OBSESS MUCH?: A Neurotic Vampire's Tale

By Brandi Leigh Hall

Forget everything you know about Therapy—and Vampires—as you peek inside the broken mind of an Immortal with more issues than TV Guide.

Meet Dr. Conor O’Malley.

Snarky.

Deliciously broody.

A bit naughty.

Beyond neurotic and quirky.

A huge fan of the f-bomb.

Carries a sterling silver cross for good luck.

And he’s more screwed up than most of his psych-patients.

Oh, and did I mention, he’s absolutely nothing like any Vampire you’ve ever seen? Especially the unique ways he feeds, but I won’t go and spoil that surprise. It’s just too much fun!

Crazy thing is, that doesn’t even skim the surface with what makes Conor so entertaining. His twisted thoughts—and witty banter with his hilarious friends—will have you laughing your ass off, even when you know you probably shouldn’t. Just don’t be surprised if in the very next chapter he has you crying in your Cheerios when he shares the deep dark parts of his tortured soul.

So grab a glass of wine—your favorite comfy clothes—and curl up with the perfect book boyfriend to send your emotions on a rollercoaster ride you’ll never forget. And let Dr. O’Malley’s rather unorthodox methods assist you in your journey towards achieving mental health.

If you dare!

THERAPY HAS NEVER BEEN SO TWISTED!

“Humor. Suspense. Romance. Heartache. Thrills. And shocking twists. Buckle up the straightjacket—you’re in for one hell of a crazy ride!” Karyn DeGiorgio, Word Forward Reviews

WARNING: If you’re looking for a traditional Vampire novel loaded with death and destruction, this probably isn’t the book for you. But if you’re in the mood for something quirky, straying outside the lines of the norm, give OBSESS MUCH? a try. I promise, you’ll be so glad you did. Just keep in mind, this isn’t a vampire novel. The fact that our neurotic doctor just happens to be one, is more a personality trait that makes his mental anguish even more entertaining.

CONTENT RATING: R
Yes, there are a few naughty scenes, but nothing raunchy and overly descriptive. Just be warned our moody vamp does have a bit of a potty mouth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandi Leigh Hall
• Release date: Jun 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513004440

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Ireland - 1898

If I died, there’s no chance in hell this is heaven!

I force my heavy eyelids open, the glaring midday sun causing me to recoil from its intrusion. But the throbbing in my head—and radiating pain in my abdomen—make me acutely aware there’s more to worry about than a simple bright light.

No, I can’t be dead.

This is something far worse.

Panic swims through my chest as I beg myself to remember what happened, even though every inch of my body screams at me to forget.

How nice of you to join us, a familiar voice calls out, the sound of his feet across the wooden floor getting closer. So, do you feel any different?

I turn to Hayden, flashes of his early morning visit coming back to me. What did you do to me?

I thought you’d be happy. I made you just like me, of course.

Reality slams into me.

The word he used when he told me what he’d been turned into, because of my interference.

Vampire.

He hovers over me, admiring the expertise behind his handiwork. His skillfully plotted creation everything he’d hoped it would be.

And then some.

My agony only sweetens the pot.

So proud, his arrogance clinging to his body like stale cigarettes, he sneers. So how does it feel, Doc? You got any cravings yet?

But all I can do is roll over, my arm falling into a pool of blood at my side.

Then I see her.

The woman I vowed to protect.

The woman I swore to love like no other.

Her lifeless body, the most excruciating thing I’ve ever seen as the image burns itself into the recesses of my mind.

How could this have happened?

Maybe it’s just a horrid nightmare.

Hayden lifts her limp arm with the tip of his dusty boot, kicking it aside as though it were nothing more than rotted driftwood in his path.

He snickers, the moonlight shining in across his pockmarked complexion. Welcome to eternity, Doc. Might as well make yourself comfortable!

PSYCHOSIS

A mental disorder characterized by symptoms such as delusions or hallucinations, which indicate impaired contact with reality.

Chapter 1

PSYCHOSIS

We’re all fucking nuts!

Every. Single. One of us.

That’s the beauty of mental illness. It doesn’t discriminate. Granted, most folks aren’t therapy-bound or on a cocktail of meds to dull their anguish. But underneath that facade of normalcy, people carry it with them every day.

Like the paranoia, constantly making you second-guess everything you or those around you do.

Or the bottles of antibacterial gel you keep on your desk—tucked in your bag—or on your counters. Hello, can you say Germaphobe?

Let’s not forget the chocolate you can’t go a day without munching down on to soothe stress. I’m sorry, but no matter how you slice it, addiction is addiction.

And what about the habitual need for perfection and order? Yes, that’s what we refer to as obsessive compulsive my friend.

Those are just a few of the most popular examples.

The point is, no matter who you are—or your status in life—you’ll find one if you dig deeply enough.

It’s in there!

Oh boy, is it ever in there.

And for those lucky enough, perhaps they were born with a handful of these charming neuroses.

And that’s precisely why I’m here.

Dr. Conor O’Malley, at your service, to help you ascertain whether it’s clinical, or merely a personality trait driving those you love to run for the hills.

Let’s be honest. True mental illness, the likes of which you only see in movies, is often times difficult to diagnose. It seems like most patients who grace my Belgravia leather sofa are either depressed—suffering from some latent form of PTSD—or were abused in one-way or another and merely seek a somewhat healthy way to function.

But sometimes, on that rare and special occasion, I’m blessed with the truly delirious and exquisitely insane.

As messed up as it might sound, I adore the crazy.

They make me feel like less of a whack-job myself.

Believe me when I say, I’ve got enough disorders to give any Shrink a full-time job. So for me—Cracker Barrel isn’t a place you eat—it’s a state-of-mind.

In my one-hundred-eighteen years of experience, I’ve found most mental health professionals abhor words like nuts, looney, and crazy. So does that mean I’m a complete prick if I find them delightful terms of endearment?

Probably!

Hell, I’ve even been known for nicknaming my patients after types of nuts or candy bars, like Planters, Macadamia, or Snickers.

Which brings me to my current head-case.

We’ll refer to him as Paranoid Personality Disorder - Exhibit A: The Pistachio.

Without being overt, I glance up from my notepad of incoherent doodles towards the wall clock for the umpteenth time. Only two minutes remaining. I exhale, the finish line within my reach.

After a year of the same nonsense with this kid, I find it hard sometimes to maintain any semblance of professional composure.

The longer acne-ridden, seventeen-year-old Jeremy Simpson whines about his pathetic adolescence, the louder the ticking of the clock becomes. Like a time bomb, pressing against my Temporal Lobe, ready to go off with each syllable.

I swear, if my oath didn’t require me to be ethical, there’d be a throw-pillow over his face—or duct tape stretched across his chapped lips—providing me with long-awaited silence.

Yes, it’s safe to say I have abnormally low tolerance to spoiled children. Awe, hell . . . I have zero tolerance to anyone born with a silver spoon in their mouth and no compassion for the plight of others. Especially the self-indulgent, entitled ones, prowling the streets of Manhattan in search of the latest trends or health craze.

If this weren’t my favorite city in the world, that alone would make me move somewhere desolate.

Well, maybe not too desolate. A man’s gotta eat, after all.

I just wish I knew what to do, Dr. O’Malley. My parents hate me . . . I know it. And I think my mother’s trying to find a way to poison me. Jeremy turns to grab a tissue from the metal stand behind his head. Am I really that much of a disappointment?

Seriously? If he were my son, I’d have him locked in a padded cell until high school graduation. Perhaps even beyond. "Jeremy, you know your parents don’t hate you. This isn’t about them. It’s about you. I lean forward, resting my elbows on the clipboard across my knees. You refuse to face the root of your issues, so you focus your energy on your parents."

Outstretched on my sofa, he covers his face with his arm. Then why do they yell at me all the time? And why does my mother run from my room crying?

Oh, let me think. Probably because you paint your eyes, lips, and nails jet black—and you have thirty-two body piercings—twenty of which are on your pimply face and ears. And with the head-to-toe tattoos, all I can think about is peeling your disease-infested skin from your scrawny body. So if that’s what a stranger wants to do, how the hell do you think the woman who gave birth to you feels?

"Jeremy, you know as well as I do that’s your paranoia talking. Your mother would never want to harm you." Man, am I a good liar or what?

If only I could tell him the truth and put him out of his misery.

Fucking ethics!

Honesty is by far the best medicine.

No. Prescription. Needed.

This isn’t me being paranoid! he shrieks. For the last two years, my parents have felt nothing but contempt for me. I mean, I can’t even tell you when the last time was my mother hugged me, or told me she loved me. And it’s been years since we all sat down to a family dinner together. He lifts his knees against his chest, hugging them as he stares at the ceiling.

This kid needs a reality check, or at least something warranted to cry about. Try spending more than a century alone, completely devoid of family.

No hugs.

No I love you’s.

And never a family dinner. Well, not unless you count my buddy Tom and me sitting down over a pint of o-negative.

Ding-ding-ding. The alarm goes off, just in time to save what’s left of my sanity.

If I didn’t believe he was a walking health hazard, I would have drained half his blood thirty minutes ago, just to shut him up.

I bolt to my feet. That’s all the time we have today, Jeremy.

Okay, Doc. Sorry for rambling on like that. He stands, straightening his torn up jeans and skull t-shirt.

Don’t apologize. Without rambling patients, I’d be out of a job. I force a smile, even though it pains me. But next week we’ll talk about taking ownership.

I lean my head down, peering at him through widened eyes of authority. Sometimes I get off on letting my patients know who’s in charge.

Thanks, Doc. Stay chill. He holds up a closed right hand, raising his pinky and pointer finger as he thrashes his head up and down like an eighties metal-head.

Does it ever end with this kid?

I open the door, never so thankful to see five o’clock in my life. The second it clicks shut behind him, I head straight for the super-sized bottle of Lysol hidden in the cabinet under my beverage stand. I can’t wait another minute to spray down the entire couch the infectious vermin had just been laying on.

Somewhat content, I enter my apartment through the door against the back wall, feeling fortunate I never have to worry about the rush hour commute.

I exhale, allowing myself to relax as I yank off my tie and turn on the wall-mounted flat screen in search of something humorous. If only I had an ice-cold beer to wash away the filth from the day’s purging’s.

I channel surf a few minutes, but nothing grabs me.

News? No.

Sports? No.

Reality TV? Hell no!

Screw it. I toss the remote then grab a clean cotton tee from my closet and head out the door towards my favorite watering hole across the street. After a day like today, I don’t know if I can handle being alone in my own head anyway.

As I make it to the main entrance of my luxury high-rise, I pull out my leather gloves when I notice an elderly woman on the other side of the glass door, large Gucci, Prada, and Coco Chanel bags weighing her down. Even though my foul mood wishes me to plow straight ahead, my mind compels me to stop.

I swing the door open, waiting for her to step inside.

Oh, thank you, young man. It’s so kind of you to help an old woman. She smiles, wrinkles stretching across her boney cheeks as she saunters by.

Okay, okay. Just hurry it up, Granny—You’re welcome.—I have somewhere to be.

It’s funny she thinks I wanted to help her. I turn to watch her molasses pace, shaking my head in dismay. She couldn’t be further from the truth.

Man, I really am a total and complete dick sometimes!

I walk outside towards my destination, reflecting on the miserable person I’ve become; the compassionate person I once was.

Thinking back it almost seems the events of my life happened to someone else. Some days, I can barely remember the old Conor O’Malley at all.

I was such a chump.

I’m sure it was once naïve thinking on my part, but I always assumed I’d be the ‘nice guy’ who’d end up leading a simple, yet altruistic life.

I was, after all, the consummate humanitarian.

Philanthropist.

Oh, who am I kidding—I was an incurable dreamer who thought I could single handedly save the world—one crazy at a time. But the day my mortality was stripped away, life as I knew it took on a whole new meaning.

Saving people’s sanity was no longer the driving force behind my life. It became my unwanted moral obligation and has been ever since.

But do I really have the strength to be a mental-caretaker until the dawn-of-time?

Hayden Flynn took my life, my soul, and every ounce of natural goodness there was inside me. All that remains is a-shell-of-a-man, forced to go through eternity watching those I love die, impotent to create a new life of my own.

I was sentenced to spend my immortality trapped in the body of a thirty-year-old psychiatrist.

Unable to age.

To feel.

Or die.

All in the name of revenge.

But here’s the kicker. As if being turned into a bloodsucking, soulless being wasn’t bad enough, it seems my Maker’s idiosyncrasies are the only thing powerful enough to follow me through this so-called ‘life-after-death’. His mental illness my constant companion.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Manic Depressive/Bi-polar.

Paranoid Delusional.

And my personal favorite, Germaphobic.

Who knew it was even possible to transmit mental illness through blood exchange?

Woo hoo, lucky me!

According to Hayden, killing to absorb our victim’s life force will take away our craziness permanently. Feeding only eases the torment short-term, like a plasma Band-Aid.

He figured that out early on. But unlike him, I can’t take a life. I’ve never been able to.

Not knowingly, anyway.

The eviction of my humanity took away my genuine compassion, leaving me with an irreparable guilty conscience. So instead of living like your typical Vampire, I subject myself to mental anguish—day in—day out.

Coupled with my emaciated black heart, all that’s left is a real fucked-up piece of work.

I’m my own best patient!

I choose to remain a therapist because my paranoid delusions torment me with doing what’s ‘right’. I used to thrive on helping people. But now, my compunction holds me hostage in my own head, playing tug-of-war with my desire to be normal.

If there’s a God out there somewhere, he sure has one hell of a twisted sense of humor.

I stop in my tracks, salvation now before me.

Yanking the door open as though my life depends on it, the darkness of the bar welcomes me with its muggy familiarity.

My safe-haven.

Well if it isn’t my favorite tall, dark, and broody critter.

Hey, Gerty. How’s it goin’? I reach in my back pocket for a pack of antibacterial towelettes to wipe down my usual stool at the center of the bar.

Oh, can’t complain. She grins. What can I get for ya?

I drop down, scrubbing off the fingerprinted, sticky counter before my stomach has a chance to revolt. Ya know, I was cravin’ a simple beer. But the more I think about it, only something with a bit more kick will take the edge off. Gimme a Corona and a shot of Patron.

It won’t numb the throbbing in my head, but it’s a damn good start.

Comin’ up, Sugar. She winks, pivoting towards the back wall of top-shelf liquor I’m accustomed to.

Pour yourself one, too, Gerty. I could use a partner in crime tonight. I lay the wipes in front of me, now satisfied with my thorough disinfection.

A shiver runs up my spine as I imagine the scuz left behind from the stools previous, unknown occupant.

Gerty’s raspy laugh fills the air. The type of laugh only forty plus years of smoking can cause. Anything for you, Handsome. She shakes her head, always finding humor when she sees my Germaphobia kick in.

Hell, I’m just glad she’s not insulted anymore. Those days were more than awkward. Try explaining to a hard ass like Gerty, "No, it’s not you . . . it’s me." Took a while for her to realize I wasn’t kidding.

She pops the Corona cap off on the edge of the bar then slides it my way. As she reaches for shot glasses, I tip my head back to enjoy the cool, bitter sensation gushing down my throat.

Damn that’s good!

So how’s business been, Gerty? I take in the empty bar. This time of year hurtin’ ya?

There are very few people in my so-called life I actually ‘like’, but Gerty Calhoun is one of them. She’s always been good to me. Even after she found out ‘what’ I am. She puts me in the mind of my late grandmother with her five-two height, cropped fuzzy brown hair, weighing in around a buck fifty, all the way down to the chain smoking.

And let’s not forget the bitchy attitude.

Oh, you know how it is, Conor. There are good days . . . and bad. Just like any other business. Since I opened The Pub in seventy-nine, I’ve definitely seen a lot harder times than this. So I aint complainin’. It’ll pass. Where I can see the gesture, she runs a shot glass under steaming water before handing it my way to dry.

I do the honors with the bottom of my clean shirt before setting it back down for her to pour Patron to the rim.

She lifts her glass while pushing mine over with her fingertips. Here’s to not-so-bad times.

I bump my glass into hers. Sláinte!

"And to your health." Gerty nods with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

I slam down the smooth shot in half a second. "Damn! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Woo!"

She grins, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. That’ll put hair on your balls, won’t it?

A shiver courses through me as I picture a furry, unkempt landscape. Not if I can help it.

You know, I think you’re more woman than I am, Conor. She shakes her head, moving our glasses to the sink with a clang. So how bout you? The crazies still drivin’ ya nuts?

I nod a few times, laughing to myself as I picture The Pistachio, melodramatic in all his pubescent glory. You know it, Gerty. And between you and me, I really don’t know how much more of it I can take. I rub the palm of my hand across my stubbly cheek. I do have a few new patients coming in this week, but it’s like I’ve said before . . . it just might be time to find a new career. I’m tired of my perpetual bad mood.

You and me both! She winks. But if I’d saved up loot like you did, I wouldn’t even worry about workin’. I’d be traveling the world . . . takin’ a smokin’ hot lover in every country.

A laugh rumbles from my chest. It’s only money, Gerty. Besides, I tried the traveling thing years ago, back when I was trying to get a handle on my new so-called life. It was fun for a while, but it got old. And exhausting.

Exhausting? I thought Vampires didn’t get tired?

Ha! Who the hell’d’ya hear that from? We need just as much sleep as humans. Even more if we’re not eating right.

Is that so? Gerty’s brows shoot up. I guess you learn somethin’ new every day. She grabs the bottle of Patron. This one’s on me.

I raise my glass with a nod. Then without another thought—down the hatch it goes.

Gerty gets back to wiping down the counters before the work crowd shows up.