So Rare (Boys of South Chapel #3)

15. Hunter

Chapter 15

Hunter

NOW

“Isn’t it neat? How fast it spins? And voilà!” The nurse holds out two tubes as if they’re cute little bunnies she just pulled out of a magic hat. “Perfectly separated platelet-rich plasma.”

My mother claps and squees with excitement.

Not for the first time this hour, I think I’m going to be sick.

It doesn’t help that I was woozy before I had my blood drawn.

I haven’t slept at all. Haven’t eaten much of anything, either.

Stomach churning, I fight back the bile scorching my esophagus and rub at the cotton wad and bandage wrapped around my elbow. The small vial she’s holding contains a lot less blood than if felt like she took from me.

I’ve been here for two days—I think—and it’s all I can do to keep my wits about me and piece together any and all clues that’ll help me determine where I am and how I can get the hell out of here.

I’ve lost hours. Chunks of time. I don’t remember how I got here. I don’t know how long we’re staying. I don’t even remember what I’m missing—pieces of me, people and places I know I should long for but can’t quite recall.

Home?

I try to recall an image of home.

Wisps of places I once loved dance around the periphery of my mind, just out of reach.

I remember what home feels like. I remember who feels like home.

I just don’t remember coming here, or much of what’s happened since we’ve arrived.

Apparently, we’re “glamping” in the private villa of some new-age woodsy med spa. My mother has the staff convinced we’re enjoying a mother-daughter bonding weekend. I have yet to discern whether these people are in on the bit or just really, really stupid. It’s possible, I suppose, that they can’t fathom a reality where a mom, what? Kidnaps her adult child and brings her to a spa? Conceptually, it’s preposterous. Yet I’m intimately familiar with the audacity of Magnolia St. Clair.

It doesn’t help that she does all the talking every time a service technician or hospitality host ventures in. Originally I thought I could befriend one of them. Make nice, then ask to borrow a phone to make a quick call. Frustratingly, it seems like we never see the same person twice. This place must have a significant number of people on staff. There’s always someone new introducing themselves when they bring meals or show up to perform a service.

This afternoon’s service? My mother is about to receive a “vampire facial” in which the blood they just took out of me will be injected into her face.

It’s the newest craze.

The hottest trend in the med spa world.

And, in an unsurprising move, it’s uncommon for one person’s blood to be used for another person’s facial. It was my mother’s idea. Since we have the same blood type—and likely because she’s paying a lot for these people to do whatever she wants—the staff has agreed. Buzzwords like “cutting-edge” and “total rejuvenation” keep being thrown around.

All I can do is try my best not to throw up.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the taut natural fiber canvas that makes up the side wall of the tent.

Perhaps while my mom’s getting her treatment, I could close my eyes and take a break.

I’m so tired.

So very, very tired.

My head has ached for so long that I don’t remember what it feels like when it isn’t throbbing.

I peek one eye open, trying to keep my wits about me as she settles in for her treatment.

My mom is sitting on a pop-up massage and facial table in the middle of the room, and the technician is holding a mirror in front of her. They’re chatting animatedly about the procedure and how lucky I am to have her genes.

My nose tickles with the threat of tears as they blather on.

Yes, how very lucky am I.

How lucky am I to have a mother who drugged me and guided me out of the comfort of my own bed.

How lucky am I to have been born to a woman willing to stop at absolutely nothing to get what she wants.

How lucky am I to have a mind that’s working overtime to put up mental walls against the trauma of the last forty-eight hours.

How lucky am I.

How lucky am I.

How lucky am I.