Defective (The Institute Series Book 3) by Kayla Howarth Read Free Book Online

don’t need to worry about a thing.” She walks into the treatment room out the back, leaving me to tend to the reception desk.
    It’s easy for her to say that, but how can I not worry about it? This is her baby, and as much as I don’t enjoy working here, I don’t want to see it fail. We’re doing something good here. At least, we’re trying to.
    I’m relieved to see that not much has been going on for the day, just general practitioner things, mainly. No stabbings. That’s a good start. I don’t say this aloud, though. Everyone knows it’s a jinx if you say anything like that aloud. It’s just like saying, “Gee, we’re quiet today!” If anyone ever says that, it’s a guarantee that your day is about to get exhaustingly busy.
    “I might go grab myself a coffee while we’re quiet,” Aunt Kenna says.
    “I know you did not just say that!” I exclaim.
    “Oh, you’ll be fine. I’ll be two doors away, and Vic is here if you really need him,” she says, leaving the clinic.
    I prepare myself for an onslaught of patients fighting over who arrived first, who’s in a more critical condition. But it doesn’t come.
    Another thing that’ll always get people to come through the doors is to think that it’s so quiet, I may as well get my books out to study while I have some downtime. It’s Friday night and that’s usually our busiest, along with Saturdays. Drunken bar fights, people letting loose over the weekend doing stupid stuff. Tonight seems to be different so far, but it’s still early.
    Just as I reach into my bag on the ground for one of my text books, I hear it. The swinging of the doors whooshing open, the urgent footsteps heading towards the reception counter. I almost fall over myself as I stand.
    It’s him , I see Chad. Ash-blond hair that’s naturally blonder at the tips, strong muscled arms wrapped around a woman’s limp body.
    I shake my head and really focus, noticing that the man in front of me is – of course – not Chad. This guy is tall, well over six feet, and the more I look at him, the more I realise he looks nothing like Chad apart from the two similarities I seemed to pointedly notice first.
    This tends to happen a lot. I see someone with similar hair, eye colour, or build, and I immediately think of Chad. I secretly come up with crazy theories that the person I’m looking at is really Chad, and that he somehow had to fake his own death and get reconstructive surgery to look vastly different. Deep down I know these theories are just painful fantasies, brought on by my never-ending grief over the loss of him. I saw his body, I know he’s gone. He’s dead; he’s not coming back. This still doesn’t stop me from thinking crazy things about him, though. I see him in almost everyone I know, and even strangers on the street.
    “A little help, please?” the guy says to me, bringing me out of my daze.
    “Sorry, of course. Bring her this way,” I say, gesturing towards the treatment room.
    By the looks of her, she’s in bad shape. Not as bad as the girl from the other night, but she’s been beaten pretty badly. I begin to wonder if the guy carrying her did this to her.
    Gesturing to the closest bed in the treatment room, he sets her down in a gentle and caring manner. Maybe he’s not responsible after all. She lets out a groan of pain as she holds on to her right side.
    “I’m going to need you to step back into the waiting room, please sir,” I say, following him out and grabbing registration forms off of the desk. “If you could fill these out while I start treatment on your girlfriend, that would be great. Thanks.”
    “I… uh… She’s not—”
    “I promise we’ll take good care of her. Just take a seat, and I’ll come let you know when you can see her,” I say before walking back into the treatment room.
    Approaching the girl, I try to focus on anything other than her face, but it’s her face that has the most damage. Her right eye is so swollen it’s