Can't Fix Cupid

So, being the not that bad asshole that I am, the only thing I could think of to do with her was pick her up and have my driver take us to my house.

You know what happens when you carry a sweating, groaning, slightly delusional woman down the street at night as she flails around in your arms and cries? You get a lot of dirty looks and exactly four people calling the police. If the tabloids get a hold of this, they’re going to have a fucking heyday.

Trix turns her head in the toilet bowl just enough so that she can glare at me. “Don’t argue with me. I can’t stop throwing up, my body is having earthquakes, I’m sweating like a sauna, and my stomach is making noises that are not healthy. I?

?m obviously dying, asshole.”

I grab a washcloth from the cabinet and run cold water over it. When I hold it out to her, her arm weakly grabs for it before slapping back down on the tile, unsuccessful.

I kneel down beside her and gently start wiping at her face. “You’re not dying, Miss Valentine. Your stomach just rejected that food you ate.”

She mumbles something about “First meals, fucking vegans, and fire stew.”

My lips threaten to turn up. Despite her miserable condition, she still manages to be feisty.

“Ready to try to drink some medicine and water?” I ask as I swipe the cloth across the back of her neck.

She grimaces. “I don’t want to throw up again.”

“Believe me, you don’t have anything else to throw up. I think you hocked up your stomach that last time.”

She groans and smacks my hand away. “Shut up. Don’t say hocked while my head is hanging in your toilet.”

I toss the washcloth into the sink and grab the medicine that I’ve already measured out in the little plastic cup. I hold it up to her lips until she drinks it all down, gulping it with a terrible look on her face. “That’s disgusting.”

“Yep,” I say simply. “Here.” I pass her the water, and she guzzles it down like she’s an unclogged drain.

“Easy,” I say. “Don’t go so fast.”

“Don’t be bossy,” she says, detaching her lips from the cup long enough for me to strong-arm it away from her.

“I brought you a shirt so that you can change out of that dress.”

She looks down and grimaces when she sees that some vomit has been added to the dried food already caked on her dress. “Gross.”

Without any hesitation, she lifts her arms and looks at me expectantly.

I’m momentarily confused, and then shocked when I realize that she’s trusting me to undress her. I clear my throat and reach down, gathering the fabric in my hands.

But then I hesitate. My knuckles are grazing against her bare thigh, making my hands heat up in awareness. In my peripheral, I can see her chest rising and falling with quick breaths, and the damp thin material of her dress pulling against her breasts. There’s nothing sexual about this moment right now, and she definitely isn’t trying to seduce me, but the intimacy of this moment catches me off guard and steals my breath.

When I’m still stuck there like a chump, staring at her with my hands on her dress, she nods encouragingly. “Go ahead,” she says quietly.

Swallowing hard, I lift the dress off her body, trying very fucking hard not to look down. I know I already saw her naked earlier, but I was too pissed off and surprised to really look at her.

This...this is different. I don’t even know this girl, and yet here I am, taking care of her and dressing her in my clothes. It’s surreal and so completely unlike me. I don’t know how to analyze it yet.

I’m careful to always keep myself aloof. Apart. No commitments, that’s my rule. I’ve never had trouble with that before. So why is this woman effecting me?

As soon as I get the disgusting dress off her, I stretch out the collar of the t-shirt and pass it over her head, but I pause when I notice the huge tattoo of red-feathered wings along the entire expanse of her back.

“Holy shit,” I say, not even thinking when I reach out and skim the exquisite red lines with my fingers.

She instantly shivers, and fuck, seeing her skin pebble with chills, right there beneath the piece of art on her back, it’s the kind of raw beauty that I’ve never taken the time to notice before.

Her head swivels to the side so she can look over her shoulder. “What?” she asks, her voice a little breathy.

Snapping out of my awe, I force myself to drop my hand. “Your wings tattoo. It’s remarkable. It must’ve taken hours.”