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Swallowing, I press a hand to my racing heart. The contact, even if it’s my own skin, makes something inside me still a little bit.
I can’t keep fucking doing this. I want Gray right now. Or Elias or Declan. Or all of them. It doesn’t matter. I just need someone.
But you don’t have anyone, I remind myself, so suck it the fuck up.
I never had anyone before, and I got through most of my life that way, which means I don’t need anyone now. Whatever the thing is between me and the Sinners, I don’t want to rely on it. I don’t want to need it.
Because in my experience, needing something is the quickest way to make sure you lose it.
Shifting my weight on the small, angled mattress, I carefully coach myself back to the state of numbness that has been my friend all these years, my comfort.
The only problem is, once you start to feel, it’s hard to go back to being satisfied with feeling nothing.
It’s late, and even though I can tell my body is still drained, I don’t feel tired. The room doesn’t spin around me like it did earlier after the guys left, and sleep doesn’t reach out of the darkness to drag me under again. I can’t read the clock in the shadows, but I can hear it ticking.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Nothing happens.
I can’t fall asleep, not when I know that the dark places in my unconscious mind are so much more fucking dangerous than my own thoughts.
At least those I can control.
Whether because of the drugs or because of sheer exhaustion, I eventually fall asleep again. I don’t remember it stealing over me, but the next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes to see warm California sunlight pouring through the window.
As I scrub a hand over my face, I pick up the muffled sounds of activity outside my room. The eerie silence from the middle of the night is gone. Now that it’s morning again, the hospital is awake and bustling, full of people coming and going.
A few nurses come and go from my room, offering me breakfast and checking my vitals.
I chose to ignore their stares. I get it—they’re probably not used to dealing with patients who have blue hair and tattoos, but that’s their problem, not mine. If they want to use their fancy degree to help fancy rich people who have great access to health care, then that’s fine. Their choice.
Not saying there are better places to be helping, because everyone needs health care, but still. Can’t imagine very many rich people needing emergency surgeries after a drive-by shooting, needing immediate attention after a drug overdose, or an emergency delivery for a woman who’s been assaulted and unable to afford prenatal care.
Rich people live in a bubble where they never have to worry about that kind of shit.
I might be part of this world of wealth and privilege temporarily, but I don’t belong here, and the understated elegance of the hospital room only drives that point home.
My heart lurches in my chest suddenly as a new thought takes root.
Oh, fuck.
How the hell am I supposed to pay for this?
As I look around the room again, instead of seeing a nice suite with a pretty view of a rooftop garden below, I see dollar signs coming out of everything.
The IV. The night—nights?—I’ve spent here, in this bed in a private room. The meds. The food. The people who come and check on me every five minutes now that it’s not nighttime anymore.
Fuck.
This is going to cost a whole hell of a lot more than the measly stipend I’m getting from Hawthorne U, probably even more than the several grand I still have stashed under my bed from winning Gray’s bet.
Yeah, I’m fucked.
I’ve got to get out of here this second before they add anything else to my bill. As it is, I’ll probably be paying for this little hospital stay for the rest of my damn life.
Not wanting to waste another second, I slide off the bed. There are a pair of slippers near the foot of the bed, and I slip them on. I don’t see my clothes anywhere, but I’m prepared to walk out of here in my hospital gown if I have to.
I’m still connected to an IV hookup, and although it’s on a little stand that wheels around easily so I can get to the bathroom and stuff, I can’t leave with it still attached. I glance down at the IV and wince. I’ve always hated needles, and I’m glad I wasn’t awake when they put it in me. But there’s no help for it now.
