Sleeper Read online

  Sleeper

  Katherine Rhodes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SLEEPER: Saints and Sinners 1

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2019 © Katherine Rhodes

  Cover: JRA Stevens for Down Write Nuts

  Formatting: Down Write Nuts

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  The author acknowledges the following brands, companies, organizations, and copyrights: The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP), St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children, Penn Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania, Thomas Jefferson Hospitals, Eggo, Maxalt, Amy’s Omelet House, PATCO, Wawa, Cefaly, The Horsham Clinic, Google, Ikea, Belmont Hospital, U-haul, Target, Moorsetown Mall (Moorsetown, NJ), Best Buy, Microsoft, Apple, Samsung, Android, Post-its.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Sleeper

  Sloth

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Katherine Rhodes

  Also by…

  There is no line between good and evil.

  Dr. Wren Warner--successful, respected, and hard-working--doesn't have time for problems. She has patients who count on her.

  But all of her problems lie in sleep.

  As in, she can't. When she does, she is haunted by memories of fire and swords. It's starting to interfere with her work and she's desperate for answers.

  One person may be able to help.

  Dr. Fischer Skillman is the best neurologist on the east coast. Not only does he know his way around a brain, but he knows dream disorders better than anyone. Things don’t start off well when he pisses Wren off before their first consult.

  Until they touch.

  Wren and Fischer share a vision neither of them can explain--the first of many. Wren is tired and scared, while Fischer doesn't want to investigate the reasons. When Wren is called in to help the children rescued from a sex trafficking ring, she needs Fischer's help, but he refuses to budge. It’s not his job.

  Wren and Fischer are pulled into a mystery when Elutheria--one of the rescued girls--proves to be nothing like the others. They find themselves in the center of things that defy understanding-- but they need to understand, to save Ellie.

  Wren’s story is a slow build, high burn series.

  “The soul of the sluggard desireth,

  and hath nothing: but the soul of the

  diligent shall be made fat.”

  —Proverbs 13:4

  Wren

  Sleep was an elusive bitch.

  It had been for years. I was tired of trying to sleep and getting nowhere, and the whole thing had taken a turn for the worse after…

  Well, after.

  I didn’t know if it was worth this waiting room, though.

  Whoever had decorated the renowned Doctor Skillman’s waiting room had apparently thought zebra stripes and red patterns were a good idea. For people who had disorders like insomnia, shift work disorder, sleep apnea, and narcolepsy?

  Not even close.

  I wanted to puke. The room was spinning, and I finally forced myself to pick up a magazine, pick a page and lay it over my face to make it stop. I just hoped no one else had put the page on their face.

  Germs. Shiver.

  This doctor was supposed to be the best sleep doctor in Philadelphia, and I needed some damn sleep, soon.

  So I waited in the nasty, nausea-inducing room for my name to be called so I could get this mess under control. I was tired of listening to my bosses tell me I had bags under my eyes.

  It seemed to be hours later, not minutes, when the receptionist finally called my name.

  “Temperance Warner?”

  Oh. Shit. I’d forgotten about that. I hustled up to the counter, hoping I didn’t trip over the psychedelic rug. “I’m Wren Warner.”

  She looked at me over her glasses. “Temperance?”

  “I don’t use that. Can you make a note on the file? I always go by Wren.”

  “Temperance is a lovely name.”

  “I didn’t ask if you liked it, just change it.”

  Well, okay. That was what I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I managed to hold my tongue. “Could you please make a note? I just don’t go by Temperance.”

  The huff of annoyance made me want to punch her—and the twitch of the muscle in my hand sent a cascade of pain up my arm. That made me unclench my fist and cool off.

  She did finally take a Post-it off her kawaii kitten popup holder and scribble Pat. prefers Wren and slapped it on the top page. Her slap even offended the bobble head nekko she had sitting there, which bobbled violently.

  If it were any other time or place, I would have loved to just chat with her about the kawaii cats she had everywhere. I adored the Japanese ultra-cute trend, but she was just a bitch and would probably look down on a thirty-two year old trying to talk pop-culture to her arrogant ass.

  Millennial versus millennial, show down of the century.

  “Ms. Warner, Doctor Skillman was called away on an emergency. Since you’ve been waiting so long for this appointment, his junior partner Doctor Rana will be doing your intake. She’ll discuss your case with Doctor Skillman when he returns later today.”

  My blood pressure spiked, and when I clenched my fists and the pain came back, I relaxed. “That’s fine.”

  It actually wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to wait another six goddamn months until this guy had another ‘new patient’ opening. People could complain about socialized medicine wait times, but when you have a referral from another prominent doctor for the first available appointment, and it’s still six months…it’s all damn moot.

  Doctor Dubrovsky had been trying to treat me for a year before he finally conceded I was a mystery. My brain didn’t seem to work like anything he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t puzzle it out. He handed me a referral to Doctor Skillman, close to home at a hospital in Philadelphia.

  If I had known the preeminent sleep disorders doctor was 10 miles from my house instead of 90 up to New York City, I would have gone there first. The internet lied to me. Gasp, feign shock.

  “We’ll call you back in about five minutes,” the receptionist said and motioned me back to the waiting room.

  Bloody Zebra Hell, she meant.

  I sat down right next to the window so that I didn’t have to traverse the dizzying patterns, and waiting, staring at my cell phone on my black pants. It cut out most of the horrible carpeting.

  MiriMiri: Hey you. S’up?

  Wrentastical: Fucker got called out on an emergency.

  MiriMiri: Are you for real?

  Wrentastical: Really real. I’m seeing some sub.

  Wrentastical: The recept
ionist bitch called me Temperance.

  MiriMiri: Oh noes. This is turning into a mess.

  Wrentastical: Preach.

  “Wren? Warner?”

  I looked up and did a double take. Doctor Rana was a gorgeous Indian woman with long black hair and black-black eyes. Her skin was a warm light brown, and looked soft and satiny. Her lips were pink and sporting just a little gloss and all of my lesbian sensibilities were nailing the meters.

  The problem with being bisexual was that my libido just didn’t know when to cut the shit.

  “That’s me,” I finally managed.

  “Please, follow me,” she said, waving me after her.

  Wrentastical: Shit. Hot doc alert!

  MiriMiri: ooh, pix?

  Wrentastical: No! HIPAA.

  MiriMiri: He have a nice ass?

  Wrentastical: SHE has fantastic one.

  MiriMiri: …and you’re playing for my team today! PIC!

  Wrentastical: Hey! Switch hitter here. I saw her first.

  Miriam only sent me back a middle finger emoji. I chuckled as I walked into the patient room with Doctor Rana. She dropped onto a chair and motioned me to the other across from her.

  “Welcome to Penn, Ms Warner,” the woman said. “I’m Doctor Laxmi Rana and I’m one of Doctor Skillman’s partners. I regret he cannot be here as he has been looking forward to speaking to you.”

  “What happened?” I asked. “I mean, not to belittle your degree, but Doctor Dubrovsky wanted me to see him.”

  “Oh, you will, absolutely. Just, not today. He had a neurological emergency at CHOP.”

  “Oh.”

  I felt a bit sheepish. The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia was not a place anyone wanted to go for an emergency. One of the best children’s hospitals in the world, I always cringed when I got called in for a consult there. It was undoubtedly A Very Bad Situation.

  “So,” the doctor said, leaning back in her chair, and running her very long, well-manicured finger over the touchpad. God damnit, libido. Sit down! “Let’s start with the basics. Temperance Dear Warner.” She cocked her head at the sheet, then looked at me, then back at the sheet. “Seriously? Skylar said you were being a bitch about your name? What the hell is wrong with that woman?”

  I couldn’t stop my laugh. Her perfect, lightly Hindi-accented, enunciation in a near sing-song tone of the last sentence drove home the fact that it wasn’t me, and that the receptionist was a bitch. “I’m sorry. That was just rude of me.”

  “That girl has got to learn not to open her mouth,” she said. “So, you go by Wren.”

  “I do, please.”

  “Why did you get slapped with such a moniker? If you don’t mind my asking? I mean, that’s a sentence in English, not a name.”

  “My grandmother insisted on naming me, and grandma was a free-spirit…”

  “Ah, so she didn’t give a f—damn?”

  I laughed again. “No she didn’t. It was one of those times she should have.”

  The sweet, warm laugh that Doctor Rana let out had me tingling in all the wrong places. Jesus. This was bad.

  “You are a social work—oh. You’re a doctor.” The woman looked up, pleasantly surprised.

  “PhD in social welfare, yes. I’m probably one of the only ones practicing and not researching.”

  “What hospital?”

  “Saint Chris… Christopher’s, and I consult and fill in with CHOP. I work with the trauma teams and domestic violence units.”

  Doctor Laxmi Rana just stared at me. “I can only imagine that’s where your insomnia comes from.”

  Slowly, I shook my head. “I’ve battled for sleep since puberty. I’ll be good for two or three years and then wham, another bout for six months. Except this time, the bout didn’t end. It’s been three very long years, and all I want to do is close my eyes and sleep.”

  I didn’t know if she realized she did it, but she reached across the table, and patted my hand without another word.

  Her fingers were electric. The tingle they produced rode up my arm, and into my body and straight to the tips of my nipples.

  Really glad it was winter and I was wearing a heavy sweater.

  We went through the rest of the questions pretty quickly, confirming all my pertinent data and insurance information, making sure that I was who I said I was. Even though I had been mad about Doctor Skillman, this woman was putting me at ease. I liked her. If I had to work with her, I wouldn’t have a problem.

  That was a lie. I would have a problem. The doctor patient relationship was going to get in the way.

  Eventually she pulled her hands away from the keyboard and studied me a moment. “Usually, Doctor Skillman just keeps typing in answers at this point, but he has a note in here that he wants to record the interview.” Cocking her head, she pulled her phone out, and laid it on the table. “With your permission.”

  I nodded, and she pressed the button.

  “So, I want to know about your bedroom habits.” Her mouth dropped open in shock and hit the stop button, and quickly hit the delete. “I am so sorry, Doctor Warner. I didn’t mean to…”

  I grabbed her hand as fast as I could without seeming dangerous. “You did.” I smirked. “Freudian slip.”

  She glanced at our hands. A tremor went through hers, and I leaned forward, dropping my voice and making sure the recorder was off. “Are you out?”

  She hesitated. “I want to be. My parents won’t hear me when I try to tell them.”

  Running my hand through my hair, I laughed lightly. “I’m falling into counselor mode. Let me end the whole session with just this. Have dinner with me?”

  The clear surprise darted across her features and I watched as she glanced down at the phone to make sure that it wasn’t recording. When she looked back up at me and saw my knowing grin, she laughed too, then gave me a quick nod.

  I pulled out the notepad I had in my purse, and wrote down St. Tropez Bistro, tomorrow night, eight.

  The hesitation in her fingers was clear, but a moment later she slipped the note off the desk and into her pocket with a more confident nod and a grin. Leaning back into the phone she hit record.

  “So, tell me about your evening routine.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Is that sleep doctor speak for ‘tell me about your mother’?”

  We both burst out laughing.

  “I always feel so naughty after I enjoy a nice piece of meat.”

  The double entendre hit both of us at the same time, and we started laughing. Again. A small burp escaped the slim, dark woman across from me and we both laughed again.

  I was positively exhausted from laughing. It seemed that all Laxmi and I had done was laugh the entire night. I could tell that this date was a relief, an outlet for her. I kept everything light and on the up and up.

  That wasn’t to say I kept it rated PG. Not at all.

  I’d taken her hand when we walked in, and held it all the way to the table. I held it while we were waiting for our drinks, for the appetizer, entrees, desserts, second desserts. Another glass of wine. I’d kicked my shoe off under the table and ran my foot up her leg. I ran a thumb over her knuckles. I dropped a kiss to the top of her head when I excused myself for the ladies room.

  “I’m always happy to make you feel naughty,” I said, letting a seductive smile crawl across my lips.

  “God, I just want to do this all the time,” she said, resting her other hand on her full stomach. “It’s so nice to feel this unencumbered.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I smiled.

  “When did you know?”

  I chewed my bottom lip. “I’m actually bi.”

  She grinned. “Is that…difficult?”

  My hand slid down my face, and I nodded. “Sometimes, yeah. The things that turn me on in both sexes don’t know when to shut off, and I’m just like…always ready.” I shrugged.

  “Well, then, I’m glad I swing on one side of the spectrum.” She chuckled. “Do your parents know?”
/>   “I’m…” I coughed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s not that. I was raised by an eccentric spinster aunt who foisted me off to the nannies as often as she could. She was not what you would call affectionate.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Holding a hand up I stopped her. “Not your fault. What I do remember of my parents was from when I was seven, and they wouldn’t have cared either way. They’d be prouder of the fact that I’m working with kids and helping them.”

  “How did you lose them?”

  “Carbon monoxide. They slept on the first floor, and the gas line cracked with age on a joint. This was before CO-two detectors were all the rage.”

  And now, came the other question. The one that no one could avoid asking. I waited to see how she would phrase this one.

  “So, how did you hurt your hand?”

  Ah, polite and direct. A relief. There were people who asked what the fuck is wrong with you, cripple hand? and that always put just such a spring in my step and a fist in their stomach. Their balls if they were extra rude and added a few extra swear or cripple jokes.

  The way Laxmi asked, I didn’t mind.

  “Freak accident,” I answered. “I was in the car with my aunt, and she blew a tire. The car spun out of control, and smashed into a power transformer on the side of the road. She was killed on impact and when I touched her neck to see if there was still a pulse, the transformer was still live. It was power distribution transformer and it wasn’t at capacity, but it still shot about a hundred fifty milliamps into my hand and fried my neurons, while the wattage made mincemeat of my muscles.”

  I held the hand up. It was strangely uncorrupted from the outside, merely two burns by my knuckles. All of the burning had been internal.