Fixation

  Fixation

  nicole dykes

  Copyright © 2020 by Nicole Dykes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Playlist

  1. Blake

  2. Elle

  3. Blake

  4. Elle

  5. Elle

  6. Blake

  7. Elle

  8. Elle

  9. Blake

  10. Elle

  11. Blake

  12. Elle

  13. Blake

  14. Elle

  15. Blake

  16. Elle

  17. Blake

  18. Elle

  19. Blake

  20. Blake

  21. Elle

  22. Blake

  23. Elle

  24. Blake

  25. Elle

  26. Blake

  27. Elle

  28. Blake

  29. Elle

  30. Elle

  31. Blake

  32. Elle

  33. Blake

  34. Elle

  35. Elle

  36. Blake

  37. Blake

  38. Elle

  39. Blake

  40. Elle

  41. Blake

  42. Elle

  43. Blake

  44. Elle

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Also by nicole dykes

  You Don’t Know How It Feels

  Tom Petty

  Iris

  The Goo Goo Dolls

  Nothing Left to Lose

  Mat Kearney

  Awake My Soul

  Mumford & Sons

  Be Alright

  Dean Lewis

  Habits (Stay High)

  Tove Lo

  The Sound of Settling

  Death Cab For Cutie

  Million Reason

  Lady Gaga

  She Will Be Loved

  Maroon 5

  Come Pick Me Up

  Ryan Adams

  Lived A Lie

  You Me At Six

  Fool In The Rain

  Led Zeppelin

  Every time You Leave

  I Prevail (Fea. Delaney Jane)

  Going to California

  Led Zeppelin

  Make it Without You

  Andrew Belle

  **I don’t own an of these songs. They are just what I listened to as I wrote this story! Enjoy!**

  My left eye slowly flutters open, but quickly snaps shut as the bright, white light attacks all my senses. I feel like I might pass out or puke.

  Fuck. Am I dead?

  If I am, I doubt it’s a bright, white light I’d be seeing.

  Okay, let’s try this again.

  My entire body aches, and I’m already craving something to numb the pain.

  I try the right eye this time, but it’s met with resistance. Ah shit, did I get into a fight? That hardly seems like me. That’s more Brandon’s style.

  I mean, I’ve been in a few fights before, and I’ll definitely be in more, so it’s not entirely out of the question.

  I open my left eye again and force the fucker to stay open as I look around one-eyed since the right is swollen shut.

  Worse than I thought. I’m in a hospital bed with no one around. The alone part isn’t shocking, but the hospital part sucks.

  I look down at the white gown I’m dressed in but don’t see any tubes or wires holding me in the bed. I try to sit up, but instantly feel dizzy as a nurse in purple scrubs rushes in.

  “Mr. Richardson, please stay in the bed.”

  I look the nurse over with my good eye. She’s pretty, not the drop-dead gorgeous, model type, but still pretty. Overworked. Tired. Her black hair is pulled into a low-maintenance ponytail, her scrubs are wrinkled, her white tennis shoes are worn and scuffed.

  She checks my vitals, and I manage to smirk as I sit back against the white pillow. “Chicks are always trying to get me to stay in bed longer.”

  She rolls her eyes, but I see the small smile tugging on her pretty pink lips. She doesn’t mess with her hair and doesn’t wear other makeup, but she does paint her lips. Interesting. “I’m sure on your good days that’s true.”

  I laugh, but then suck in a rough breath as a sharp pain rips through my chest as well as a stabbing pain in my ribs. “Fuck.” I look her dead in the eye, managing a grin, though maybe it’s more of a grimace. “You think this is one of my bad days?”

  Her eyebrows draw together as she looks at me before shaking her head in pity. “Well, I know waking up in a hospital isn’t all that strange to you, Mr. Richardson, but this can’t be considered a good day to you.”

  My hand covers my ribs. “Cakewalk. And please stop calling me Mr. Richardson. Blake is fine.”

  She nods curtly as she looks over the iPad in her hands which I know by now contains my medical chart. “Fine, Blake.” Her pretty, brown eyes meet mine, concern filling them. “You know this addiction is going to kill you, right?”

  I fight another laugh, vividly aware of the pain that caused last time. “And what makes you think I’m addicted to something?” My eyes scan over her again. “I don’t think we’ve met before today.”

  Though it’s entirely possible we have.

  She takes a seat in the chair next to the bed, and I know what’s coming. It’s always the same no matter who’s giving the come-to-Jesus speech. “The history in your chart tells me you are. The amount of drugs and alcohol in your system when you came in twelve hours ago tells me you are.”

  Be nice. She’s trying to help. And she’s actually pretty cute. Usually it’s a much older, bloated man telling me this same shit.

  I look right into those pretty, brown pools of pity and irritation. “And your point?”

  “It’s going to kill you.”

  “Pretty sure it wasn’t drugs or alcohol that blacked my eye and broke my ribs. Feels more like a person did that.”

  Her head slides from side to side, and I raise an eyebrow with curiosity as she stands and walks to the end of the bed, looking at me head-on. “No. You fell down a ravine.”

  Well. Fuck.

  That’s a new one.

  “I did what?”

  “You heard me.” She stands there, and I notice the ring on her left finger as both of her small hands hold onto the iPad. “You were out cold. There were no witnesses to tell us if you passed out and fell or were knocked out, but I’d say both are plausible, although there is no significant head trauma. There was an anonymous call that alerted the authorities.”

  Not surprising. Whoever I was with was probably high as fuck.

  “I’m fine. Can I go home? I fucking hate hospitals.”

  She glances down at the chart again. “Doesn’t seem like it. You’ve been in here what, twice for overdose, once for an altercation.”

  Fancy word for a bar fight.

  “Don’t stay long, though.” I move to sit up again, and she walks to me, pressing gently against my chest, forcing me back.

  “You need to be cleared by a doctor before you leave, and you need to rest. You took one hell of a fall.”

  “I need a fucking cigarette.” I look around the room, not seeing my things anywhere. “Can you help me with that?”

  “Of course not. No smoking.”

  My head is spinning with pain, and I rub my left temple with my index finger. “Hospitals are supposed to be about helping.”

  “We are.”

  “Cool, then I’ll settle for some Oxy.”

  Her pretty eyes roll again, and I risk the laugh, the agony ripping through my body yet again. Okay. Not worth it.

  “Blake . . .” I look at her when she uses my first name as I asked, most doctors still use my last name. “What if you had died?”

  “Then I’d have done the world a fucking favor.”

  She sits on the side of my bed, my comment seemingly getting to her. “No. It wouldn’t. And what if you hurt someone else next time? I can’t tell you how many victims of intoxicated driving we see in here.”

  She wants to reach me, be the one to change me. So many before her have tried this shit. So fucking many. “I don’t drive. So, no worries. The only one I’m going to hurt is me.”

  “Someone would miss you.” Her hand covers my left one that’s covered in cuts and bruises.

  “No one.”

  Her look is soft, her sadness for me palpable. I have to wonder whether that look would still be there if I looked differently? If, instead of clear, blue eyes, a sharp jaw line that could cut glass, and high cheek bones, I had a haggard, wrinkled, and scarred face with saggy jaws. If, instead of sinewy muscles and ripped abs, I had a potbelly and scrawny arms, she would be looking at me with concern, like the world needs me in it. Why? For fucking what? I haven’t contributed a damn thing in my life other than having a killer smile and matching body.

  “You wanna be my friend?”

  She hears the insinuation in my words, and I guarantee she sees it in my eyes as she pulls her hand off mine. “I’m married.”

  “You wish you weren’t though.”

  She stands up and looks down at me as if I’m a fire that burned her by merely calling her out. We’re all fucking depraved, I just don’t hide it. If she gave the go-ahead, I’d fuck her right here, right now, withou
t even closing the door to my room because I was blessed with the gift of having no fucking morals.

  Her being married isn’t my problem. It’s hers. And maybe her husband’s.

  But it definitely isn’t mine.

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  She should leave, but she hasn’t. She tucks a piece of her long bangs behind her ear, staring at me, intrigued, caught up in a fantasy of the stranger she wants to save propositioning her.

  “You’re a fixer. You would love nothing more than to fix me in any way possible, using everything you have, including your body.” Her jaw drops slightly, and I watch her swallow, trying to wet her dry mouth. I look directly into her eyes, feeling kinder than normal. She’d better heed my warning on this one. “But I would break you. And I would enjoy it.”

  Her eyes are lost in mine, but I don’t falter. My chin stays held high. That was a kindness because I’m not kidding.

  “I’ll find a doctor to discharge you.”

  With that, she quickly exits the room, and I lean my head back against the bed.

  Good girl.

  “Honey, please go grab table two for me.” My boss, Mr. Howard, the greasy, overweight, overly-touchy fucker, squeezes my shoulder and gestures toward the back of the diner where I work.

  I cringe at his touch but nod my head and grab the coffee pot, following orders. I need this job. I need both of my jobs just to barely stay afloat and be able to stay in college.

  It’s my senior year at K-State, and I’m not going to let anything stop me from my goal of graduating.

  Not even mister touchy-feely.

  At least he works around my class schedule and lets me work extra shifts when I need to. It’s worth a few “accidental” brushings of my ass here and there. And hell, that’s the first five minutes at my other job at the bar. Every night.

  Don’t judge me until you’ve walked a day or two in my orange Vans.

  I need more coffee. I can feel myself getting bitchier and bitchier as the day goes on.

  I walk back to table two, and before I even stop at the table, I know this isn’t going to go well.

  “Fucking finally.”

  Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. Not today.

  Last night was shitty. My best friend, Gabby, the girl who was my roommate from day one here, moved into a house with her boyfriend, Brandon, yesterday and out of the apartment we’ve shared together since our sophomore year. I’m now living by myself in a one-bedroom, studio apartment in Aggieville above the bar where I work. Every sound I heard last night had me tossing and turning all night long.

  Classes are back in session tomorrow, and I hope I can figure out how to get some sleep tonight.

  I’m happy for Gabby. I truly am. She found the love of her life, an epic love story I’ve only read about in books. But I’m sad for me. I miss her already, and she only lives a few blocks from me.

  I don’t trust people easily and honestly, I’m really not a fan of most humans. I see through bullshit at lightning speed and prefer books to social interaction.

  Case in point, the douchebag in ripped, two-hundred-dollar Diesel jeans and a white polo, with a gold watch on his wrist that I can almost guarantee costs more than most cars. His tousled, sandy hair probably took him all morning to get that fingers-run-through-it look, and his blue eyes are cold and piercing as he stares at me as if I’m somehow wasting his time.

  I’d say he was physically perfect except his right eye looks slightly swollen and bruised and his large hands are scraped all to hell.

  I pour coffee into the white mug already on the table and hand him a menu. “What can I get you?”

  “No apology for making me wait?”

  Do not commit homicide, it’s barely seven in the morning. Best to wait til after dark.

  I put on my best fake, and I mean very fake smile. “Sorry for your thirty-second wait, sir.”

  His forearms cover the menu on the table as he leans forward, his deep, honey-like voice capturing me in its web for only a moment. “I like when you call me ‘sir.’”

  Jesus Christ. Really?

  Okay. relax. He’s an entitled asshole, used to getting exactly what he wants, when he wants it. Essentially, he’s a toddler. If this were one of my romance novels, this would be the opening scene where the asshole hero tries to rattle the heroine. Now, in some, this works and the girl melts instantly at the broody, sexy asshole’s feet. But in my favorite books and really the only ones I will read, the girl tells him to “fuck off” and doesn’t fall for his bullshit.

  Of course, this isn’t a book, and I do need this job.

  “What can I get you?” His full, pouty lips lift in a smirk, and before he can add anything, I quickly add, “that’s on this menu.” I point to the paper menu covered in plastic with my pen before bringing it back up to the pad of paper in my hands.

  He leans back into the chair. “Well, you’re no fun, are you?”

  “Never claimed to be. No.”

  He half-laughs at that as his icy blues scan the menu. “Eggs. Over hard.”

  His eyes meet mine with a devilish glimmer. If you make a joke about being hard, I will stab you with this pen.

  “That’s all?”

  He nods. “Yeah.” I grab the menu and start to walk away, but he stops me with his voice. “I know you.”

  I spin on one foot to face him. “What?”

  “Yeah, I know you.”

  He looks slightly older than me. Not by a lot, but I don’t think he’s a student. “Is this some cheesy line?”

  “Please. I don’t need lines to make panties drop.”

  Oh, good lord. I place the coffee pot on the table and one hand on my hip. “Okay. How do you know me?”

  His confidence is annoying as his lips slide into a smirk. “Gabby.”

  Shit. He did not just say my best friend’s name. “How do you know Gabby?”

  “I don’t really. She is, however, fucking my friend Brandon quite frequently. They’re kind of a thing or whatever.”

  My throat is dry now, and I swallow, trying to wet it. “You know Brandon?”

  Now that, I can see. Brandon’s not that bad, but his story with Gabby wasn’t an easy one even if it has ended up happily. He’s a former addict who was once hell-bent on exacting revenge against Gabby’s brother Michael.

  “I do. In fact, I’m staying with him for a couple of weeks.”

  What? Gabby didn’t tell me that. I thought she told me everything. “Does Gabby know that?”

  His large shoulders shrug with indifference. “She was there when I showed up with my bags in hand this morning. So, unless she’s completely stupid, I’d say she knows.”

  Asshole. “She’s far from stupid.”

  He looks bored by my comment. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  I can’t threaten him right here and now. I don’t even know him. Hopefully, he’ll be gone soon and it won’t be a problem. But if he makes trouble for my friend, I will end him.

  “I saw you at the last Christmas thing. Or New Years. Some shit. I swear they throw a party for every holiday. Probably even Flag Day.”

  Gabby’s family is known for throwing extravagant parties. Honestly, before I met her in person, all I knew about her was that she was from Kansas City and her brother owns three huge, custom car businesses. The biggest one is in Kansas City, the other two in Oklahoma and California. Yeah, I googled them. I have a curious mind.