My boyfriend couldn’t be a fucking vampire.
That was…
I shook my head, pressing my palms against my eyes.
I needed to get out.
Do something, aside from staring at my fridge or opening my fridge and staring at a bag of blood or googling weird shit about blood and keeping a supply at home, before the FBI came over to ask me questions.
But what could I do?
My brain was a jumbled mess, working overtime to come up with rational explanations where there were none to be found.
The doorbell rang, and I couldn’t help but snort.
Wow.
The FBI sure was quick to come over to check on the contents of my… hahaha. I actually did have blood in my fridge.
It rang again, and I rolled my eyes. Probably a delivery guy rather than the FBI. I guess the FBI would have more patience.
I buzzed the delivery guy in and immediately went back to fretting.
What was I going to do now?
Should I text Eric?
But what would I say?
“Hey, I found blood in your fridge and just wanted to know what the FUCK you’re doing with that?”
Maybe not the worst idea I ever had.
Then again, how could I trust that he’d answer truthfully? Via text, it was almost impossible to say whether someone was being honest.
That meant talking to him.
As in actually meeting with him.
I shuddered.
What if he really was a vampire?
I laughed.
So what?
If he were a vampire, he’d have been one ever since I’d fucking met him. Right? I mean, it was probably not a new thing.
So, I’d already spent time alone with him. I’d fucking slept with him, kissed him, had fallen asleep in his arms, all while he’d potentially been a vampire.
And still, the prospect of facing him—alone, because having this conversation in public could possibly end up with me being admitted to a hospital if anyone heard us—was… weird.
Maybe I should’ve just answered the damn phone.
Talked to him.
Maybe I should call him back?
