Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

And, surprisingly, I get her.

More surprisingly, instead of telling her a half truth, I tell her the whole damn story. It takes almost an hour and a half, and just as I get up to go—eager to see Kellan again—the phone rings. It’s Cindy from Be The Match, telling me what I already know: my recipient is at Sloan-Kettering Memorial. I guess some of the stress is definitely starting to ease up now that Kellan’s talking to me some, because I chat with Cindy for a few minutes, telling her how he and I met each other.

I hustle down the hall, worried about how long I was away, and telling myself I should obvio

usly chill out. The first few days were bad, yes—apparently Kellan had radiation before I arrived the day I got here—but it’s going better now.

So of course, as I open the door to our room, I can hear the awful sound of retching. I race to the blue-tiled bathroom and find him lying on the tile, unable to even lift his head as spasms wrack him.

“Kell... oh shit, baby. Come with me. Let’s get you to the bed.”

I try to help him up off the bathroom floor, and have to page Arethea because he’s so damn big. The two of us help him toward the bed, but we’re not even out of the bathroom before he stops to curl over the sink.

The retching is relentless. There’s nothing in his stomach now but bile, which hurts his throat. Arethea starts another anti-nausea drug and gives more Zofran, too, and brings wet rags and stickers we put on his wrists.

But nothing really helps. I find myself holding poor, exhausted Kellan by the shoulders, bracing his head against the bed rail as he gets sick so many times, he actually starts to drop off to sleep between dry-heaves.

I clean his face and throat and hair. Arethea brings another bag of the offending chemo—“The last one,” she offers sadly.

Kellan rouses around midnight. When he tries to talk, his eyes spill tears.

“I’m so sorry, baby...”

I’ve spoon a tiny slip of ice into his mouth, then drop the spoon in my lap.

“Holy shit. I’m such an idiot.”

The package I originally left the room to get is the marijuana tincture, one Manning told me Kellan made himself, for chemo patients.

I call Arethea in, propose a plan, and when she doesn’t come back for an hour, I know I’ve been given my signal. She asked Dr. Willard, who felt bad would come of it. It’s permission, if not an actual endorsement.

I give Kellan two droppers full and after that, he sleeps.

He wakes up early afternoon on the official “rest day,” and blinks at the ceiling. I can tell he’s high, and not from Morphine or one of its derivatives, but from good ole fashioned reefer.

His face is looser. He’s more apt to smile. Like when he sees the origami sparrows shivering over us.

“Birds,” he whispers. “Lot of birds.” He blinks at me, a silly little smirk on his face. “Get up,” he whispers. “I want to... get up.”

I help him out of bed without too much trouble, and we walk to the window. I can feel him trembling. He’s weak and tired. He should be sitting down.

“You want to try to get a shower?” He nods, taking a handful of my hair and looking down at it. I giggle. “High Kellan. Sit here in this desk chair first and let me change the sheets again.”

I put on the Batman sheets I bought him, just for silly fun, and then we get into the shower. He holds onto my shoulder, and I bathe him carefully. By the time we’re ready to get out, his dick is pressed against my thigh. His eyes are dark with desire.

He takes my hand as we walk to the bed. He hands a condom to me—one of the flavored ones I bought—and I smile. “Yeah?”

He nods, and tugs his pants down.

“God, you’re perfect. If you want this, I can’t wait to give it to you.”

I roll the rubber over him and suck him deep into my mouth. After a few thrusts, a few heartfelt moans, he stops me.

“Not feeling well?”

He shakes his head and puts a hand on my arm. “I don’t want to come,” he whispers. “I don’t want to fall asleep.”

“Why don’t want to? Sleep is good.”