Page 45 of Milk
“How so?”
I wasn’t sure where to begin, so I told Wren everything. Everything from the time I got here: the capture, the pen, and the bath. I told her how much I hated it, how much I loved it, and how much I wanted Carter to fuck me. Then I got to how much it hurt when he rejected me. To my surprise, she just listened, not judging, just nodding along.
“Sounds like he’s respecting you. Not wanting to do it without your consent and all,” She said once I finished.
“I consented, Wren. I consented loudly! I begged!”
“He might feel like waiting is necessary. Susan didn’t … I mean, we didn’t do it for a while when I was here. She was clearly into me, but I guess she wanted to be sure I was into her too, or if the drugs were talking.”
“I’m not taking drugs,” I said and paused. My breasts were aching a little. “I mean, I wasn't before.”
“Still … You might just be rushing things. He obviously likes you, you like him, just give it time, Tiff.” Then she smiled. “Or are you rushing because you want his dick more than our daily meals?”
We laughed. But as I did, dizziness took over. I wobbled on the bench.
“Tiff?” Wren reached for my shoulder.
I tried to tell her I was fine, but the words slurred. The whole farmland was spinning. I reached for the porch railing and missed. I fell limp to the wooden floor, unable to force my body to move. My vision darkened.
“Tiff? Are you okay? TIFF?” Wren shouted, “SOMEONE,PLEASEGET HELP! TIFF!TIFF!”
Ipaced back and forth inside the infirmary, watching as Dr. Yan took note of Tiffany’s vitals and compared the readings on her tablet with the charts.
Tiffany wasn’t sleeping. She was being kept unconscious by a cocktail of drugs to ensure she could rest and felt no pain while her system underwent the effects of the changes. I knew that a bad reaction was one potential outcome, but I was so fixated on the idea of changing my calf into the most beautiful of cows that I pushed those thoughts away. Now I was ravaged by guilt.
“How is she?” I whispered when she finished with Tiffany.
“She’s stable, Mr. Hill.”
“Thank you,” I said, finally, stepping away and allowing her to leave.
She walked away, but stopped at the door to give me what was meant to be a comforting look. Then it was just me and Tiff. She laid on the infirmary bed, covered in a hospitalgown, breathing slowly as machines beeped with her heartbeat, monitored oxygen levels in her blood, along with her other vitals. I told myself there was nothing to worry about. This was the best medical care she could get; some of it wasn’t even commercially available. There was no facility in the world better equipped to take care of Tiffany.
I sat down, holding her hand and looking at her face. Was she too warm? Was that sweat on her forehead? I took a deep breath as my eyes fell into the pattern on her skin. My memories drifted far, far back.
I was sitting on the back of my father’s massive SUV with him as the driver took us up to his farm in upstate Vermont. My father clutched his ebony cane with an ivory-carved longhorn skull at the top. He didn’t care that he looked like the villain from every western movie, or that Ivory hadn’t been an acceptable symbol of extravagance in decades.
We left the car at the gate and walked to the farmhouse. I thought it was weird; my father wasn’t crazy about exercise. As we made it out of earshot of the driver, he said, “What you are about to see will show you why I had to get you here. Why I had to lie…”
“I don’t care,nothingyou can show me will make me care,” I replied.
My father laughed and continued to walk uphill, towards the farmhouse. When we reached the top, I was shocked. Armed guards watched over a construction crew. Three trucks were mixing concrete and another was pumping it into a hole inthe ground while a bulldozer pushed mountains of dirt out of the way. The small farmhouse was nothing compared to the immense construction going on. A small tent city surrounded by wire fences sat in the corner, complete with a watch tower outside the fence. Obviously, the purpose was to keep people in rather than out.
“What … What is this?” I asked with mild horror.
“This is how empires are built, son,” he said proudly.
“Mr. Hill,” one of the guards approached. “Great to see you, sir.”
The man was white with blond hair and blue eyes, but had a strong South-African accent. Something about that combination made me uneasy.
“Thanks, Major. Call me Ron. Anything to report?”
“Three assets tried to escape last night. Two were apprehended and one had their contract terminated.”
“Well done. Call the coyote and get some men to replace them.”
“Yes, sir.”
