Fatal Attraction (Dark Desires 4)

I’d let Pauline deal with her in the morning.

Chapter 3: Chance

“If you don’t mind me saying, Mr. Ridder, you look terrible.”

I looked at Miles’s eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded. “I feel like crap, Miles” I said. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Long night?”

“Aren’t they all?” I asked.

The piercing pain from the night before hit me again, and I winced, my hand automatically reaching for my chest as if it could somehow pull the pain out and relieve me from it. I squeezed my eyes shut, my head spinning. The car had pulled away from the curb, and when I opened my eyes again, Miles was watching me instead of the road.

“Sir, are you…”

“Eyes on the road, Miles,” I said, gritting my teeth against another burst of pain.

“Mr. Ridder, are you sure –”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. My vision blurred, and I felt like the world had somehow dumped me in a large carousel that was going a little too fast. I blinked, trying to regain some sort of focus, and was greeted by shifting images and bright spots. The heaviness against my chest only intensified.

Am I having a fucking heart attack?

I laid my head back and gazed out the window, the buildings looking like silhouettes of varying shades of gray. I felt the car pick up speed and turn sharply.

“Miles, what are you doing?” I croaked.

“I’m taking you to the hospital, Mr. Ridder.”

I didn’t protest. The hospital sounded like a very good idea.

* * *

I felt better. Not much, but enough to wish I could light a cigarette and maybe get a drink. The walls around me were surrounded by posters of the human body and motivational quotes telling me that my health came first, everything else second. I scoffed when I looked at the fake smiles of the models in the pictures, the frozen “jumping in the air” glee that was a little too happy for my taste.

I need a drink. And a smoke.

The door opened, and I shifted on the bed as the doctor walked in, holding a chart in his hands and flipping through the pages with great concentration.

“Mr. Ridder,” he mumbled, frowning as he looked at my stats.

That can’t be good.

“How old did you say you were?” the doctor asked, looking at me from over the top of his glasses, his gaze making me feel like I was twelve again and being scolded for playing where I shouldn’t have.

“Thirty-two,” I answered. “Isn’t that in your chart?”

“It is,” the doctor nodded, flipping through the pages again. “The thing is, according to these reports, you should be fifty.” He looked up at me again. “Or dead.”

“That’s great, doc,” I smiled. “Not much for bedside manner, huh?”

The doctor placed the chart down on his desk and folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Ridder, from what I’ve seen, bedside manner shouldn’t be your main concern at the moment. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and please try to answer them as truthfully as you possibly can.”

As I possibly can? Really?

“How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?”

I shrugged. “Two packs, maybe three.”