Offensive Behavior

“The new Lux.” She knelt and got him to lift his foot. Pulled his boot off, then his sock.

“What are you doing?”

She started on the other foot. “Having my way with you.”

He stood so fast he almost kneed her in the face.

“Slow down, bucko, you’re not that steady and you stink and while I’m putting you to bed I have no desire to touch you more than I absolutely have to.”

He groaned and virtually slithered back onto the sofa. “Room spinning.”

She finished taking his boot and sock off then stood and took his hands and hauled him upright, inserting herself under his arm. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“No.”

Yes. She got him that far and he refused further help, closing her out. She heard nothing and then the choking, gagging sound of him upchucking followed by the flush of the toilet, then the shower water running.

“I’m staying right here and if you don’t answer when I call you, I’m coming in. You could drown. Do you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Reid.”

A masculine rumble. He was still alive at least.

She thumped on the door for emphasis. “Five minutes.”

She waited two and called. “Reid,” and got no answer. But the shower had stopped. “Reid. Answer me or I’m coming in.” Jesus, was she going to have to see him naked? She opened the door. Whoa, look at the size of that tub. You could have a party in there.

There was a second entrance, this was an en suite. She could see Reid in the bedroom beyond, flaked out face down on the bed wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. He hadn’t bothered to dry himself so the clothing stuck to him in places, including that nice ass and his very broad back.

She could leave him now, he was safe and clean and if she left his phone in reach he could call for help.

She bent down to place his phone on the floor on the side of the bed where his alarm clock sat and nearly left the planet when he spoke.

“Thank you.”

His voice was clogged up. “You’re welcome.” He was also shivering. “You need to get under the covers.” He saw the wisdom of that and shifted and she managed to get him under the quilt. “Your phone is here.” She pointed to the floor. A bedside table would’ve been an asset. “You can call someone to check in on you.”

“I let them all down.”

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nbsp; He still shivered. She put her knee on the bed, reached over and felt his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

He grunted a response and then sat abruptly, shoved her back and vomited on the floor.

He flopped back on the bed with a choked groan, his arm draped over his eyes. “You’re still here.”

He’d only missed her boots because she jumped away. It smelled vile. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

“No, fuck, just go.”

“Yeah, make me,” she shot back, on her way to look for cleanup gear.

By the time she found what she needed and returned, bringing a glass and a bottle of water he was asleep, snoring lightly. He was deathly pale and he had to be dehydrated and that could make you sick all by itself. What was she supposed to do with him? If she got sick she had Cara, and worst case she’d call home.

She cleaned up, coming and going from the room, and he didn’t wake. Did he have a girlfriend, parents? Should she worry that much, or was this just a hideous forty-eight hour thing?