Lucidity

Chapter 22 - Comfort Measures

Eve cracked open the door to Vincent’s call room and looked in. She smiled, remembering her own nights spent in similar rooms, glad that period in her life was over. Now if she stayed late at work it was because she wanted to, not because she was at the beck and call of others.

Like most residents, Vincent had left the bathroom light on and the door cracked open, the better to read messages on his pager without the shock of turning on the overhead light. He stirred, the mattress squeaking as he turned in his sleep and began to snore. How adorable. Just like a baby—a baby who was about to have a very pleasant dream.

She slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. Stripping out of her blouse and skirt, she moved over to the bedside table and carefully opened the tiny vial of chloroform. Old fashioned, but suitable for her purposes: guaranteed to both sedate and arouse, the anesthetic had once been used as an aphrodisiac.

Combined with the small dose of Rohypnol she had slipped him earlier, he would be easily swayed by any suggestion, physical or otherwise, that she made.

Eve held a surgical mask, the chemical would burn if it touched bare flesh, and carefully placed a few drops on it. The cloyingly sweet scent of ether wafted through the room as she held the mask beneath Vincent’s nose. She breathed shallowly but still caught enough of the chemical to give her a delicious tingling that began at her toes and worked up her body. Vincent coughed once but then remained still as Eve climbed into the bed with him.

She placed the mask within reach on the nightstand just in case. Usually one dose was enough, once begun she could allow nature to take its course. Often she could even convince the man that he had seduced her by the time it was all over.

But it was really Eve in control—and that was the most powerful aphrodisiac of all.

<><><> 

Vincent was drowning in flowers. He choked down the sweet scent, half arousing from his sleep. There was a weight on him. A woman, he realized as her hands slid up his naked chest.

Naked? The thought nearly pierced the veil of confusion that had engulfed him. He was on call, wasn’t he? He never slept nude in the hospital.

Then her lips covered his and he was drowning again but this time the sensation was welcome, drifting in a field of flowers, all responsibilities and worries left far behind. The taste of sweet vanilla on a tongue that twisted with his.

If this was a dream, it was the best one he’d had in a long time.

The lips left his, proceeding on a taste tour of his neck, his shoulder.

“Grace,” he whispered.

She froze and for one second he was certain that he’d broken the spell.

His thoughts seemed joined to his body by tenuous cobwebs but he dimly realized that she was taller, more curved, fuller-figured than Grace’s lean boniness. He started to pull back, to try to look upon the woman before him, but she held him tight against her body.

A raucous beeping clamored through his brain, igniting a throbbing headache. The noise meant something important, it was soon joined by another, their high-pitched tones a jarring counterpoint to the groaning of the bed and the guttural moans escaping Vincent’s mouth as waves of pleasure rocked him.

Her hand left his flesh for an aching moment followed by the clatter of two pagers banished to the ground, devoured by hobgoblins and hoards of dust bunnies hidden beneath the bed.

Her fingers returned, raking at the flesh of his back, sending delicious shockwaves of pain and pleasure through him. He heard Grace’s voice coming from a distance and knew it was vital that he listen, attend to her words, but by the time they reached his brain they were consumed by his passion, burnt to meaningless fragments. It was as if he could no longer speak or understand English—the only language he knew was the primordial urge that had overtaken his body and mind.

Her head rolled forward, her teeth sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. Pain shot through him as she bit deep enough to draw blood, her talons tearing at the flesh around his spine. Vincent jerked up in pain, opening his eyes in the dim light. It took a few moments, but finally his vision began to clear.

His eyes met the monochromic grey of Eve Warden’s. She smiled at him, gleaming white teeth in a wide mouth.

Vincent blinked hard.

There was a tiny drop of blood sliding along the edge of one perfectly formed incisor. Her tongue ran across her teeth and it vanished.

His head was pounding, keeping time from the insistent beeping echoing beneath the bed. He was on call. What the hell had happened? Fog swirled through his mind, impenetrable and leaving him with a cold chill in the pit of his gut.

A woman’s voice called to him, but Eve’s lips never moved. Grace?

Then he realized it wasn’t Grace’s voice but the hospital operator’s sounding outside in the hallway. Announcing a Code—a patient in distress. Room 703.

Eve gave him a sideways smile, appearing coy and much younger than her years. “I still can’t believe you talked me into coming here. I’ve never—”

He brought her here? Vincent searched his memory, but it was shrouded in confusion. He slumped back, exhausted, devoured, empty, devastated. Ravished.

The best sex he’d ever had and he could barely remember it. At least she seemed satisfied as she curled up on top of his chest, her tongue teasing his neck like a cat licking cream from its whiskers. How had he ever convinced Eve to join him in bed while he was on call?

He was on call. He jolted upright, reaching for his scrubs, trying to pull himself together as the operator’s urgent message penetrated his fuzzy and cobweb cloaked brain.

“There’s a code,” he told Eve, his tongue thick as he struggled to form the words.

She rolled off of him, and he couldn’t help watching as she moved with a dancer’s grace, sliding her clothes back on.

“Room seven-oh-three,” she said, her voice cutting through the haze as she bent down to retrieve her pager. “That’s Katherine Jellicle’s room.”

As she walked out ,Vincent groaned in dismay, struggling into his clothes, pulling his shoes on even as he tore out of the room.

He’d messed up, big time, the words chased him. All because he’d been thinking with his glands instead of his brain. Kat might die. Might be dead already.