Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
Waking up with a hangover in a luxury penthouse is still waking up with a fucking hangover.
The pounding in my skull doesn’t care about the thread count of the sheets I’m wrapped in or the plushness of the mattress beneath me.
It’s relentless, drilling behind my eyes with all the subtlety of a jackhammer.
The sound of my phone vibrating on my nightstand only makes matters worse, rudely yanking me out of whatever whine-soaked coma I’ve been in.
I blindly grope for it, knocking over an empty wine glass in the process. It clatters onto its side, rolling across the wood with a sound that feels ten times louder than it actually is.
“Jesus,” I groan, bringing the phone in front of my face and squinting one eye open.
The screen’s lit up with Taylor’s name and a picture I took on her birthday at our favorite dive: a grin on her face, a margarita in her hand, and an oversized sombrero on her head. I stare at it for a long, wistful moment before swiping the screen to answer her call.
“You alive?” she asks, her voice loud and criminally cheerful for– I squint at the screen again– 1:37 p.m.
Damn.
That wine put me into a twelve-hour coma.
Rolling onto my back, I sling a forearm across my eyes to shield them from the sunlight pouring in through the windows. “Define alive.”
She snorts. “Well, your sarcasm’s still intact, so I’ll take that as a yes. Did the move go okay yesterday?”
“It went,” I croak, forcing myself upright.
The room immediately tilts.
I sit there for a second and wait for the world to stop spinning, then blink my eyes open, immediately regretting it. In my drunken state last night, I stupidly forgot to hit the button for the blackout blinds. The afternoon sun is downright hostile, my head throbbing in protest.
“Went… good?” Taylor presses.
“Sure,” I agree. “Those relocation guys weren’t messing around. Didn’t realize you could move someone’s entire life in under an hour.”
“Tell me about it,” she sighs. “When I moved in with James, everything I took with me fit into three sad little boxes.”
Of course she gets it.
That’s the thing about growing up in the foster system– you don’t accumulate much.
No family heirlooms, no boxes of childhood artwork tucked away in an attic.
No collection of sentimental junk your parents refuse to throw away because every piece has a story attached to it.
Just a handful of belongings and the understanding that every time you unpack them, it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be packing them back up again.
Every time we were shuffled to a new home, we were allowed to bring one bag. That single bag is all it took to uproot our entire lives, and I guess after enough years of that, you stop getting attached to possessions. You learn early that things are temporary. People, too, most of the time.
Except Tay. She’s always been there– which is why I’m here, living in a strange vampire’s penthouse so nobody can attempt to pry her secrets from my brain.
“And look at you now,” I tease, forcing the mood lighter as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “A true rags to riches story.”
The room spins again, but I grit my teeth and power through it.
“Anything major happen in the last thirty-six hours?” I ask casually. “Or are you still loving life as Dracula’s future bride?”
“Ozzy threw up in James’ shoe again, so I think the honeymoon phase might be over.”
“Good.” I scrub a hand over my face. “That guy deserves to suffer.”
Taylor clucks her tongue. “Whatever. I think you secretly love him.”
“I think you’re sustaining brain damage from all those vampire-induced orgasms,” I reply, already shuffling toward the en-suite bathroom.
This apartment is too damn quiet, amplifying every sound I make. The slap of my feet against the hardwood, the click of the bathroom light switch as I flip it on. The brightness of the bulbs stabs at my eyes and straight through my skull, making me hiss a curse into the receiver.
“What’s going on?” Taylor asks, concern threading through her tone. “You sound sick or something.”
“Yeah, well I put down a whole bottle of wine last night,” I confess, blinking until my eyes adjust, then grimacing at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyeliner’s smeared in a raccoon mask, my hair a tangled mess.
“So, the first night with Elliott went well, then?” she asks brightly.
“Eh, not exactly.” I wipe at the black smudges underneath each eye. “I got scolded for drinking his wine, then accused of being drunk.”
“But you were drunk.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t have to call me out like that,” I mutter. “He’s a total weirdo.”
“A hot weirdo though, right?”
I can hear the smirk in her voice, and unfortunately, my brain immediately betrays me.
A picture of him flashes through my mind– broad shoulders stretching the fabric of that stupidly tight t-shirt, dark eyes dragging over me like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to kiss me or kill me, the low timbre of his voice…
Ugh.
“He’s okay,” I say. A lie, and we both know it. “But I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
“No one could hate you,” she scoffs.
“Debatable,” I mumble as I lean closer to the mirror, still struggling to scrub the stubborn black liner from beneath my eyes. “I tried to get him to fuck me to alleviate the tension, but he turned me down.”
Taylor chokes on a laugh. “Oh god, of course you did. Surprised he didn’t take you up on it.”
“Right?” I sigh, throwing up a hand. “Thank you.”
She laughs harder.
“Apparently he thinks I’m too fragile for his big vampire dick.” I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Can you believe that?”
“Honestly?” Taylor muses. “A little bit. Sex with vampires is intense, and you’re like, pocket-sized. Dr. Faulkner’s all about facts and figures. He probably did the math and decided you’d die.”
I snort, instantly regretting it when my head pulses in agony. “That’s offensive,” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “But I’m too hungover to argue right now, so we’ll agree to disagree on this one.”
The worst part is, she’s probably right.
Not about me dying, but about Dr Faulkner doing the math. The man strikes me as the type to calculate something as benign as the optimal angle for sitting in a chair.
“Seriously though,” Taylor says, amusement still coloring her voice. “He actually turned you down?”
“Yep. So not only is he weird as fuck, but he’s also insane. I’m now convinced James set this whole thing up just to torture me.”
“Aw, he wouldn’t do that,” Taylor coos.
Except yeah, he totally would.
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad,” she continues placatingly. “At least he’s nice to look at.”
“He’s… objectively attractive,” I murmur.
“Mhmm.”
“Shut up.”
Taylor barks a laugh. “Well, we can discuss it on Saturday when you’re out of hangover hell.”
I frown at my reflection. “Saturday?”
“Yeah, Elliott’s coming over for his monthly check-in with me and James. I just assumed you’d come with since you’re his donor now.”
“Sure,” I agree easily, not about to turn down a chance to escape this luxury holding cell and put in some quality time with my bestie. “I’m down.”
“Try not to kill each other before then?” she teases.
“No promises,” I mutter.
We say our goodbyes and hang up, silence immediately slamming down on me. I’m quick to queue up a playlist on my phone, the pounding in my head with every beat of the music a sacrifice worth making to fill the oppressive quiet.
I strip down and turn on the shower, cranking the water as hot as my skin can tolerate and hoping I’ll somehow be able to wash off this hangover.
Almost as soon as I step inside, my fingers drift between my legs.
Elliott might’ve turned me down last night, but a bitch has needs.
My fingers circle my clit, my mind rudely conjuring up an image of the bastard himself.
I come embarrassingly quickly, bracing a hand against the shower wall as I try and fail to swallow my moan.
Oh well. Not like he’s awake to hear it anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, I emerge with wet hair plastered to my cheeks and a vague sense of having been reborn into a slightly less terrible version of myself. The hangover’s still there, but it’s at least manageable.
I wander out into the kitchen while still towel-drying my hair, pulling open the fridge to find…
Blood.
A single row of bags with color-coded caps for type, and absolutely nothing else.
“Oh, fuck me,” I sigh, slamming the fridge closed and crossing to the kitchen island.
Swiping up the tablet Albert pointed out yesterday, I start scrolling through delivery apps, searching for something greasy enough to absorb the alcohol and bring me back to the land of the living.
As promised, they’ve all got Dr. Faulkner’s address and credit card information pre-loaded.
I settle on a burger and fries from a 24-hour diner, place an order, then toss the tablet aside.
The silence immediately presses in again. My gaze drifts toward the giant windows, then climbs up the floating staircase.
Still weird that there’s another person in this apartment and yet somehow it feels completely empty.
I blow out a breath and head back toward my room, intent on distracting myself for a few hours with my sketchbook.
The urge to draw is a physical itch– I haven’t touched pencil to paper in over a week, and my fingers ache for it. Drawing has always been the closest thing I have to meditation. The only time my brain knows how to shut the hell up.
I carry my art supplies back into the living room, claiming a spot on the floor in front of the giant window wall. Propping my back against the cool glass, I tuck my knees up and rest my sketchbook on top of them, flipping open to a blank page.
The design I’ve been thinking about for the better part of a week immediately takes shape in my mind. I lower my pencil and start trying to sketch it out, but my lines are shaky, my hand clearly out of practice and the glare of sunlight too bright against my page.
“Fuck,” I groan, tipping my head back against the window.