Page 30 of Oklahoma Storms
Swinging open the fridge, I snag the last bag of blood, rip it open, and suck it down like I’ve spent all day in the hot summer sun.
There’s too much to be done around here. I have to get more rescue horses in a few hours from a farm that lost everything ina storm. All the animals at Oklahoma’s Rescue need to be fed. There are a few horses that are pregnant that we need to check on. The list goes on and on, and I can’t do any of it if I feel like this.
The cold blood is hard to swallow, but I’m desperate, and I manage.
I moan, clutching the kitchen island like it’s a flotation device in the middle of the ocean.
Pressing my face against the cool granite countertop, the stark cold against my cheek only brings a second of relief. My stomach twists with violent cramps that almost send me to my knees.
I gag, the blood boiling in my gut. Cherry takes over my eyes, shifting from normal to predator with every blink. Groaning as I watch my claws extend from my nailbeds, I dig the tips into the counter, needing something to hold me upright.
Everything sways and blurs around me.
The hot blood claws at my throat, wanting out of my body.
There’s only one experience that can compare, but this is a million times worse. When I was human, and I’d drink so much, I’d be hungover the next day.
Light sensitivity. Food sensitivity. Lethargy. Thirst. Body aches.
A hangover can be cured. The body heals, and humans repeat the action, sometimes even killing themselves in the process.
This? It’s as if razors are inside my body, cutting me from the inside out.
Clutching my stomach, the blood spews from my mouth, covering the hardwood floors, my feet, and the kitchen island.
“Woah, holy shit, Oakley. What happened?” Westin rushes into the kitchen. “I heard you from one hundred and fifty acres away. What the fuck? Are you okay?” He steps forward, nearly stepping into the blood that’s surrounding me, and I stop him.
“Don’t,” I grunt, spitting the excess from my mouth onto the floor. “Don’t move. Can you get my phone, please?”
He seems surprised and tosses his hat on the dinner table. “Your phone, really? You aren’t well, Oakley. You need help.”
“And the person I need to speak with will help me,” I yell, slamming my fist on the counter so hard I break the corner off. I squeeze my eyes shut when a high-pitched ringing in my ears squeezes my brain until I can no longer string a thought together.
My eyes roll back, and my body fails.
“Oakley!” Westin is fast, an obscure shadow of himself. He slides into the blood, catching me before I can hit the ground. “What the fuck, man? Talk to me. What’s going on?”
The front door slams shut, and Jazz appears in the kitchen next. “Oakley! Westin! What the fuck, happened? Holy shit, there’s blood everywhere.”
“He’s sick,” Westin explains. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Go get his phone. He said he knows who to call to ask.”
Jazz kneels in front of me. “Where’s your phone, Oakley?”
“By my bed,” I croak, my heart racing. “This has to pass, right? It has to.”
“I’ve never seen a vampire throw up blood before, Oklahoma. I don’t know if this is the kind of thing that passes.” Westin helps me to my feet, the two of us covered in blood.
“I think it’s best if we stay in the kitchen. We don’t want to drag the blood through the house.”
I nod, clutching onto my best friend. “Good idea.” Another wave of nausea hits, another cramp searing through my stomach, and I’m doubled over again, spewing the last of the crimson liquid out of my body.
“Fuck, Oakley. Are you dying?”
I glance up at Westin, and for the first time in about a decade of knowing him, his eyes become glassy. His worry and fear hit me like a truck, knocking the breath out of me.
“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’ll try to control my emotions.” His hand tightens on my waist and helps me to one of the dining room chairs.
“It’s okay. Don’t even worry about that. I appreciate how worried you are about me.”
