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Why Am I Lila Jones by Samantha Caufield Book

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Why Am I Lila Jones by Samantha Caufield Read Book Online And Download

Overview: Do you live life following the rules, but constantly asking yourself why?

Let me take you deep down in the heart of New Orleans where the food is rich of flavor and every day's a party!

Lila Jones is a charming southern girl with a traumatic past full of abuse from the people closest to her. After college, she moved to get away from her hometown in Florida to open her own plastic surgical clinic in the swamplands of Louisiana. Everything is perfect: the business, the clients, the house, the husband…. and boy, do I mean the husband!

When someone from her past somehow ends up on the operation table, with all the anger and rage this sweet girl is feeling from seeing this person, can Lila Jones keep the scalpel steady under pressure like she always does or can this be her last operation with the police department knocking at her door?


Why Am I Lila Jones by Samantha Caufield Book Read Online And Download Epub Digital Ebooks Buy Store Website Provide You.
Why Am I Lila Jones by Samantha Caufield Book





Why Am I Lila Jones by Samantha Caufield Book Read Online Chapter One


If I have the balls to get revenge, today is the day. Do I have what it takes, or will I pussy out? I keep reminding myself I’ve worked hard for my revenge. Tonight, I’ll see the fruition of the serious planning it took to make this happen and, believe me, planning this around an entire office and a husband who you tell everything to, it’s not unmanageable, but it definitely takes a lot of lying. I’ve waited years for this, and after this surgery, I’ll have closure. I’ll be able to breathe comfortably and stop looking over my shoulder. It’s my time to shine. I know I can do it.


Quietly positioning my scalpels on my tray from large to small helps keep me calm; it controls my frustration while I wait on my patient to finish dressing for surgery. Time is not on our side tonight, so I need to rush and get this over with. Just glancing at my patient fills me with anger that’s hard to let go of, but I know this isn’t the time to rush. I need to take my time and enjoy the sweet suffering this surgery will deliver.


This particular patient always has to make me think I’m smaller than her, as if I could never measure up to what she is, as if she were always better than me, and that’s why she is here today in this predicament. Fuck her, I am the woman she could never be, all because she drove me to be the opposite of her. Now, she will finally understand where she went wrong, how I’m the superior specimen, and she is nothing but shit. Her pathetic way of trying to gain attention and convince everyone to feel bad for her as if she were the victim won’t save her this time. Who wants to join her pity party? Not me, and I never have. I’ve been one of the few people who saw through the bullshit.


Edging up to the tray and grabbing the last scalpel, I draw in a deep breath to remind myself how thankful I am for the woman I’ve become. Not to toot my horn, but... This white, shiny room—mine! The brand-new machines—mine! A top-of-the-line MediLuxe chair—mine! The plush waiting room, the warm floors of the patient changing rooms, the luxury break room for my employees—all mine!


My favorite playlists are piped into my surgery suite through cleverly hidden speakers. A stereo on the wall to my left helps me concentrate through the surgeries and keep the room upbeat. Today, I’m in the mood for Queen of the Night, which will set an ambiance of pain and death in the room. I wander over to my radio and turn my music up on surround sound just as a violin introduction blasts out the speakers.


The violin becomes frantic, and I match the pace, twirling and spinning back to my chair by the surgery table as my patient steps into the room. With a baby-blue cap on her head, she shuffles in, wearing an uneasy expression on her face. I know my patient has never had surgery before or been under, but uneasy is not even close to the terror I want her to feel.


“I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” my patient says as she hops up on the exam table with a lost dog look. She settles herself slowly as if she’s unsure if she really wants to lie down.


“You’ll be asleep and won’t feel a thing. Now, get comfortable so we can get started.”


I gesture toward the bed as I pull my purple surgical gloves on with a snap, making my flighty patient jump. She follows my instructions, but I can tell she’s nervous. Her eyes dart in every direction as if she’s looking for a way to escape and make a run for it. I have to continue smoothly talking to her to keep her calm long enough to sedate her. Then, the fun will begin, and they will have no control over what is going on.


I distract her because I refuse to soothe her in order to get her to stop shaking. Her whole body trembles uncontrollably like a tiny chihuahua. She should really consider herself lucky that I’m not knocking her out cold and tying her hands and feet to each corner of the table, but that would take most of the fun out of it. For me anyway. If I need to force her to lie down, though, it might just happen. Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that point. I hope she struggles. A delicious smile crosses my face with the thought, and I have to suppress a chuckle.


The patient gives me a confused glance, and my breathing speeds up as if I had just run a marathon. Struggling to avoid straight out laughing with the joy infusing me, I bite my lower lip hard—a nervous tick of mine for sure. My patient has known me for almost my whole life; they can tell when I’m weakening, and I can’t let that happen. It will let them think that I don’t know what I am doing and that I’m unsure. When I run my tongue over it, I can feel the ridges of the imprint of my teeth still planted on my lip.


Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be distracting her.


I clear my throat, concentrate on what most would consider an encouraging smile, and say, “Last chance to add any other procedures you may want. A facelift won’t take me long to cut out. I have plenty of space in my schedule to complete further work while you’re under. We could collect some of that flappy skin under your chin or maybe give your ant bites some volume.”


I try to be as bitchy as possible with my words and facial expressions, giving her a taste of her own mental abuse. Man, does it feel nice to see the look on her face like she can’t believe that just came out of my mouth.


Yes, dear, I can play the game, too.


My patient glances at me like I lost my mind.


Don’t worry, sweetie, I haven’t surrendered my conscience yet. Or, maybe I have.


The patient clears her throat and wrinkles her nose. “No, I’m ready.”


“Okay,” I say, turning on my anesthesia machine. “I’ll put this mask over your face, and you count down from ten.”


The patient looks at me, and confusion fills her fright-widened eyes. “Where is Brittany, your assistant? You said she was running late earlier. Should we wait for her to get here?”


Oh shit, I totally forgot to tell her that Brittany—my anesthesiologist—won’t be joining us today. Step one: make sure the patient knows they’re fully under my control.


I try to keep my smile serene as opposed to gleeful. “Don’t you prefer this work performed for free? If I had an anesthesiologist, we wouldn’t be able to do this at the ridiculously low cost of zero that you deserve. Plus, I owe it to you, so I had to tell a little white lie,” I add with a wink.


Little does my patient know, I made certain the entire office was clear so no one messed with my plan. It wasn’t too hard to do; I just had to let the employees off by a certain time and help with closing duties. It’s terrible enough trying to concentrate on being the bad bitch that I am, but I don’t need any distraction from my team staying later than planned and seeing my patient. This surgery is the one procedure that has to stay a secret from everyone.


My patient doesn’t understand I’m not using an anesthesia that will give her the bliss of unconsciousness. No, that’s better than she deserves. The anesthesia—more a twilight—will be just enough to keep her conscious enough to know and feel what’s going on. She won’t be able to move a muscle or speak, but she’ll want to. She’ll want to beg me for release, but I’ll only accept her pain and suffering. My body shakes from suppressing my hard belly laugh.


I wait for that spark in her eyes, the brief glow that lets me know she understands the predicament she’s in and that there’s no way out. With that thought, the anesthesia system beeps, showing it’s time to start my performance. I don’t even give her a chance to count down to three before I begin.


Now, it is my turn to talk.


“Have you ever stopped to think about all the pain you’ve caused me and the other people in your life with your self-centered ways?” I ask as my fingers dance over my surgical tool, blade number eleven, which is my favorite scalpel. I don’t know why, but the length is just right for perfectly manicured hands. “I don’t believe you have. You were too busy worrying about the amusement it brought you to see people who care about you in torment. Well, now, it’s my time to enjoy seeing your misery. The tables have turned. You’re under my control.”


I raise my scalpel and whisk it across her left cheek, giving her a scare and ramping my anticipation with a tease. With a curious head tilt, I embrace the moment of silence and control of another human being.


Fuck, I feel like a kid about to open Christmas presents, presents I never received but always wished for. Is this how she felt tormenting others? When she abused me?


Her eyes darken with fear, and I can’t help but laugh as my satisfaction rises, sending delicious chills down my spine. That’s when the devilish side of me comes out to play, and I feel it coming up like vomit. I press down and slit her from her cheekbone to her chin, watching with glee as dark blood bubbled above the surface.


The knife slices through her skin as if it were tissue paper. The metallic smell reaches my nose, overwhelming me and bringing a smile to my face, and as the thick, viscous fluid slides down her face, I know I want—no, need—more. Surgery has never felt this good, and I sigh with relief because this is not as hard as I thought it would be.


I’ve done this procedure thousands of times, but with my newest patient, this is pure satisfaction. Justice, even. This enjoyment I receive is exactly what I expected, and it is so fulfilling, it’s almost overwhelming; the pleasure fills me with joy. Right now, I’m so excited, I could jump in the air and clap my hands like a five-year-old girl getting her first pony ride.


My eyes roll back in my head as intense chills of pleasure run through me. I cannot believe this day has finally come. I’ve been waiting to get my revenge since I was that little girl who was mentally and physically abused by my patient.


Tears stream down her face, and her eyes widen with dread as it finally hits her: she’s going to stay awake through the full process, and her life is in my hands. That gets me off more than anything else… I control her life this time. The patient might make it out in one piece or several; it just all depends on how I feel.


That wicked vibe inside of me returns to my face, dragging the corners of my lips toward my ears, showing all my pearly whites, and I’d bet anything that this patient once had the same grin I did instead of her rotten teeth. She never had a good hydride, or maybe it was the drug issue that caused her teeth to turn brown. Just another thing that I have that she doesn’t. I have to stop myself from letting out a trill of laughter.


Wait, no I don’t. Who would hear me besides my patient?


So, I laugh, letting out huge guffaws of pure joy.


“Don’t worry, I’ll take my sweet time so that it won’t be too much pain to endure all at once, but I promise you might want this to be put to an end sooner than you think. I want to make this last, draw it out as long as possible. The pain you caused me has lasted a lifetime, so be thankful yours will only be temporary.”


My heart pounds wildly. Sweat beads form on my forehead due to all the excitement, and when another tear appears on her cheek, I smack her hard across the face, leaving a bright-red hand imprinted on her cheek.


“Stop being a little bitch and quit with the bullshit crying. No reason to whine now, not when you knew one day I would get my karma,” I spit out between gritted teeth.


I glance at my medical tray, find a smaller scalpel, and perform the same cut on her right cheek. My hand presses the blade a little harder on her skin, but this makes the blood bubble up faster. Even though the cut is smaller, the scalpel went deeper. The sharp, sweet coppery scent reaches my nostrils, and when I touch it, the fresh warm blood dribbles down my patient’s right cheek. I’ve never played with someone’s bodily fluids before, and this is just bliss. The slimy goo rubs between my fingers the way old paint that needs oil would.


The scent of pennies fills the air, ramping up my heartbeat. My pussy pulses and throbs as more blood rises to the surface. I swipe at the viscous liquid running down her face, feeling the heat of it through my glove as I use a finger to write whore across her forehead. The helpless patient looks every bit like a victim out of a scary movie, and she needs to see this. My head turns to the side as I come up with an idea.


“Give me one second.”


There is a little mirror I use to show to the patients their faces once the work is complete. This patient just has to see how wonderful this looks.


I’m taken to a whole new level of satisfaction and I let out a deep, long sigh of delight. I want to play in it, write all over the walls with it. This pleasure rises. I’m high off this torture and crave another hit. In the last two years of working with patients in my own clinic, I’ve never felt this way, and it’s exhilarating. Personally, I don’t know if it’s a high from inflicting pain on someone or the blood and the freedom to do what I want, but I never want this glorious feeling to go away.


Conflicting emotions flow through me, and I don’t know how to control them. I pause for a moment and cock my head, realizing I really don’t want to. Perfectly okay with that, I continue on. It is such an amazing feeling to have complete control over someone who has caused so much trauma in my life and probably in others just like me.


She deserves every ounce of this pain. Taking the same cold metal scalpel I used for the first incision, I glide the blade over my patient’s left breast, cutting into it about four inches. Closing my eyes, I imagine each skin cell separating from the other as the blade pulls them apart, ripping slowly away from each other as the scalpel glides over them.


My hazel eyes stare into the patient’s glossy, terror-filled eyes.


“Do you remember all the times you took your sick, fucked-up anger out on me for no reason? Or the one time you cut my hair in a so-called accident? With my hair cut inches from my scalp, everyone at school made fun of me for looking like a boy.” I wave the scalpel in the air as if it’s a magic wand. “This tool is my revenge. My sweet, sweet revenge.”


I turn away from the patient, giving my performance more of a dramatic feeling, and it also gives me a chance to bring my wet, slippery fingers up to my nose to get a sniff of the sickly-sweet scent of my victim’s blood. The pleasure in this intense moment cannot be justified any other way. Butterflies float around my stomach.


I turn my head slightly to look over my shoulder at my patient. My patient tries to move her lips, but fails at the attempt. Spinning around, my white jacket twirls with me as I reach for the larger scalpel. Her eyes cross as my new tool glides across her nose up toward her forehead. She has no time to think before the scalpel digs deep from one side to the other, perfectly in the middle of a large freckle. The skin separates as fresh, dark blood rises to the surface. It pours down her face, and before I can even stop myself, I smear the blood from her face down to the middle of her neck. The weakness is showing in her eyes as she endures the pain of yet another cut.


Damn me to Hell, I’m enjoying this way too much, the torture, pain, but I’m the one in control now. I’ve wanted this for years, to have this person under my thumb. My whole body twitches with pleasure as some of the hatred I’ve held in for years dissipates. The surgical lamp over the bed shines bright as I imagine the hatred evaporating into the thin air and out of my body.


Something about the red darkness, the smell of fear coming off this paralyzed patient, turns me on a whole different level that I am not used to. If only my husband were here to enjoy this pleasure. My watch beeps to let me know it’s almost time to get this show on the road. There is no way I can be late for dinner and have my husband wondering where I am, so I set an alarm to keep me on schedule. Even though this is the most important moment of my life, I still have to be on schedule to not give my innocence away. If the cops even look for her. She’s not a very likable person and probably has no other friends to even care if she is missing.


The smear of blood across her neck gives me the courage to keep cutting. My head is over her face, looking directly into her dark-brown eyes, and a sneaker interrupts the quietness of the room.


“You look so pathetic just laying here without being able to move a muscle. Maybe I should save the rest for tomorrow and let the little bit of anesthesia you have wear out so you can at least fight.”


The stitch of urine fills the room. I look down. My patient has pissed herself, and the fluid is leaking onto the fucking floor.


“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Did you seriously just piss yourself? What are you, five? If you could move, I would make you clean that shit up yourself.” My teeth clench, and my hands ball into fists. I did not imagine having to clean up someone’s urine off the floor.


“I guess my idea really is scaring you. At least I know that this whole victorious plan is working.”


Should I give this girl sympathy and put her out of her misery? Letting her go is not an option. She is a pussy. She would turn me in to the police, and my life would be over. This woman is not worth ruining my life and career over. The best thing to do is get this over with.


With the large scalpel still in my hand, I grip hard against the handle’s edge as I press the blade into my patient’s neck. “Did you really think you could just follow me into my new life here in New Orleans and things would go on like nothing ever happened? Do you not remember all the pain you put me through? Probably not, because you were so wrapped around yourself.”


Anger takes over, and the scalpel digs deeper into her neck. My hands are shaking with frustration that this bitch is still breathing.


“I fuckin’ hate you. All you are to me is a whore who never had the nerves to take your own useless life yourself. You don’t deserve to be alive or to be a part of my life. I hope you rot in Hell.”


I drag the scalpel deep into her neck and slice from ear to ear. Blood pools out as her heart pumps its last few beats. I lean over her as I watch the life leave my patient’s eyes while the last tear falls from her face. Today is the happiest day of my life. I have achieved my biggest goal, and this is the moment the world lifts off my shoulders. At least, that’s what I thought.



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