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Guilt shuddered through me. I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Did Philip get worse?”
“You sound like shit.” His words slapped out. “When was your last dose of V12?”
Oh god. Jacques knew. Shame and humiliation rolled through me in waves of hot and cold. Of course Dr. Nikas would’ve told him. “I . . . last night.”
“Are you out?”
My blood cells turned into spinning razor blades as they flowed through my veins. I sucked air between clenched teeth and clung to the outrage. “You think I took three whole vials since yesterday?”
“I don’t know what you may or may not have done. Right now, anything is possible.” His voice remained icy cool and professional. “Are you out of V12?”
“I don’t need the third degree,” I snapped. “I just need to talk to Dr. Nikas.” Damn judgmental ass. Who the hell did he think he was? Sure, I’d borrowed a few doses, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be trusted at all. And no way was I going to tell him how much V12 I had left. What if he sent security to take it away from me? “When will he be done with Philip?”
Jacques huffed out a breath. “Take a dose if you have one. I’ll let him know you—”
I ended the call and hurled the phone. It bounced off the dash and skittered to a stop on the passenger side floorboard. My chest heaved, and I screamed in fury. Useless, backstabbing asshole. Take a dose? I was trying to get off the crap! Calling had been a mistake. Jacques probably resented that I’d ever been allowed to work at the lab. Trashy loser Angel, horning in on his turf. He wanted me to take a dose to make sure I never got my job at the lab back.
The phone beeped with a text. I snatched it off the floor: Where are you? Take a dose.
My bones burned. I slammed my fist into the seat over and over then typed in a reply, barely able to keep my hand steady enough: Headed south on Fuck You Street.
My gut twisted as if it was about to burst out of my belly like an alien. I needed brains. I needed a goddamn dose. How was I supposed to drive after he got me all worked up like this? What if I got a call to pick up a body? Asshole. He knew what he was doing. He knew I only had one option.
I fumbled the lunch box open. Grabbed the vials and prepped a dose right through the goddamn duct tape. Jabbed the needle under my skin.
“This one’s your fucking fault, Jacques.” My breath hitched as I pressed the plunger. “This one’s on you.”
Chapter 11
The V12 had me nicely chilled out by the time I got home, yet resentment stewed despite the effects of the mod. If Jacques hadn’t screwed with me, I wouldn’t have needed to chill in the first place. Asshole.
I headed inside and changed into clean jeans and T-shirt, then stuffed my impromptu zombie costume items for the Fest into a plastic grocery bag. He had screwed with me, hadn’t he? Doubt butted up against the resentment. I struggled to replay the incident, but my memory of it was fuzzy. And downing an entire bottle of brain-enhanced chocolate milk did nothing to clear it up.
My phone beeped. Jacques again? Annoyance flared as I snatched it from the dresser. “Why can’t you leave me the f—”
Not Jacques. The text was from Nick.
It was an early morning. Still good for meeting up at 1:30?
My ugly mood melted away, and I smiled. You wimping out and need a nap?
Hell no. I was worried about your dainty self.
I grinned as I thumbed in my reply. My delicate butt will be there on schedule. I glanced at the clock to be sure. Yep, I’d have enough time to buy calf brains from the butcher then get to the morgue and stick them in Mr. Noah Granger’s organ bag before Nick got there.
Good deal. See you then.
Feeling more settled, I put my phone aside then sat on the floor of my bedroom and glowered at the contents of my fridge. One bottle of brain smoothie and two brain burritos. Before I’d started using V12, that would have been enough to last a week. Now, at my current mod-stimulated hunger levels, it was barely enough to get me through the day.
In addition to the dismal contents of my fridge, I had a small for-absolute-emergency-only stash here at the house, a baggie of chips, and less than a week’s worth in the freezer in my storage unit. At the rate I was going, I’d need a buttload of “patients” to come through the morgue. Maybe a derailment of a train carrying a bunch of prisoners destined for death row?
Sighing, I chugged the last smoothie then closed the door and clambered to my feet. Surely the crazy hunger would die down as soon as I quit the V12 for good. The craving faded as I drained the bottle, but I threw the last two burritos into my lunch box and tucked the brain chips into my pocket, to be on the safe side.
I shoved down the worry. It would all work out. Somehow.
Humming with V12-fueled confidence, I grabbed the grocery bag with my costume pieces and headed off to Tucker Point. It sucked big milky turds that I’d been forced to take the V12 after swearing off the stuff. Now I’d have to start over from scratch on the cold turkey withdrawal crap. But at least this dose would help me get through the day. It was silly to try and stop cold with everything that was going on: Randy and trouble at the lab and the murder and snooping and being on call and school. I needed that dose.
Traffic slowed as I neared downtown Tucker Point, and the dozen brightly colored parade floats in the BigShopMart parking lot reminded me that the Krewe of Swampfoot parade was due to start in an hour. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I ducked down side streets and through neighborhoods. The police wouldn’t start blocking streets off until the parade was ready to pass by, but I needed to get to the butcher shop. I pumped a fist in triumph as I scored a parking place a mere three blocks away, though I knew I couldn’t take too long with my shopping. The last thing I needed was to get trapped by the parade until it was done—which would be a couple of hours at best. In and out. That was the plan.
