Page 22 of The Midnight Order
The faint smell of vomit curls in the air, reminding me I'd been sick, reminding me I'm still drunk.
"Are you alright?" the doctor asks, waving his light in front of my eyes again.
"I'm fine." Swatting him away, I wince at the intrusion of light.
"You don't look it. You look pale."
The tattooed one chuckles low in his throat. "She's realizing we're real. That all this is real. Vampires," he finishes with a wave of his hands like he's telling a spooky story to a group of five-year-olds.
"I don't believe in vampires."
My stalker scoffs. "You're going to ignore that which is before you? I thought you were smarter than that."
I swallow.
Of course, I don't believe that they're vampires. This isn't reality.
This can't be reality.
There's the meat of it. If they're what they say they are, then what else is real? What else is lurking in the world I thought I lived in? Throughout the world, I thought I dominated in life.
I'm a strong, independent woman, and one thing I’ve always wanted is a man who strips all that away and makes me feel cared for and loved while handling everything, so I don't have to.
These men have the aura that they'd be that for me, but they're spouting madness, and I can't get behind it. Or I'm insane too.
My stalker walks to the end of the bed, his massive frame leaning over, his red eyes locking on mine. "Want me to show you? Want me to prove to you that I go bump in the night?"
"Lowell," the suited one warns.
Lowell straightens. "Don't worry. I'm not going to eat her. You know that."
"Do I?"
The doctor moves around the room, gathering supply packs and miscellaneous items before placing them onto a tray and pulling it close. "I'm going to place an IV. You're very dehydrated."
"How do you know I'm dehydrated?" I whisper as he slowly grabs my arm, watching me for pushback.
"A blue bucket of beer will do that to a person." The tattooed man crosses his arms over his chest as if my questions and unbelieving nature are crawling under his skin.
"Right," I whisper. "I'm drunk. That's all this is."
The doctor laughs, rubbing an alcohol pad over my arm after he finds a good vein. "You're not drunk. I just cleaned half your alcohol content off the floor."
My eyes flick down to where I'd been sick. The spot beneath his rolling chair is clean, and my mind boggles at the pristine floor.
How had he cleaned it so fast? How hadn't I noticed?
Neither of those things is something I need to worry about right now, so I set them aside. The box I've been keeping my worries in is full, so I drop them beside it, sighing internally.
"You're going to feel a slight pinch," the doctor says, and I look away from the needle and latch my eyes shut.
I hear a scoff. "She can't even look at her blood being drawn."
"It's the needle," I whisper as if trying to defend myself.
I don't like needles. I can't watch its entrance through my skin to find my vein. Something about it makes me queasy.
"Once her testing's over, she'll go home," one of them replies. It sounded like the smooth cadence of the suited one's voice.
