CHAPTER SIX

VENITA:

"I'm telling you, doctor, something is wrong with me. I can smell things that are insignificant to others, hear even little things as whispers, and see almost invisible things. It seems as if I'm going crazy."

The doctor sighed and rubbed his head, reading my medical report. "Experienced this before, Miss Lowell?" he inquired, glancing up.

The doctor, around forty and a bit chubby, sat at his desk looking tired. His face had lines that showed he had seen a lot. His hair was thinning on top. He wore glasses, making it clear he spent a lot of time reading medical stuff. Despite being tired, he tried to handle things professionally, even though he seemed a bit impatient.

It was the first time I bothered to observe his office. The place was neat and organized, with shelves of medical books and files neatly arranged. A diploma hung on the wall, showing his accomplishments. The room had a few potted plants, trying to bring in a bit of life.

"No, first time," I relaxed in my chair, attempting to explain.

He met my eyes, saying, "There's nothing wrong. It could be heightened senses due to ovulation before your period. No need to worry."

I'm young, not dumb. I knew this was different from the usual ovulation routine. It was hard to put into words. Maybe that was why he didn't quite get my problem.

I gave it another shot, but the doctor cut me off. "Miss Lowell, I have more urgent cases waiting for me. Take a few days off, rest, and eat well. If it continues after a week, return."

No one seemed to grasp my worry. Things were just a bit too much. Lately, I found myself craving raw meat like some wild creature. My feet itched to venture into the wild, an absurd idea. Perhaps I needed a therapist, not just a doctor. Stress and bills might be pushing me off the edge.

The clock on the wall above the nearly bald doctor chimed loudly. "Oh no!" I hurriedly grabbed my things. I was late for work, and that email from last night couldn't wait. If I lost this job, Sasha and I might end up on the streets. I had ignored the urgency of being at work as early as possible to come to the hospital because my sanity was a priority. A mad woman wouldn't be able to work for sure.

* * * *

"Venita," my HR rep somberly said, "we've given chances, but this time, we can't ignore the issue." Waves of nostalgia hit me as I absorbed the reality of unemployment. The fear I dreaded was now here. How would I manage Sasha and the bills? The email seemed like a warning, a chance to redeem myself, but it was just a guise for termination. Why not be direct? I understood the struggle of balancing work and being there for Sasha, and I always chose her.

"You know, a beautiful woman like you should have more smiles than frowns on her face," a male voice boomed.

"Huh?" I stared up at the bartender, who was staring at me, a thin line of smile evident at the corners of his lips.

"Smile more, beautiful," he said, adding a wink. "You might be shooing away potential admirers." He shook and poured a crimson liquid into my glass. "It's on the house," he added.

Just what I needed; numerous free drinks after getting fired. As for smiling or being accommodating so that I could attract men, wasn't going to happen. Having a man was the least of my problems.

"Thank you," I greeted, with a faint smile.

"See. More beautiful with a smile."

"Nah." I snorted.

"Waiting for someone?" he questioned, lowering his head.

Indeed, I was waiting impatiently. "Yes. And she's late," I replied, frustration evident as I waved my hand dismissively.

Simeon, my colleague turned best friend, was supposed to join me. While Sasha had a sleepover at Simeon's parents' house with Kally, Simeon's sister, we planned to drown our worries in alcohol. However, it seemed like I was the one getting intoxicated, as Simeon hadn't shown up yet. I had known Simeon for less than a year, but we quickly became inseparable. Her non-intrusive nature, not prying into my past or pressuring me to open up, made me appreciate her even more.

With a swift motion, I downed the content in my cup. "Please, I would like a refill," I requested from the bartender, who seemed more interested in flirting than being genuinely nice. As long as I got more free drinks, I didn't mind.

"Someone wants to get drunk," he chuckled, making a casual observation. "A little fun doesn't hurt."

"Maybe to get me to come over to your place," I retorted, slightly irritated.

His face lit up. "You get it now?"

Not at all. A headache began to pound at my temples. Maybe the drink was finally getting to me, or perhaps the bartender was just becoming increasingly annoying. Men and their incessant desire to pursue anyone in a skirt.

I took a deep breath and finished the remnants of my drink, glancing at my phone screen. The bartender raised an eyebrow. "What?" I snapped at him. "I can barely taste the alcohol," I lied, trying to maintain composure.

"I didn't say anything," he protested, throwing a defensive hand in the air.

I suppressed an aggressive hiccup.

When everything else in the world seems to be falling apart, a drink always comes to the rescue for me.

A hot sensation stabbed behind my eyes, and my chest tightened. Oh, I was hitting my limit. Was this what people called fun? Yeah? This would never make it to my definition of fun. Instead, it was a distraction necessary for me not to get swallowed by my worrisome thoughts. The bartender tipped his mixing flask, straining out a fresh batch of greenish liquid into the glass in front of me.

"Thank you," I nodded appreciatively, tossing the drink back. As it hit my stomach, a shivering sensation crawled up my spine, making me cough, and causing my head to spin. Warmth seared my chest, reaching every nerve in my body. I couldn't feel my fingers or toes. Good. I was almost there. "Top me up," I requested, wanting to be knocked out, to escape my thoughts.

"You sure?" the bartender asked cautiously.

"Yes," I affirmed, squaring my shoulders and reaching for the glass.

"No. She has had enough," a deep voice interjected.

Startled, I pivoted on the barstool, meeting intense green eyes. The man's gaze was unreadable, yet it held a captivating intensity. He gracefully extended his arm, grabbing the glass and holding it up, his fingers thick and tapered at the edges, making a powerful impression.

"Like what you see?" he teased, smirking at my reaction.

Embarrassed, I glanced at his face, noticing his hard cheekbones and clean-shaven jaw. Not that I cared. My gaze slid to his mouth, taking in the thin upper lip and the enticing lower lip, slightly pouty with a hint of a bad boy. My heart skipped a beat. "You!"

My frustration grew as I realized it was him, attempting to reach for my glass, only for him to hold it out of my grasp. I scowled, demanding, "Give me that. That's my drink and you have no right to snatch it."

He shook his head, asserting, "Not anymore." He handed the glass to the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a vodka, neat."

I was left fuming, annoyance and fascination stirring within me. Who was this man, and why did he seem to enjoy playing with my emotions?

Fury burned within me like wildfire. Did he truly believe the world revolved around him?

Words got trapped in my throat as I tried to speak, and I reached for my drink in frustration. The barstool wobbled, leaning in his direction. That was when I lost my balance. He sidestepped, evading any contact and pressing against the bar. What on earth was happening here?

A sharp grunt of pain escaped me as I met the cold, hard concrete floor. I struggled to rise but collided with his long legs, falling once more.

"Watch it," he barked.

"You jerk! You moved away not caring if I fell," I seethed.

"And why would I do otherwise, Venita?"

"What?" I tilted my chin back, peering up at the expanse of his muscled thigh, the silk fabric of his suit stretched taut. What kind of suit could fit a man with such precision? Oh, right! Handmade. Perhaps the alcohol was granting me a second set of eyes to scrutinize him compared to our initial meeting.

Unconsciously, my hand landed on his lap as I fought to get up. At that very moment, my eyes widened. There was a noticeable bulge tenting the fabric between his legs. Oh! I blinked, attempting to withdraw myself. 'Look away. Look away,' I scolded myself. I extended my hand thinking he would help me, but he remained indifferent.

"Shouldn't you be at home taking care of your daughter, Venita?" he asked, a glass of amber liquid appearing before him. He took a sip, his chiseled features illuminated by the bar's dim lights.

Ignoring his question, I mustered the strength to stand, moving towards an empty barstool. "Why do I keep bumping into you, Mr. Kurt? Is it a mere coincidence?" I challenged, meeting his unwavering gaze. His presence had an alluring pull, like a magnetic force, making me contemplate reckless choices.

As our eyes locked, I couldn't help but inhale his masculine scent which filled the air. There was something familiar about his scent. It was intoxicating. A strange desire awoke within me; a desire to surrender to this man, to let him leave his mark on me. It was madness, yet my heartbeat echoed the frenzied rhythm of temptation.

Abruptly, his eyes glowed red, and a guttural, animalistic growl escaped him. Panic gripped me as his hand tightened around my neck, a warning in his clasp. "Be careful, Venita," he hissed, his voice stern. "Where's Sasha? Who's looking after her? Why aren't you with her?"

My breath got caught up in my throat, fear coursing through me. Why would a stranger ask about my daughter? Was Sasha in danger? Questions swirled in my mind, and uncertainty hung heavily in the air. Most of all, why were his eyes glowing? Has my hallucination intensified?