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Hurried footsteps echo down the corridor, and a nurse bursts through the door.
“Sir, what are you doing? You need to …”
A blonde woman in navy scrubs follows the nurse into the room, and my eyes land on rose-colored lips then drift across her porcelain skin up to a pair of sharp blue eyes: unfriendly eyes that are fixed on me. I stare back at her.
“Sir …” she starts.
I shake my head at her, and the room swims again.Fuck.I put my head in my hands, still trying to keep the pressure on my elbow where I’ve ripped the IV drip out.
“I need to get out of here.” My voice is full of phlegm, and I cough in an attempt to clear my throat. “I can’t stay here. No insurance.”
She walks over to me, and small soft hands lock around my wrists as she moves them downward and looks into my eyes. A buzz runs right up my arm.
“Are you dizzy?”
She takes something out of her pocket before shining a light in my eyes, and I blink, turning my head away from the glare.
“Turn around.”
Something about the way she says it, or perhaps because she’s wearing blue scrubs, makes me shift around on the bed. The movement causes another wave of nausea, and I gag. A plastic tray is thrust into my hands as the doctor shifts my hospital gown and the cold of her stethoscope presses on my bare back.
“I can’t stop you from leaving, but I wouldn’t recommend it,” she murmurs. “You’re really in no state to go anywhere. What’s your name?”
“Fabian,” I say, “Fabian Adramovich.” I understand they need to know, but then the beautiful doctor will look me up, discover my history, and become even more disapproving. I have to leave. “Where are my clothes?”
The nurse heads out of the room, but the lovely doctor ignores this. “Did you take something? Do you have a health condition?”
“Why do you want to know?” Medical professionals always ask these questions. It’s my body, my lifestyle. But all my response garners is an impatient sigh behind me.
“You were brought in here unconscious.”
I peer at her over my shoulder and narrow my eyes. I’ve never liked the idea that my records are on some hospital database: The less information people hold about me the better. She shifts my gown back together and moves back as I turn around to face her.
“Do you need a diagnosis for your files?” The last word comes out with a derisive snort.
“I’m curious,” she says quietly.
I shrug, and she folds her arms.
“If you’re going to be a dick and leave this place when you’re in this state”—she waves her arm at me—“then at least give us the satisfaction of knowing what happened. We’ve spent time on you, and you’ve had us all worried.”
I laugh. Well, she doesn’t give a damn about her bedside manner, but fuck I like it, I like assertive women. Tests, though—how much money might that involve? My chest tightens. I’ve had to fight so many legal battles recently that my meager funds are all but wiped out, and I am not going to Janus for another bailout.
I sigh. “I took something,” I mumble, not meeting her eyes.
“What did you take?”
I just shrug, and she tips her head back to look at the ceiling.
“Seriously?”
“It’s none of your business,” I say, starting to cough. As I lean forward, I retch into the plastic tray again.
“A recreational drug?”
“There are other kinds?” I say, trying to smile.
And her face softens as she laughs. “And you want to leave?” she murmurs, taking the tray and handing me another one as her eyes scan my face.
