Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
~Harlow~
When Tal puts it like that and directs me closer to his perspective, I have to admit that he has a point.
A good one, at that. Vampires are far more dangerous than werewolves.
While wolf shifters are angry and capable of ripping anyone to shreds, which is scary, vampires are unpredictable—no one knows how or when they will lose control, so the aspect of surprise makes them much more dangerous than shifters.
"Now, hurry, unless you want your bosses to see those marks on your neck and start asking questions," Tal mutters and offers me his wrist again.
I sigh and give in. Tal is right. The last thing I need is for my bosses to think I'm a feeder on top of everything else they already hate me for.
It's bad enough they already think so little of me.
There's no need to add extra fuel to the flames of their disgust. I don't want them to think they hired someone who's an addicted feeder.
I'm not, and I won't let them belittle me like that.
"I called a cab for you, so you can get home. And don't worry, the fare is covered already," Tal speaks as his eyes inspect my neck, probably to ensure it is completely healed. Once he's content enough, Tal nods, turns on his heel, and walks away.
I wait for another minute before heading downstairs to the staff area and quickly changing back to my clothes. Tapping the pockets, I check that the money is there and rush outside to meet the cab.
The cab driver is an older, pleasant gentleman who looks like someone who has experienced some hardships in life, so I don't feel ashamed when I ask him to take me to the seedy motel near where I work.
I can't go to a nice motel or hotel, not only because I can't afford one, but mainly because I can't provide an ID since I don't have one. Okay, maybe I do, but it’s not mine—it's just a shitty old ID of my sisters that I paid the firm I used to work for to 'fix up' for me.
They added a questionable last name, too, which is as much a blessing as it is a curse.
It's truly fascinating how many jobs one can find that don't require the bosses to actually know who you are, simply because they don't want you to know who they are either.
Vampires owned the company I used to work for, and I truly believe it was a cover for something more sinister they did behind the scenes.
I didn't want to know what it was because I didn't want to be a part of their shady business or find myself caught up in it.
Though with the amount of foot traffic that went through the place, I knew something was up, I just knew better than to ask.
Hence why I never questioned anyone; I was just relieved that they let me work there with no previous experience nor any proper, legal proof of my identity.
I'm still beyond shocked that Leila didn't bother to check my ID properly or run a background check on me.
If she had done that, she would have noticed that the social security number isn't correct, because it doesn't exist; it is a row of random, made-up numbers, but so far, it hasn't gotten me into trouble. So, I should be grateful for that much.
Sometimes I worry because of that small, laminated piece of paper. It's my only ID, yet it's so terribly fake that even a fool would notice it's nowhere near the real thing.
It's clear that Martha knows it is a fake.
She just didn't seem to care about it at the time.
Either that or she knew I am no danger to her.
Most of them really don't care about such things, but from what I gathered from Leila, she doesn't care about who I am or where I came from.
She's more interested in the fact that I am an Omega.
Yet, she never questioned me about being packless.
I shake my head to get rid of the thought before I start another round of vicious overthinking and walk into the shady motel. The place stinks. No, it reeks of something disgusting and a mix of everything I hate, but I ignore the pit in my stomach and walk toward the reception.
I hand over half my money to the girl behind the counter wearing heavy eye makeup and a shade of foundation far too light for her skin tone.
She watches me as she checks every bill, holding each of them up to the light, inspecting it as if she thinks it is counterfeit, and then tosses me a key attached to a wooden block.
The girl chews her chewing gum and blows a bubble. She still stares at me with suspicion, as the bubble pops, and I try to understand which number is written on the wooden block attached to the key to my new home, at least for the next few days.
She rolls her eyes at me and groans, obviously annoyed. "Upstairs, third door on the right," she mutters out the directions with another roll of her eyes.
The woman probably thinks I'm incompetent or stupid, but that's not the case. It's the shitty, faded, handwritten number that I can’t figure out, not the directions.
To avoid an unnecessary confrontation, I press my lips in a thin line, nod swiftly, and give a quick thanks. Without the small talk the clerk obviously doesn't want, I leave to find my room.
At this point, anything, literally anything, is better than the streets. Besides, it's not only a bed I get here; I also have enough money to buy some decent food. For once in a long time, I don't have to settle on dry pot foods and noodles.
Although I followed the directions the clerk so kindly provided, it took five minutes to find the door to the room I am renting for the next three nights since the receptionist took pity on me and gave me the third night cheaper.
Hopefully, I can go back to Tal's in a couple of days and try to earn some more cash to afford a few more nights here.
Once I thrust the key in the lock, twist it and pull down the knob, the room door squeaks loudly, like no one has used it in a couple of years. The first thing that stops me is the intense stench.
The motel room stinks heavily of mildew and god knows what else on top of a horrific, rotten stench that smells like rotting flesh.
I suck in a deep breath and remind myself that I'm lucky to have a roof over my head, so complaining would be the same as spitting in the face of someone who tries to help me.
Besides, a little stench can't be too bad. After all, I don't need to hide behind massive trash containers or in dirty stairwells behind the old plaza.
I didn't expect a penthouse, luxury suite in a shitty motel, but I didn't expect my skin to feel this itchy the moment I step inside, either. Maybe it's more about the dirty vibe around here than the dirt itself…
No, I can't give up like this. Anything is better than the streets.
Holding my breath, I walk to the relatively inviting-looking bed and rip off the blanket covering it.
An icy shiver runs down my spine and makes me shudder as my eyes take in the stains on the white sheet.
I know better than to dig deeper by pulling off the sheet to inspect the state of the mattress beneath the covers.
The room appears grimy, as if no one bothered to clean it. No, more like all of the staff members refused to enter the filth and deal with it for the money they got for their services.
Besides, I'm pretty sure there are some bloodstains on the dated, floral curtains, so who knows what might have happened in the room? Maybe no one entered it because it is haunted; it sure gives off that vibe.
Cringing, I make my way into the tiny bathroom and groan. It's worse than the public toilets at the plaza. Beggars can't be choosers, though, so I strip off and ignore the surrounding filth, desperate for a shower.