Page 2 of Anarchy Chained: Alpha Thomas

Drugs that make me numb to everything and everyone.

I needed those drugs.

I still need those drugs.

“Have you talked to Case?” Yasmine says. She’s really fishing for a way in now. “Or Lincoln?”

She’s trying to get me to react. I know this. But I’m angry anyway. She has no right to invoke the names of my friends.

Still, I hold my words and feelings in.

I can still do this, I decide. I can still shut her out and keep her away. I can still control the feelings. I can still control my reactions.

But I cannot control the dead memories.

This guy who died today was a mess. So many things flooded into me. It took me down instantly. It made me weak, and pathetic, and powerless.

But I’ve got them corralled now. It only took a few minutes.

Still, in the heat of an important moment, those minutes count. Hell, seconds count.

“Well, that’s it, I guess,” Yasmine says. “It’s over. I can’t play nice with you anymore.”

Yup. It’s over all right.

“Take off your clothes,” she commands.

This is when I finally turn to face Yasmine. She is tall and, if I’m being honest, very fucking beautiful. Thick, long, medium-brown hair that falls over her shoulders like a soft waterfall. Large dark eyes. Full lips. High cheekbones. And she has one of those shapes that drive men wild. Not too thin, not too thick. Not too straight, not too round. Large breasts, wide hips, big ass, and tiny waist. She’s a cartoon character, I decide. Not real.

“I’m tired of talking to myself, Brooks. If you won’t cooperate, I’ll make you cooperate.”

I loosen the tie some more, then bring it over my head and drop it on the floor. The suit coat comes off next. I let that fall to the floor as well. Then I start unbuttoning my shirt. Slowly. Looking her in the eyes.

She’s breathing heavy. She likes this part. She likes me, I decide. She wants more than I’m offering.

I’m just using her. But I don’t feel bad about it. She’s using me too.

She tries to hold my gaze as I undress, but she falters when I take the shirt off and toss it aside. She stares at my chest and then her eyes wander down to my fingertips. I don’t have a belt on, so she watches as I unbutton and unzip my pants.

I kick off the shoes and let my pants fall to the floor until I’m standing there in my black boxer briefs. She unabashedly—and unapologetically—studies the muscles of my legs, then moves up. Her eyes stop, perhaps checking to see if I’m hard.

I’m not.

Then she continues to the flat plane of my abdomen, my chest again, and then—finally—my face.

“I had high hopes for us, Thomas. We could’ve made a great team, you and I. But our time is up. I’m sorry you decided to waste it.”

I’m not sorry.

I pick up the worn-thin scrub pants and pull them on. Then slip my arms into the matching shirt and bring it over my head.

Yasmine kicks the standard-issue shoes at me, disgusted that I wasted her time. She presses a button on her desk phone. “We’re done here.”

But I don’t care if she’s mad. I don’t care about anything anymore. I can’t afford to care. I can’t afford to feel. I can’t afford to be weak.

I slide my feet into the slip-on sneakers and hold my wrists out for the handcuffs when the orderly comes in to take me back to my room.

“Maybe tomorrow then?” Yasmine says as I walk past her.