Lazarus (The Henchmen MC 7)

So maybe I was having some sort of temporary Stockholm Syndrome thing going on. But I could deal with that when I was clean and clear-headed again.

Right then, I just wanted him back.

So when he called my name, it was very possibly the most beautiful sound I had ever heard in my life.

Which was really, really sad if you thought about it.

"Yes you can," he told me, moving close until he was right at my side, going down on his knees beside me and touching my arm where I had raked some pretty decent nail marks into the skin, making the blood bead up bright red on the surface. I hadn't even realized I had done it until he drew attention to it.

"It's only going to get worse," I said, not caring how pathetic I sounded.

"Yeah, it is," he agreed, not sugarcoating it which I was equal parts thankful for and annoyed by. Some platitudes, while I would know were bull, might have been nice right about then. "And then it will slowly but surely start to get better."

"My skin is crawling," I admitted.

He nodded at that, taking his hand off my arm and reaching up to touch my face for a second. "Burning up too," he observed. "Getting cold yet?"

I nodded tightly at that, relieved I wouldn't have to spell every minute little thing out.

"Alright, come on," he said, moving to stand and reaching a hand down for me to take. There was barely even a hesitation before I did so, letting him pull me to my feet, feeling an achy-ness in the muscles of my thighs. "Not yet," he said when I made a move for the bed. "Let's try some preventative measures," he added oddly as he pulled me toward the main room where a dozen or so bags were piled.

He released my hand suddenly, making me aware for the first time that he was even holding it. My palm felt odd without the contact and I had to curl it into a fist to stop myself for reaching for him again. Which was nuts. He went to the table and grabbed a bottle of some really awful orange-colored juice.

"What's that?" I asked, brows drawing together as he pulled off the top and held the bottle out to me.

"Pedialyte."

"The stuff they give to babies?" I asked as I reached for it, bringing it up to my nose and taking a sniff. "Oh, God," I grimaced. "It smells like straight sugar."

"Pretty much," he agreed. "But it will hopefully ease the dehydration symptoms so drink up."

Understanding that logic, I took the bottle and tipped it up, choking down a long chug. Maybe it would help the dehydration, but there was a good chance it would jumpstart the vomiting it was so disgusting. Apparently that thing I read in science in school was right; babies had a different amount of tastebuds than adults. And the tastebuds they had, well, they were seriously messed up if they liked the taste of orange Pedialyte.

Lazarus handed me two Advil that I took with the rest of the bottle of Pedialyte.

"That's about all we can do," he told me, sounding apologetic though it wasn't his fault. "I'll put the anti-nausea and stomach meds on the nightstand. I also got a few changes of clothes I will put in the bathroom and..." he said, rifling through the bags, "two new heavy blankets," he said, pulling out the blankets in question- one gray and fluffy-looking, the other black and knitted.

He handed them to me and I held them to my chest, feeling a pit of hopelessness settle in my belly. It was really going to happen. I guess it hadn't fully sunk in until I was taking 'preventative measures' and being handed blankets because I was about to be racked with chills. There was no going back. I was about to go through hell with no escape from it but time.

"Oh, and yeah..." he said, turning toward the kitchen cabinets and going under the sink to pull out a bucket, going back to grab a garbage liner and putting it inside before turning and giving me a shrug. "In case you can't make it," he explained, making humiliation flood through my system so quickly that it made every inch of me feel squirrely and uncomfortable.

In case I was going to throw up and couldn't make it to the bathroom.

My life was truly glamorous.

"Bethany, you go through this once and it's over," he said, trying to comfort me. "It's not pretty. You're not going to be able to save your pride. But after a couple days, the really bad part will be over. After a few weeks, all the symptoms will be gone."

That was true.

If I wanted to get my life back on track, I had to go through this.