Page 8 of SINS & Riley
I’m not sure which I’m closer to: tears or violence.
Either way, the two glance back over their shoulders, and make me feel as welcome as a hooker on Rodeo Drive.
I deliberately shift my gaze any fucking where than the happy couple, and glance around.
This place is white-on-white everything. Pristine marble. Fluffy carpet that probably costs more than my first apartment.
My condolences to the cleaning lady. And then I see the clock. Shit. I’ve been here fifteen minutes.
The couple finally moves along, and I step up.
“Can I help you?”
“I need to see the doctor,” I say, suddenly rushed.
She frowns, underwhelmed.
“It’s important.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but?—”
“The doctor is very busy. He sees no one without an appointment.” She barely lifts her eyes from her laptop, wiping away a speck of dust.
When I don’t shuffle away obediently, she punctuates her point by popping her gum—obnoxiously loud. The echo of it grates on my last nerve, considering the lobby is empty.
“It’s urgent,” I insist.
She shrugs and points a glittery three inch nail at the door. “There’s an urgent care a mile down the road.”
Stressed at the mental tick-tick-tick going off in my head, my fingers tap nervously against my necklace.
By her glare, the diamond prison choker must be an ironic contrast to my sweats and jeans caked beneath the cemetery grime.
Hell, there’s probably a spider spinning a web in my hair right now.
“I just need ten minutes of his time.”
Ten minutes feels safe.
Barely.
And every second wasted on convincing Nurse Peroxide to squeeze me in drags me closer to whatever sadistic punishment Zver is dreaming up.
And I refuse—absolutely fucking refuse—to lose my newest Sins and Sorcerers novel before finding out if Adeline finally stabs her nemesis in his sleep or falls pathetically into his twisted bed.
It’s already hovering dangerously between love triangle and full-blown reverse harem, and I am not losing that book.
She flicks her gaze over me, eyes narrowed into irritated slits. “He’s fully booked. No walk-ins.”
My heartbeat kicks into double-time. “Fine. Then I’d like an appointment.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m shocked she doesn’t dislocate something. Snatching a clipboard, she shoves it my way. “First opening is in eight weeks.”
Eight weeks? Is this a doctor’s office or a Taylor Swift concert?
I can’t wait eight fucking weeks to find out if there’s actually an Italian-Scottish Cinnabon baking in my oven.
