Bad Boy Addict

❁ 06. Teenage Fantasy ❁

❁ JINNAH'S P.O.V.❁

The knife rises up to her throat, catching the light from the pale moon above. Katherine didn't want to die. Not after everything that happened. She was close to victory; so close enough she could almost taste it on her tongue.

       "Any last words, Katherine?" Doctor Williams cooed, inching the icy blade to her flesh.

       Carson swoops into the back room, snatching my iPad out of my hand and cutting short the story I'm reading. "Hey! I'm on my break. Give it back."

      I'm getting to the good part. I haven't had much time to write or read this weekend. After being kidnapped and held against my will, I walked to the police station that next morning with the gun I confiscated, wrapped in a paper bag. I described my abductors to the best of my ability and gave them details on the warehouse they drove me to. The officers there had a hard time believing me until I showed proof of the weapon in my possession. But my faith on the authorities in Chicago is next to nonexistent. I have better luck finding the culprits myself.

       The night Xavion dropped me off, I bought pepper spray and a pocket knife online. If I can't get protection from the cops, then I have to defend myself. I don't know how fortunate I'll be if they catch me for a second time. I might not get out of there alive.

      "Your ten-minute break ended twenty minutes ago," Carson tells me, handing it back. "You're lucky Meredith is out for the week. She would've chewed you out for sneaking back here for a thirty-minute break."

      "Good for me Meredith isn't a part-owner like you," I muse. Carson's granddad founded the coffee shop The Daily Brew back in the eighties. He started off opening up shops near college campuses in California and progressively gained more spots throughout the state, and then eventually nationally. Two years ago, Carson's granddad placed the responsibility of opening their first store in the Midwest. Here in Chicago.

      He narrows his eyes. "I'm too easy on you."

      "You could fire me," I offer, "but you know you can't because then who will you complain to? You'd have no one." I shrug, pushing past the swinging kitchen doors and returned to my spot behind the cash register. "Be grateful that I'm essentially a free therapist."

      "Now, tell me, what new story are working on now?"

      I re-assign myself to the cash register. The cash drawer pops out and I shove it back in. "I wasn't writing. I was reading a story in the back room."

      Carson is among the tiny number of people in my inner circle who know about the fan fictions I post online. Sloan and my cousin Leyla are the other two people who know, and no one else. I have a hard time writing anything else and an even harder time telling people about my hobby. In a way, I can compare it to my serial dating life. It feeds the temptation I have to escape my reality, submerging me into a world that isn't my current one. I find bliss, acting as one of the characters in the story. I'm safe in that constructed universe. With relationships, it's the same. And I know how unhealthy it sounds, looking at it now. I crave their love, using their affection as a temporary bandage on my glaring internal cuts and bruises. I run from the truth, ignoring their flaws, and continue to indulge myself in their intoxicating adoration. The way I depend on others to heal wounds that I can't even confront is both detrimental and a recipe for a heartbreak.

      "What story were you reading?" Carson asks.

      His voice tugs me out of my thoughts, reminding me of where I am. I've been in my head for so long that I don't notice there is a customer in front of me. I help them order, charge them, and send them on there way before answering Carson's floating question.