Guilty | ✓

XXVI | Guilty

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | FAVORS FOR I LOVE YOU'S

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"WHAT ARE YOU THINKING about, Heather?"

Genevieve looked at the psychiatrist, giving him a shrug as she picked the dirt off her nails, intently.

"Nothing special," she looked around as if trying to find something, but she was only met with the white walls of the asylum.

Not her proudest moment, Genevieve had unfortunately landed in between the walls of an asylum, the security guards treated her like a possible escapee. It had been a week since Genevieve was imprisoned, and she could already tell that she hated it. The walls were bland, the food was stale, the treatment was violent, even the water was rancid.

It was absolutely, and utterly, disgusting.

Now, she was stuck with a very odd psychiatrist, who she felt incredibly suspicious about. Greyson Tanks, was a very eerie man, who wore his uniform like skin and paraded around as if he would kill anybody in a second. Genevieve should know, after all she acted the same.

But the way his eyes creased menacingly or how Genevieve could tell about the knife that was hidden in his pant's pocket, how she heard screams during the night of the other asylum mates. The thought sent a silent electrifying tick down her back.

"I miss my lover," Genevieve sighed, looking at Dr. Greyson with a faint sorrowful frown. "So, so much."

"I mean—he was perfect!" Genevieve smiled dreamily. "Beautiful chocolate hair . . ."

Dr. Greyson frowned. "I have brown hair."

"Stormy, grey eyes."

"I have blue eyes," Dr. Greyson mumbled, squirming uncomfortably on the metal seat in front of her bed. "And I think blue eyes are better than grey ones."

"An attractive body."

"I have a nice body," Dr. Greyson looked down on his work attire, scowling at how the large medical coat covered his, so called, "prominent abdominals".

Genevieve leaned on the pillow. "But he was a police officer—it would never work. I am, well, crazy. And he was that perfect. Once he said he loved me and I love him too. Very, very, very, very, very—"

"I'm afraid there are a lot of 'very's, Miss. Heather. Would you like to rephrase, please?" Dr. Greyson commented, gritting his teeth harshly. "I may not understand what you're speaking of. And I need to know everything. Detail. Of. You."

"Alright," Genevieve whispered, lifting her eyebrows in suspicion, looking back at the boring white wall in front of her. "I'm tired of these walls—I don't like them. This room is too closed off, I need more space. I need air."

"There's air in here," Dr. Greyson suggested, tapping his pen against his clipboard. "And I'm afraid Miss. Heather that protocol specifically states non-toleration to patients out of their specific rooms." He shrugged. "My condolences."

Genevieve perked up, twitching dramatically. "But-But I need air. Real air. Trees, buildings, people. Real people—who care and are like me. Not psychiatrists, like you, I need...love. I'm. Not. Crazy."

"Nobody here is crazy, everyone says the same rant—'I'm not crazy, this is a mistake'," Dr. Greyson leaned on his elbows on his knees. "And I do care about you. A lot more than you think, Heather."

"You're a psychiatrist, I'm just another patient to you, nothing special," Genevieve weeped, she could feel Dr. Greyson slowly and surely reflex from the tension between them. She knew what she was playing with, it worked on every man.

"I love you, Heather," Dr. Greyson confessed, yet his tone sounded far from nurturing—it was dark and wiry, chill-worth even.

Genevieve perked up. "Then help me."

"Why would I help you?" Dr. Greyson asked. "What makes you so special out of every other patient?"

"Because," Genevieve bit her lip in thought—he seemed hard to crack compared to other men, but she wasn't going to give in so easily. She was sick of everything surrounding her. "Because...I love you."

Dr. Greyson lifted a brow as he let out an unintentional exhale. "I'm listening."

"You're going to help me?"

"Yes," Dr. Greyson contemplated. "Only because I love you too."

Fool.

Genevieve grinned. "There's a tattoo parlor, south Manhattan, 62nd street—Belle Reve. Behind it there's a dumpster connected to an underground fighting range, there's a back door behind the door, open it and there's a bar. Be careful for Salazar, he's a drug tycoon—if you find him take whatever he's offering but don't drink it. Go to the bartender—his name is Harold not Howard. Get that right. Say the word I'll give you and we'll let you in. There's a box in that room, containing clothes, shoes, alcohol and pill bottles, most importantly a necklace—a Jesus cross."

"What's the word?" Dr. Greyson asked.

"Genevieve."

The name brought an unsettling chill down Dr. Greyson's back as goosebumps punctured his skin.

"One more thing," Genevieve announced. "I need a machine gun."

Dr. Greyson looked unsettled. "If they catch me, I'll end up in prison. Why would I help you so much?"

Genevieve smirked. "Because after we escape, we'll be together forever, no interruptions. We'll run away, start a family together, the two of us against the world."

It was silent for a second. "Where do I get the machine gun?"

"At the bar, get a ticket for the underground match against Barrio and Maeve, one of the head leaders, Arrington is a weapon dealer in Florida. Get a few and bring them here," Genevieve explained, raising a brow. "Are you capable of doing such a task?"

"Yes," Dr. Greyson answered, quickly leaving the room's door that was guarded by security guards.

Once he disappeared, Genevieve smirked, jumping off the metal bed and bouncing around in happiness, stretching her limbs out.

She rubbed her hands together. "This is going to be fun."

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