Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
RIANN
Anxiety bubbles beneath my skin at the thought of more needles, but the sweet beta nurse who drew my blood earlier dips back into the room with a smile that almost helps soothe my nerves. Despite knowing how unlikely it was, part of me hoped Dr. Morales would give me the shot herself.
Disappointment weighs on me, but I try to keep my hopes up. Maybe I’ll get a chance to see her on my way out.
If not, there’s always tomorrow…
“...you might feel a few slight side effects,” the nurse says as she sets up her things, but I’m barely listening. My thoughts are completely consumed by the alpha doctor who ran out of the room moments ago. “Left or right arm?”
She stops in front of me, a syringe in one hand and an alcohol wipe in the other.
“Umm…” I hesitate, not sure that it matters either way. Just the thought of the needle near me makes my stomach sour. “Left.”
At least if it’s in my arm, I don’t have to stand up. If I stand up and pass out, I’m more likely to do damage.
I wince as she stabs the syringe into my arm, pumping a pink liquid into me, my heart beating in my throat. In a blink, she’s finished and slapping a Band-Aid over the puncture point.
“All done.” She smiles widely. “If you’ll come with me, you can check out at the front desk, and they’ll give you paperwork to take to the hotel if you’re staying.”
I mumble a thanks, grabbing the duffle bag full of my belongings off the chair in the corner. As I follow the nurse down the hall toward the front lobby, I whip my head this way and that, searching for any glimpse of Dr. Morales’ dark hair or muscular frame.
The secretary looks much less kind than the nurse, her face scrunched up as her fingers clack away at her keyboard.
“Miss Saunders is checking out, Gwin,” the beta nurse chirps. “And she’ll need the grant paperwork for the hotel.”
Gwin nods and pauses to scratch near the bun on her head with a pencil. Then, she opens a drawer and pulls out a stack of papers.
The nurse offers me a wave before bobbing away down the hall, leaving me alone with the secretary.
“You’ll give these to the people at the front desk,” Gwin says, shoving two papers at me that are pre-signed and stamped with official seals. I have no idea what they mean, and I don’t ask. “The hotel is out the front doors and to the left. Big gray building, can’t miss it.”
Readjusting the duffle bag strap on my shoulder, I take the papers.
“And if you can sign right here,” she pushes a clipboard with more official documents at me, “you’ll be good to go.”
I grab a pen out of a flower pot on the desk and scribble my name, hardly legible, on the bottom line.
Looking up, I scan the lobby for any sign of Dr. Morales, but she’s still nowhere to be found. As I turn and head for the door, I throw a few more glances over my shoulder, staring as far down the connecting hallways as I can manage, to no avail.
I step outside with a sigh and turn to the left as instructed.
The hotel has to be one of the blandest, mediocre places to stay in Boston, but at least it’s free.
I walk through the front doors and am immediately met by the most underwhelming lobby I’ve ever seen.
There’s a small sectional sofa to the left with a single ocean painting above it.
To the right is the reception desk, which is currently vacant. Straight ahead is an elevator.
My footsteps echo as I cross the lobby, and I wait eagerly for the receptionist to show up. No one does.
There’s a small bell sitting on top of the desk, begging to be rung, but I don’t want to appear impatient. I wait another full minute, bouncing on my toes to abate some of my nervous energy, before finally giving up and ringing it. The loud ping echoes through the lobby.
As the seconds drag on, my imagination starts running wild. Is anyone working? Are they closed? Did I somehow walk into the wrong hotel, even though it’s the only one around?
Finally, after what feels like forever, a lumbering beta man steps through a door next to the desk, still wiping his food-stuffed mouth with a napkin.
“Sorry about that,” he says, dropping into the chair behind the desk. “No one showed up to cover my lunch break. How can I help you?”
Guilt claws at me for assuming the worst, and I quickly reassure him. “It’s no problem. I just came from the clinic, and they told me to give you these.” I hand him the grant papers. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying though, so—”
“If you’re with the clinic program, you don’t have to know your checkout date. Some stay for a day or two, some stay for months.” He shrugs, clicking a few things on his computer before reaching into the desk and pulling out a keycard.
“M-months?” My eyebrows inch toward my hairline.
Surely I won’t be here that long.
I can’t miss that many classes…
“Yep. I think the longest stay was four months,” he thinks out loud, scanning the keycard before writing a number—311—on the back. “Most only stay about a week.”
Before I can process what it would be like to be stuck alone in Boston for four months, he’s handing me the card.
“Your room is on the third floor.” He jerks a thumb toward the elevator. “The number for room service is 100. You can order breakfast, lunch, and dinner by dialing the number on the menu in your room.”
I nod along, even though the influx of information has my eyes glazing over. The only thing I care about right now is finding my room and getting settled. I’m exhausted from the trip and my appointment at the clinic. Everything else can wait.
“Do you want help with your bag?” the hotel worker asks, eyeing my duffel bag.
I quickly shake my head. I don’t want to impose on his lunch break more than I already have. Besides, I’m peopled out for the day.
Alone time is what I need.
“No thanks,” I reply and head for the elevator. I’m hardly surprised when the man disappears the second I step away from the desk.
My room is relatively bland like the lobby downstairs, but it’s better than the sterile white walls and hospital bed I initially imagined. It’s decent-enough sized—bigger than my room back at the academy—with a queen-size bed and a TV in the corner.
There’s a small chair, a bedside table topped with a phone and a welcome brochure, and a single abstract painting hanging above the headboard. That’s it.
Not exactly cozy, but it’ll do.
Once I unpack and get settled, it’ll feel a little more like home, though no amount of blankets or throw pillows could ever make this cardboard box feel like a nest.
It’s only for a few days, I remind myself hopefully.
Dropping my bag on the bed, I rip the zipper open and unpack everything I brought with me. A few outfits and extra shoes, travel-sized toiletries, a notebook, some pens, and my favorite throw blanket which barely fit, but I had to bring at least one thing from my nest.
I tuck everything but the blanket into the dresser across from the bed, stacking it neatly the way I would back at the academy.
Then, I rearrange the linens and pillows on the bed, smushing them into a more attractive pile before draping my throw blanket over the top.
I skeptically crawl onto the mattress. It’s not very comfortable but, again, it’ll do.
I’m just about to reach for the remote to turn on the TV when my stomach grumbles, and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast on the plane. Between panicking through the airports and hurrying to the Buchanan Center, food completely slipped my mind.
Now, I’m starving.
The menu is waiting beneath the welcome brochure on the bedside table, and I flip it open to peruse the options. Then, I call down to the kitchen and patiently wait for the food to be brought up.