Page 8 of Fixation

HARPER

S hivers vibrate through my body. My teeth lock. Gnash, more like it.

That’s what I wake up to. These uncontrolled body movements.

A second passes, and I sense another thing. Pressure in the crook of my arm. It’s not painful. Slightly uncomfortable maybe, but that’s it.

When I listen closer, I hear a sound.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

What a relief. Apparently, while I was out, I was admitted to the hospital.

They’re giving me fluids. Meds. My eyes remain blissfully closed. I plan on keeping them that way.

It’s going to be okay.

I’m going to be okay.

I’m in the ER. Being taken care of.

I’ll be fine.

More sensations start flooding in. My body returns to life, and I take inventory of what exactly it is I’m feeling.

One of the nurses pulled these really warm and soft covers over me. They don’t irritate my neck or the backs of my hands.

My hospital gown is softer still. Feels a lot like an oversized T-shirt. And a sweatshirt over it too? I think so. Oh, fluffy socks, they put those over my feet.

Go, hospital, woot, woot.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I call for my congested nose to work and sniff myself. Wow, I smell nice on top of everything else. Clean.

How cool is that? People often complain about the hospital’s antiseptic scent, but not here. The fragrance surrounding me reminds me of the brand of shampoo and soap I use. Plus, my hair doesn’t cling to my scalp anymore.

Someone washed me up.

That’s incredibly kind of them.

I have to be kind too. To thank them. Then ask a nurse or a doctor if there’s something seriously wrong with me or if I just caught a bad flu. Check where my bag and phone are and call my parents.

Okay then.

Resting time is over.

Opening my eyes—I’ll have to start there.

How am I supposed to do that? My lids are heavier than I thought. The fever weighs them down.

It hasn’t gone down completely, apparently. I feel better, though. Much better. I mean, hey, I’m not coughing.

My throat is sore, yet my lungs don’t burn.

Yes, I’ve definitely been admitted to the hospital. I’ve been treated here, have had time to rest. I’m on the path to healing.

Whoever’s on shift deserves a raise. Mainly, the seriously handsome, seriously competent doctor who held me up seconds before I slipped into unconsciousness.

A surgeon, he said he was.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

His dark, fathomless eyes. I remember those.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

His voice. The richness of it. How rugged he sounded.

“I’ve got you, Harper.”

At that, I gulp. My heart stills.

My name.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

He knew my name. The Uber driver didn’t give him that information. I remember that part clearly.

“I’ve got you, Harper.”

My body freezes.

A stranger knew my name.

Fighting the heaviness on my eyelids, I force my eyes to open.

Even with the lights dimmed, it takes a few seconds for the world to become sharper.

The first thing I look at is my body, covered by a pale blue wool blanket. That’s okay. That’s normal.

Right?

Right.

Next is the IV pole by my bed. A metal treatment cart with drawers and all is stationed at its side.

None of it is suspicious.

What raises alarm bells are the exposed brick walls. The fact that no sun or starlight filters in.

This place doesn’t seem to be a hospital room.

What’s in that IV bag, then?

Panic pushes against my ribs, and I ball my hands into fists. I let out a relieved sigh when my fingers move.

I’m not numb.

Whatever drips into my veins isn’t a sedative. That has to mean something.

Things can’t be that bad if I’m fully functioning. If my limbs work, I’m capable of leaving whenever I want. It means I am in a hospital.

Maybe they called my emergency contact, Dad, and he insisted they put me in one of their private wings?

Maybe.

Another tremor takes me by surprise. My teeth click again.

Every muscle in my body aches.

I’ll call a nurse or my parents to get me out of here when I’m better. Just a bit longer.

I don’t have to rush if I’m in the hospital.

Are you really in a hospital, though?

Am I?

A sense of dread has my skin prickling.

This room is too dark to be a hospital room.

Too silent.

Other than my chattering teeth and the constant drip of the IV, I don’t hear anyone outside. No footsteps. No voices. No beeping sounds or rolling beds.

I turn my gaze to the side, searching for a window again. For a door.

For a nurse rushing in to check my vitals.

Nothing.

Another thorough look at the walls, and no, this place isn’t right. These two industrial floor lamps lining the walls on either side of me, they’re wrong.

Where are the overhead lights?

Where the hell am I?

The more I think about it, the faster my heart rate increases. My breaths are laden. Lips parched.

No. This isn’t a hospital room, I’m sure of that now.

I’m in someone’s basement.

It looks nearly identical to my own basement, I realize.

This isn’t my home, either. When I moved in, I added a personal touch to the space where I do the laundry.

Eight sconces shed warm light on the closed space, except for the two small windows that I do offer. The ones that provide a view of the street.

A long wooden table is placed in the center for me to fold my clothes. I leave my laundry basket on it, right there, next to the speaker where I play old rock songs.

This place is someone else’s home.

Air refuses to go into my lungs. They’re flat. My chest is tight.

The world closes in around me, fast.

I’ve been kidnapped.

By my stalker.

It has to be him. He’s not as safe as I thought.

He finally got his hands on me.

My fingers twitch. My body shakes with disbelief.

When I talked to him earlier—at home, when I thought I was hallucinating—I could sense his presence.

It’s clear that it wasn’t just a dream my brain cooked up. What I’d been suspecting for weeks is true.

I just didn’t know it was my neighbor.

It all makes sense now.

That weird feeling that’s been crawling up my spine ever since I saw his movers. Their truck sat idling on the curb two months ago, rumbling like it was holding something back.

I caught a glimpse of them as the last one trotted down the stairs and joined the others before they drove off.

But I haven’t actually seen my neighbor.

I’m going to see him now.

The person who gave me a false sense of security. The person I called when I was sick, hallucinating at home.

Fuck. I’m so stupid.

A scream rises in my throat, and at the last minute, I hold it there.

I have to be quiet.

I don’t want him here. I need to get away.

Even if he’s not sedating me. Even if he’s taking care of me while I’m sick.

I didn’t ask for this.

This prison. In a stranger’s home. A person who’s been stalking me. I’m so sure that I’ve been taken against my will that I could throw up.

I won’t.

I won’t give up. I won’t.

Come on, feet, move. Time to leave this hellhole.

One pull, and I realize this is going to be more complicated than I thought.

Way more.

Earlier, when I balled my hands into fists, I did so without moving my arms or legs. If I had, I would’ve realized this one, blood-curdling truth. I’m bound to the rails of this hospital bed.

By a material that feels a lot like foam and Velcro.

Like hospital restraints. In this place, that isn’t a hospital at all.

What the fuck.

What.

The.

Fuck.

I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here right this fucking minute.

“Come on, come on,” I whisper. I twist my arm left and right. I push and I tug and—“Dammit. Dammit.”

My voice is hoarse. My muscles are tired from fighting the fever.

I kick as hard as I can, only to realize I’m just as fucked. Just as tightly bound.

The IV cannula hurts my arm when I wriggle, trying to free myself.

Tears brim in the corners of my eyes as frustration takes over.

Nevertheless, I don’t stop trying.

I don’t do helpless.

Despite my connections to the industry, I didn’t coast here. I work hard. I’m a fighter.

No one’s going to hold me captive.

The fact that my stalker must be the surgeon from the hospital changes nothing. He can be the most beautiful person I’ve ever come across. He can be the man who caught me when I fell.

He still kidnapped me.

He’s dangerous.

“Argh,” I growl quietly, yanking on my binds over and over and over again.

The IV pole sways. The rails rattle. The bed shakes but otherwise doesn’t slide off to the side.

Terror threatens to swallow my whole when I realize it’s bolted to the floor.

My body rebels against the sharp, strenuous movements. Against any movement I make, period.

Despair clings to my lungs. My throat tightens.

Fighting my predicament wears me down with every passing second.

I’ve been beaten to a pulp by the fever.

The damned cannula, will that ever stop hurting? You know what? Don’t care. Let it hurt. Let it pull on my skin.

I have to power through. Gotta get out of here.

The rails keep clinking. My heart hammers in my chest.

Sweat trickles down my temples.

I’m giving it everything I have, which isn’t much.

With a fever as high as this, it’s more than just fighting. It’s as if I’ve gone to a full-out war.

A war I’m losing, losing, and losing all over again.

The doctor who left me here wanted me to recover.

He wanted me to be comfortable. Covered in soft, warm clothes.

None of them is a hospital gown.

I’m bound to this bed.

He did this.

His act of kindness back there in the ER was a lie.

I’m trapped.

A captive.

“Come on.” A tear slips from the corner of my eye. The drop is hot against my feverish skin. I don’t stop—won’t stop—trying to break free. “Come on. Please, come the fuck on.”

“Good morning.”

That voice.

His voice.

I might’ve passed out a second after I heard it in the ER. Doesn’t matter. I’d recognize it anywhere.

Never have I heard a lower, more confident voice.

“Harper.” His tone is sharp. The way he says my name is a command.

He can demand someone else’s attention. Someone he hasn’t kidnapped, for God’s sake.

They might listen.

Not me.