Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Finally,” Lauren says tiredly. “I thought we’d never make it over there.”
I glance at her. Dark circles ring under her eyes, her face ashy. I look over at Munawar and Rav. They don’t look much better. Even Munawar’s shirt isn’t a fungi-pun. Instead it’s the Madrona Foundation’s logo, which still features mushrooms, but somehow that’s worse. Like he’s becoming one of them.
Is this place getting to us all?
If this is what three weeks of fog will do to you, what will three months?
Or is it more than just the weather?
I swallow the pit of uneasiness in my stomach. It’s something I’ll have to talk to Kincaid about after lunch. I have a session with him, and it will be the first time seeing him since our tryst in his office.
I’m still not sure how I feel about what happened, though I’ve literally done nothing but think about it.
On one hand, fuck.
It was exactly what I wanted, what I needed. I thought nothing could top my dreams but Doctor Kincaid knew exactly how to fix me. At least in the moment. When I close my eyes I can still feel his tongue inside me, the rough way he held my hips, the fist in my hair. The dirty, thrilling way he obliged my kink, called me his little pet, like I was one of his possessions. I want all of that to happen again, and soon.
But on the other hand…it was hard to ignore the shame in his eyes.
That he crossed a line he didn’t want to cross.
That he made a mistake.
Oh, his desire for me was more than apparent.
The way he ate me out with abandon.
The way he was so turned on that he came in his pants, like he was a horny teenager unable to control his hormones, not a neurosurgeon in his late thirties. I have to admit, that was the hottest fucking thing I’ve seen in a long time.
But he is my doctor.
I am his patient.
He is my teacher.
I am his student.
He says he’s the one keeping me safe.
But every moment I’m with him, I feel I’m one step closer to danger.
I’m starting to hate this place and yet I’ve never felt so…alive.
And yet, as we get up and file out the door, following Nick as he leads us under the cedar boughs, ravens calling from the sky, I feel like death is around the corner. Perhaps not waiting for me, but waiting for someone. I feel it on my skin, like the clammy kiss of the damp air.
It’s hard to ignore death when so many people have died here.
I push those thoughts out of my head. Perhaps I’m too morbid for my own good.
The propagation lab is past the maintenance yard and barn, the furthest building west on the property. The walk is fairly wet and muddy since it’s been either raining or we’ve been blanketed by fog for the last few days. Our shoes squelch as we unsuccessfully try to avoid puddles. At least the clouds are moving fast today, a warm breeze coming from the ocean that brings the scent of seaweed at high tide.
Nick swipes his keycard and the door beeps. He pushes it open and flicks on the lights.
“Everyone spread out along the aisles and don’t you dare touch anything,” he says.
The excitement is palpable as we walk inside. It looks like a greenhouse except all the windows have been blacked out. Thin shafts of light pierce the places where the coverings don’t quite reach, illuminating the dust and spores floating in the air. I get the feeling that they are retractable, able to usher in daylight when needed.
Instead of rows of plants, however, there are rows of fungi, some growing from mossy surfaces, others from soil. So many different kinds—bleeding tooth, ghost fungus, stinkhorns, amethyst deceivers. The air is musty with their scents, some sweet, some sour, and the metallic loam of the soil.
Nick is speaking but none of us are listening. It’s impossible to corral us, we’re like cats and the mushrooms are the catnip. We’re spreading out down the aisles, marveling at all the different varieties, some of which are hard to grow outside of mother nature, touching while Nick continues to berate us for doing so.
“Look,” Lauren coos, stopping to peer at some parrot waxcaps, elegant green fungi, their surface as shiny as lip gloss. “These are my favorite. I thought I’d have to go all the way to Australia to see them.”
But while I see several of my favorites, many of which I still wonder at what magic—or science—Madrona has in order to grow them in such a setting, I don’t see their famous Excandesco. I know they’ve said a few times now that they have struggled to replicate it in the lab, but I was still hoping it would be here. Or at least their attempts at it, though I’m sure they keep that under wraps too.