Chapter 8

EIGHT

I 'm only taking her to school so she doesn't have to walk. That's the only reason.

It's definitely not to catch a glimpse of the icy-haired menace who keeps texting me no matter how much I ignore him.

"I need to work tonight," I tell her. I have a big race. It's worth a lot of money, and if I win, I will finally be able to put a down payment on a garage. I don't want to get her hopes up though. "I'll be home late, so get someone to walk with you. Not Evan."

"You didn't call him rich boy. Okay, bye!" she calls as she slams her door and runs off.

Brat .

I hesitate. Evan is like clockwork, always on time for class, but I don't see him anywhere. Good, that's good, I didn't want to see him. I pull out my phone to check the time. I have no notifications, and his last text was yesterday at dinner—a picture of him eating a burger with it smeared all over his face like a fucking idiot.

Frowning, I notice his red eyes and pale skin that I didn't before.

I hesitate before I turn my engine off and get out. I only need to confront him and tell him to leave me alone. I grab a blue-haired guy as he moves past. "You know Evan Shaw?" I ask .

He looks me over before nodding. "He isn't here though."

"Why?" I demand.

"He's sick. He missed his first lecture too." He takes off, and I stare after him.

Fine, it's none of my business. Besides, at least he might leave me alone. He's sick . . . It isn't because I hit him, is it? He had a bruise, but he didn't seem to care. No, he is sick, and it has nothing to do with me.

Nothing at all.

I managed to work all day without thinking of Evan Shaw or that fucking kiss, but when I finish and pack up to go to the race, I check my phone. Still nothing from him.

Is he really sick?

Alice said he had no family anymore, no one to look after him, but his friends will check on him, right?

For fuck's sake, Alice will be pissed if I let him die. She'll blame me.

That's the only reason I do what I do next. He needs to get better so I can kick his ass and warn him away.

There's a store next door. I don't know what's wrong with him, so I just clear the shelves of anything he could need. On the way out, I spot a bistro across the way, and despite the looks I get for going in there, I get a soup to go and then climb into my car, freezing. I don't know where he lives.

Pulling my phone out, I search for him on Instagram, easily finding him since he has tons of followers and posts. I skim his photos, idly noting they are good before I find one where he's in front of a door. I memorize the number before heading there. Later, I'll tell him what a moron he is for posting that for anyone to find. At the building's entrance, I grab a skinny kid. "Which room is Evan Shaw's?"

He looks at me over, confused. "Eighteen C."

I nod and stomp upstairs. Once at the wooden door that looks like every other one here, I grind my jaw. I debate leaving it on his doorstep, but what if he's dead? Slamming my knuckles into the door, I wait impatiently.

There's no answer, so I knock again. There is a groan and a crash, so I rip the door open, noting it's not locked, and storm in.

Evan is struggling in his duvet on a twin bed. His hair is sticking up all over, which is my first clue he's sick, not to mention his nose is red and dripping, his skin is pale and clammy, his eyes are bloodshot, and he's shivering even though it's boiling in here.

"Anders?" he questions as he sits up, frowning. "Shit, am I seeing stuff now?"

The other bed is empty, and I scan the room. The left side is decorated in all dark colors and posters. Evan's, the right side, is bright with color and photos. Setting the bags down on the table, I head over without saying a word. I slide my hands under him and lift him upright, throwing his duvet back at him. He frowns, wrapping it around his body.

"Wait, you're really here. Why?" His face is puffy and adorable.

No, ugly.

"Alice made me," I mutter. "She was worried." I grab the bag and throw it his way. "Here, medicine."

"Oh, thanks." He searches inside, his eyes widening. "Did you buy the whole store?"

"I didn't know what was wrong," I grumble, my eyes lingering on the bruise on his cheek. Guilt spears me for a moment.

He nods and sits back, shivering.

"Have you eaten?" I ask.

"I'm not hungry." He sighs, closing his eyes. He must be sick because he isn't even fighting me.

I frown, not liking this defeated side of him. He isn't fun if he isn't sassy. Pulling out the soup container and spoon, I grab water and sit on the edge of his bed, ignoring its creak as I hand it over. "You need to eat."

He watches me. "Why are you here? "

"Alice," I remind him as I thrust the food at him. "Eat or don't, I don't care."

I stand then, ready to leave, when his hand catches my wrist. I look down. His hand barely spans my tattooed wrist, and something about that has a spark of desire flaming through me. "Thank you, Alek. I mean it, even if Alice made you."

"Whatever, rich boy." I jerk my hand away, ignoring the burn lingering on my skin. "Eat and take your medicine."

When I'm at the door, his voice stops me again. "If I didn't know better, I would say you're worried."

"You wish, rich boy." I slam the door and then hesitate as I hear him laugh, but it turns into a cough and then a groan.

Grinding my teeth, I glance at the hallway, knowing I need to leave or I'll miss the race—one that I was lucky enough to get my name in for since so many want in.

Smashing my head into the door, I rip it open again, angry at myself. I stomp over and pat his back as he coughs, probably harder than I need to, and then I sit. "Eat," I demand.

He eyes me worriedly but eats every last bite, and I throw him the water. He sips it before I clean up. "Now sleep."

He snuggles down, still coughing, wrapped up like a burrito. "You can leave."

"I am. Just making sure you don't die or Alice won't forgive me."

"Sure, keep telling yourself that," he mutters, but he's asleep before I can respond.

I should leave now, but I clean up his mess and then sit on the office chair, watching him.

He's getting worse. He has a fever now and won't stop moaning in his sleep. I run a towel under the faucet and keep putting it on his forehead, which seems to help. Water runs over my hands as I head back to reapply the new one .

He's on his back, only wearing some shorts now since he insisted on stripping. I force my eyes to his face, not his body, and reach for his head, but he jerks away, still half asleep.

"Stop being a fucking brat," I snap, pressing him back to the bed.

He groans, his eyes barely fluttering open in his feverish state. "Anders?" he slurs.

I search his face. "Yeah, baby, it's me."

"It's hot," he whines.

"I know, baby," I murmur, dripping the water over his face. "Your fever will break soon, just sleep."

"I hate being sick." He whimpers, the sound piercing straight to my heart.

I nod. "Everyone does."

"I want my mom." He sighs, and I swallow, looking at him.

"You want me to call her?" I reach for his phone.

"Don't bother, she won't answer." He laughs bitterly before it ends in a cough that has him curling up on his side. "No one would."

My heart breaks a little.

He sighs and snuggles up around my arm, nodding off like a kitten while I'm left staring at him. Unlike when he's awake, I let myself drink him in.

He really is beautiful, like a work of art. He's all sharp edges and plush lips. The combination of his features shouldn't work, but it does. My fingers drift across his face, feeling his soft skin before pressing against his parted lips. They are obscenely soft and so full they should be on a woman.

I remove my hand before I do something stupid again.

Brushing his hair back, I rub the silken strands between my fingers, knowing if he ever caught me, I'd kill him, but I can't seem to resist.

"What are you doing to me, rich boy?" I murmur.

He doesn't answer, and that's for the best.

His fever breaks a few hours later, and once I'm sure he's over the worst of it, I lay out his medicine and leave, making sure to write a message for him to lock his door. It's the early hours of the morning, and I know I missed the race, not to mention put everything in jeopardy, just to look after a rich boy I hate—one I can't seem to stay away from, even when I know I should.

Once I get home, I climb into bed, my fingers tracing my own lips as I remember the way his felt pressed against them. It was better than anything I've ever experienced.

Hating myself, I slide my hand down my chest and circle my hard length, recalling the way he tasted. I imagine the way his mouth would part for me then wrap around my cock.

My eyes close of their own accord, and I remember the way his stacked chest looked in his low-slung shorts. I visualize the way my hand would look tracing those muscles, his own soft ones reaching for me. His eyes are wide and bright, his lips parting for me as I press my cock into his mouth.

I have to bite back a moan as I tighten my fist, wishing it were him. Instead, I imagine him sucking me down. He'd fight me, tease me, and I jerk in my palm at the thought.

"Alek." He moans around my length, my name on his lips. I lift my hips in my bed as I jerk my cock quicker, harder, and rougher. "Let me taste you. Let me feel you come."

Jesus fucking Christ.

I come with a muted bellow, spilling over my hand. My chest heaves as I squeeze my eyes shut, angry in the wake of the ebbing pleasure.

Disgust and hatred fill me as I lie in my bed, my own cum on my stomach.

I need to stay away from Evan Shaw. That much is clear.