Chapter 9 #2
The little houseplant sitting on the ledge catches my eye. I squint up at it, and I swear its leaves already look greener and perkier than yesterday.
“Traitor,” I mutter, reaching up to flick one of the leaves with the end of my pencil. “Thriving in captivity.”
If only I was adjusting so well.
I blow out a breath and look down at my sketchbook again, rolling my neck on my shoulders. I’m not about to have an existential crisis over a plant. Instead, I focus on the music humming through my phone’s speaker, do a full mental reset, then put pencil to paper.
Eventually, I’m able to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of sketching. Line after line, shape after shape, the world narrows to graphite and paper until the chime of the elevator pulls me from my trance.
I look up, assuming it’ll be the doorman with my food. Instead, Albert strides out carrying a grease-stained brown paper bag.
A wave of relief washes over me– not just for the food, but for the company.
“My hero,” I sigh, lowering the volume on my music before setting my sketchbook aside and pushing to my feet.
“Did you really order this under the name ‘Queen Bitch’?” he asks, quirking a brow.
I smirk. “If the crown fits.”
He shakes his head with a chuckle, crossing the room and handing over the bag. I snatch it from him greedily and drop into the closest chair, already digging inside.
“You’re really gonna put that garbage into your body?” Albert asks as I pull out the burger and tear into the wrapper.
“Damn right I am.”
I take a huge bite as he watches on with abject horror, his lip curling in disgust.
“Don’t judge,” I say around a mouthful of burger. “You literally drink blood.”
“And?” he asks, very much still judging.
“And there’s no food on earth grosser than that.”
He folds his arms, unimpressed. “Says the girl with grease dripping down her chin.”
I flip him off, then dig my hand into the bag for a napkin. “What are you doing here, anyway? Thought the doorman handled food delivery?”
“Doc asked me to stop by and give you the lowdown on your schedule,” he replies, tugging his phone from his pocket. “Also, to remind you not to uncork any more of the rare wines without permission.”
“Oops.” I fight a grin. “Tell him I’ll be sure to let it breathe next time.”
Albert sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Doc’s in for it with you, isn’t he?”
I shrug innocently.
“That’s what I thought,” he chuckles, his gaze drifting around the room before landing on my sketchbook still lying open on the floor. The half-finished koi fish sprawls across the page, its scales dissolving into smoke and flowers as it twists upward.
He steps closer, gesturing to it. “You draw that?”
“Mhm,” I hum, starting in on the French fries. “Client requested the fish, but told me to take liberties with the rest of the design. It’s getting inked on his bicep next week.”
He whistles, glancing back at me. “Damn. You’re pretty good.”
I arch a brow. “Pretty good?”
He scoffs a laugh. “And modest, huh?”
I grin, popping a fry into my mouth. “Play your cards right, and maybe I’ll tattoo you someday, pretty boy.”
“Maybe I’ll let you,” he says, smirking.
Then he gets all business-like again, resuming scrolling on his phone.
“So, here’s the deal. You’ll be working in the lab on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays.
Expect to start around eight p.m. and finish up around two a.m., or sometimes later, if Doc’s on a roll. ”
I squint at him. “What exactly am I supposed to do in this lab?”
“Mostly data entry, some sample handling, labeling tubes, things like that. You’ll get the hang of it.”
I shove another fry into my mouth. “I’ll need to coordinate with my tattoo schedule. Thursdays are usually slammed at the shop.”
Albert shrugs. “Send me your schedule and I’ll pass it up the chain. Doc’s flexible, but he likes consistency. Gets cranky when there’s a last-minute change.”
“And here I thought cranky was his default setting,” I muse, licking salt from my lips. “Anything else I should know? Secret handshakes? Cult rituals?”
“Don’t go upstairs without an invite,” he warns, giving me a pointed look. “He’s particular about privacy.”
My eyes instantly dart toward the floating staircase. “Is that where the bodies are hidden?” I joke, though the warning only sharpens my curiosity.
“Something like that,” he replies with a chuckle, typing on his phone.
“Anyway, if you’re gonna leave the apartment, you’ll need a security detail.
I’m sending you the contact for the company we use.
All you have to do is shoot them a text and someone will arrive to escort you wherever you wanna go. ”
“Yeah, no thanks,” I snort, waving him off.
Albert looks up from his phone. “Don’t be stupid,” he deadpans. “Doc’s a public figure, this is standard protocol for his donors.”
The idea of having someone trail me around the city sounds annoying as fuck, but before I can argue it further, my phone buzzes beside my sketchbook.
My gaze pings over to it, then back to Albert. “How’d you even get my number, creep?”
“Please. As if I haven’t read your entire file.”
I narrow my eyes. “That feels like a violation.”
“Probably, but it’s part of my job description.” He slides his phone back into his pocket, then pulls out a small white pill bottle, tossing it in my direction.
My reflexes are slow thanks to the hangover, so my attempt at catching it is laughable. The bottle hits me square in the chest before falling into the fry bag on my lap.
“Doc said to give those to you,” he explains as I pluck it up, glancing down at the label.
BounceBack pills– the hangover cure that hit the market a few years ago. It’s sold over-the-counter, but I’ve never had the luxury of trying it due to the high price tag. Guess that’s no longer an issue since I’m now living with the scientist responsible for developing it.
“I’ve gotta run,” Albert mumbles. “But seriously, let me know your conflicts with the schedule and I’ll try to shuffle things around.”
I nod, taking another messy bite of my burger and giving him a mock-salute.
He tosses me a wave before heading back for the elevator. I watch the doors slide shut behind him, the apartment falling quiet once more.
My attention immediately drifts toward the floating staircase that leads up to Dr. Faulkner’s domain.
‘Don’t go upstairs without an invite.’
He might as well have told me there’s a giant red button up there labeled Do Not Press.
My mind and gaze keep wandering upstairs while I finish off my burger and fries. If Dr. Faulkner is so concerned about privacy that every donor gets a warning speech, then he’s obviously hiding something. The question is what.
I last all of five minutes– just long enough to convince myself this is a good idea– then I’m creeping up the steps, my bare feet silent on the polished wood.
The second floor is noticeably darker than the main living space below, the hallway lit only by a handful of recessed lights.
Closed doors line both sides of the corridor, not giving any clues to what lies beyond.
The walls have no photographs, no artwork, no signs of life…
the entire space feels strangely sterile, like a wing of a private clinic rather than someone’s home.
I pause at the top, holding my breath to listen.
There’s no footsteps, no voices. No indication I’ve been caught.
I tiptoe forward, wrapping my fingers around the handle of the nearest door, but it doesn’t move when I press down.
Locked.
I frown, moving onto the next one.
Also locked.
Continuing down the hallway, I test the handle of every door, but they’re all secured tight. Almost like Dr. Faulkner knew I’d ignore instructions and come snooping around the second I was left unsupervised.
Irritation prickles along my skin as I finally give up and pad back downstairs, even more suspicious now than I was before.
The doctor’s clearly hiding something, and I fully intend to find out what it is. As soon as he wakes up tonight, I’m demanding a tour of the upstairs– because if I’m going to live here, I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with.
And if he thinks a few locked doors are enough to stop me from asking questions, he’s got another thing coming.