quiet sound. I lay my device down and listen.
Layla’s breathing rate has picked up.
I sit up and watch the rise and fall of her chest. She rolls to her side, facing away from me, then she promptly rolls back. Her hands are restless, fidgeting. She makes a pained sound, a whimper.
She’s having a nightmare.
I can relate. I have my own share of nightmares, but for a very different reason. Just as I rise from the sofa, she clutches her throat, grasping and pulling at something that’s not there. She’s actively struggling now, her body thrashing beneath the bedding.
I’m at her side a moment later, and I have to use considerable strength to pry her clawing fingers from her throat.
Layla screams as she sits up. She’s panting, frantic. I reach over to switch on the light so I can see her better. Her dark eyes are wide with terror, and she’s seeing something that’s not there, something from the dark recesses of a nightmare.
I hold her hands securely in mine to keep her from hurting herself further. “It’s okay, Layla. You’re safe.”
She blinks several times before focusing her frantic gaze on me. “What? Where—”
“You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”
It’s only then that I get a really good look at her neck. The column of her throat is entirely ringed with bruises.
“I couldn’t breathe,” she says, sounding a bit dazed. She pulls her hands free and touches her throat, searching gently. “It still hurts.”
“Someone choked you.” I read it in the police report.
She nods. “I remember him the most. He liked it. He laughed when I choked and gagged.”
My chest burns, and I see red. I’d give anything to get my hands on whoever did that to her. I’d like to see how he fares when the tables are turned and someone’s choking him.
Layla snaps her head to face the wall, and she stares into space, suddenly distracted. When she shakes her head, I see glittering tears in her dark eyes.
“No,” she hisses. She shakes her head vehemently. “No.”
I know she’s not talking to me. “What’d she say to you?”
Layla turns her startled gaze to me. “She said he should have choked me to death. Put me out of my misery and everyone else’s.”