18. Jamie

Jamie

The hospital keptme another day just to run tests. They drew blood so many times that I had a dream about vampires in scrubs.

So I had to spend another night in this place. While I tried to sleep, they kept coming in to take my temperature every hour. And now I have a dry, hacking cough that keeps me from sleeping even when the nurses aren’t prodding me.

At least I convinced Wes to go home to our bed for the night. He’s going to miss the Tampa game tonight for nothing, because I’m still fricking here. I want out of this bed and into my own clothes.

“Hey handsome!”

It’s about ten in the morning when he turns up to see me, looking well-rested and fresh as a daisy. While I’m skank man with stubble and armpit stink, at least one of us is comfortable.

“I brought you a chocolate croissant and a double cappuccino,” he says, kissing my temple before dropping into the chair. “And good news. Supposedly you’re being released in a couple hours.”

“Great,” I say, trying to believe him. “Thank you.” I take the coffee cup he offers me and swig it, but my stomach clenches a second later. Fuck. I set it on the table. If I can’t even handle coffee, you might as well just take me out back and shoot me.

His smile fades. “What’s the matter? What can I do for you?”

I’m already tired of being the one that people do things for. “Just want a shower, and I want to go home.”

Nurse Bertha clucks her tongue from the doorway. “Gotta kick that fever if you want permission to use the shower. I’m a big lady but not big enough to catch you if you fall.”

“You still have a fever?” Wes yelps, clamping a hand on my forehead.

It’s a struggle not to push him off me. “Low grade,” I grumble. “No big deal.”

“I can bring a basin and a cloth and freshen you up,” Bertha offers. She taps one brilliant red fingernail against her smile. “Or, I could take a thirty minute break first. Then I’ll come by and help clean you up.”

“But I’m going home later, right?” I plead. Because that’s all that really matters. At home I can do whatever the fuck I want.

“Sure, sugar. The doctor will make his rounds at noon and release you. But I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” She leaves and I groan, which makes me start coughing. Yay.

Wes bolts across the room and shuts the door. “Okay, up!” he says, taking off his jacket. “Shower time.”

“What?” I cough again, because it’s hard to stop, even though my stomach is already sore from the effort.

“Jesus, Canning.” Wes gives me a smartass grin over his shoulder, the same one he’s been giving me since we were fourteen. “Rules are for breaking. There’s no lock on the door, but whatever.” When he turns around, I see he’s unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t want to get my shirt wet,” he says as his tattoos ripple into view. He tosses the shirt onto the chair and then unzips his jeans.

I’m still hesitating, though, my hands on the sheet that covers my lap. The words are on the tip of my tongue: We’re going to get in so much trouble for this.

“You want a shower, right?” His eyes flash with humor. “The warm water will help you with that nasty cough. We got thirty minutes, tops. I’m starting the shower.”

He disappears into the little bathroom, where I’ve only been once. Last night, instead of calling for the bedpan, I walked shakily in there to pee. Which I have to do again now that I can hear the water running.

Well then. No time like the present.

I ease myself off the bed and onto the cold floor tiles. I hate the stupid hospital johnny I’m wearing. Can’t even look at the thing without feeling disgust.

Note to self—don’t ever get sick again. This place is the worst.

And I actually sway on my way to the bathroom. My fever is low, but I haven’t really eaten much in two days. When I make it to the toilet, I grip the grab bar bolted to the wall like I’m an old lady.

“Okay. Water’s warm,” Wes says in a cheery voice. But I know he’s watching me carefully, and there’s concern on his face.

I turn away and aim at the toilet, taking care of business. Wes pretends to fiddle with the shower faucet in order to preserve my tattered dignity. After I flush the toilet he unties the wretched hospital gown and tosses it onto a hook. I stagger past him into the little shower stall.

“Have a seat,” he says casually. There’s a shower bench waiting.

I ignore him and walk under the spray. It feels amazing. I turn slowly around, just basking in it. But fuck, now I’m dizzy.

A warm hand closes around my upper arm. Whether or not I like it, I’m guided firmly onto the waiting seat. I put my elbows on my knees and drop my head into my hands. If I weren’t so tired I might even cry. And the water only hits me at an awkward angle from here, damn it.

There is a rustle beside me and then the water moves. When I open my eyes, Wes is naked and standing in the shower stall, too. He’s unhooked the showerhead, which is attached to a hose. Humming to himself, he eases it around to rain down on my shoulders. “Tip your head back,” he says softly. When I do, he wets my hair.

The water disappears a moment later, and then Wes’s hands are lathering up my head. We’ve showered together a hundred times, but never like this. I hate being dependent on him like this. Leaning forward, I rest my forehead on his hip bone and sigh.

He just keeps going. The strong hands that I love so much skim the back of my neck, my shoulders, behind my ears. He rinses me next, shielding my forehead with his palm to keep the soap out of my eyes. They sting anyway from frustration. Then he kneels in front of me.

When I look up, a serious pair of gray eyes are right there, level with mine. “Hey,” he says softly.

“H-hey,” I stammer. Don’t mind me, I’m just having a fucking breakdown.

He grabs my head in both hands and kisses me. I let my eyelids fall closed while I pull him in. His lips are soft and wet. He slants his mouth over mine for real. A warm tongue sweeps the seam of my lips. Then we’re making out in a hospital shower, which is just insane. It’s not about sex, though. It’s comfort kissing. I like it a lot more than a palm on a forehead.

When Wes pulls back, he gives me a secretive little smile. “Tonight you’ll be home,” he whispers. “In our bed.”

Swallowing hard, I nod. I’d better be.

“Lift your arms,” he prompts.

When I do, he washes my underarms, skimming my sensitive skin with soap-slicked hands. Those palms continue their journey down my abs and into the juncture of my legs. He nudges my knees apart and washes my inner thighs, his fingertips grazing my balls. He lets his hand linger there, giving me one slow stroke. He’s reminding me that life isn’t always such a drag, and I’m grateful for the message.

Humming again, he takes the hose and washes away the soap, taking his time, touching me everywhere with admiring hands. “We should probably get out of here,” he says eventually.

“Yeah.”

The water shuts off, and Wes grabs both towels off the rack where they wait. He ties one around his waist, then drops one over my head and begins to rub my hair dry.

“I got it,” I say, lifting my heavy arms to do the work. “Could you see what Blake left me for clothes?”

“He brought flannel pants, so I brought your jeans this morning. Hang on.”

Wes dries himself hastily and climbs back into his boxers. I hear him thumping around in the room, jumping into his clothes. He returns with underwear and jeans for me. “Stand up, babe.”

Creakily, I do. I dry myself off, but I do it while practically leaning on him. Wes chucks his towel onto the shower bench and then I sit on it to put my drawers on and then my jeans. He holds out a hand that I grab to stand up, and he pulls me into a hug.

If I’ve ever doubted his love for me, I’m an idiot.

“Come on.” He lets me move under my own power into the room, but he thrusts the chair at me. “Sit. You’ll feel better if you’re out of that bed for a little while.”

He’s right. I will.

I take a seat by the windows. Wes is digging through the duffel that Blake brought. “Hey, you want a shave?” He holds up a razor and a can of shaving cream.

“Here? Now?”

“You got something else you need to be doing right now?”

“No.” I chuckle.

Wes drapes my towel over my bare shoulders. He grabs some kind of little basin thing from a cabinet on the wall. I don’t even want to know what it’s supposed to be for. He fills it with water and leans over me. He lathers up my cheeks and chin, then inch by inch he shaves my stubbled face.

I can feel his breath on my cheekbone as he leans in to shave me carefully. The water is warm and so is his touch. Getting a shave at the barber shop used to be something dudes did in ye olden days, but now I know the process is weirdly intimate. My face is so sensitive to Wes’s touch. I enjoy the way his free hand cups my jaw, his thumb stroking over my cheek to check his work.

When he switches sides, I get a kiss on the back of my neck. “I’m supposed to go to Nashville in the morning,” he says as two fingers tap beneath my chin. “Lift.”

I lift. “Go. I’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “I’ll order take-out soup and watch TV at home. That’s all I need, anyway. A few days of quiet. I’ll be good as new.”

He’s almost finished when Bertha walks back in. “Look at you!” she crows. “Somebody looks happier.”

Do I? I guess so. It’s good to be clean.

She doesn’t say a word about the steam in the air or our damp hair and bare feet. Instead, she gathers the sheets up off the bed and disappears, returning a minute later with a clean set. She puts them on while Wes finishes smoothing the last bits of shaving cream off my face.

“Now sit here again for me,” Bertha says, lifting the back of the bed and pointing at it. “They’re going to bring you some chicken noodle for lunch while I chase down your release paperwork.”

The soup is tasteless, but I eat it anyway in case it’s some kind of test of my ability to go home. Wes and I end up splitting the chocolate croissant, and I choke down my half. I have no appetite at all. But I’m tired of feeling so weak.

Wes finds a photo on Facebook of my new niece. And then by some miracle, my release papers turn up. Wes chats with a doctor about all those freaking tests, but I don’t even listen. They haven’t turned up anything of interest, and I just want to put the nightmare behind me.

The final insult is the wheelchair Bertha brings for me. “It’s a rule,” she insists. “Just like on TV.”

I’m so desperate to leave that I don’t even argue. I sit in the damn thing. Wes shoulders the duffel bag and pushes me toward the elevators. Freedom is near! He must feel the same way, because when we get to the main floor, he pushes me at a jog, following the signs toward the parking garage.

When the electric doors part for us, the cold air takes my breath away. I’m not wearing a jacket.

“Sorry,” Wes says, squeezing my shoulder. “He should be right…there!”

A Hummer pulls toward us with Blake Riley grinning from behind the wheel. “Why isn’t Blake in Tampa?” I ask.

“Knee injury. He’s gonna miss…oh, fuck.”

I’m just processing Blake’s crappy news, so it takes me a second to register the sound of feet pounding across the asphalt.

“Ryan Wesley!” a voice calls. “Tell us how you two are doing!” Then flashbulbs begin to illuminate the concrete walls of the parking garage. “Over here, Wesley!”

“Ignore them, babe,” Wes says tightly. He yanks open the back door of the Hummer, then turns to offer me a hand.

“If you help me right now I will end you,” I threaten.

He lifts his hands quickly, like a busted perp, and I push to my feet unassisted. It’s only a couple of steps and I’m sliding onto the leather seat of Blake’s machomobile.

Wes ditches the wheelchair and climbs in beside me. He yanks the door closed as reporters swarm the car windows. One of those assholes actually puts the lens up to Blake’s tinted window and lights up the interior with his flash.

There’s a growl from the front seat, and then Blake eases the car forward a few feet, which does the trick. Nobody wants his feet run over. Blake accelerates as Wes lets out a big sigh. “Jesus.”

It’s quiet in the car for a couple of minutes as Blake maneuvers us back onto Toronto’s busy streets. “How you feeling, J-Bomb?”

“Fine,” I say, but then I start coughing like a TB patient.

Wes is tense and silent beside me, scrolling through what looks like a lifetime of text messages. “Oh!” he says suddenly. “Phew.”

“What?” I ask between coughs. A little good news would be nice right now.

He holds up his phone to show me a text from my mom: Your schedule says Nashville and then Carolina. So we’re sending you Jess on the red eye. She arrives in the morning.

“Wait,” I gasp, willing my throat to relax. “What?”

“Jess is coming to take care of you because I’m going out of town. Man, I could kiss your mom. Too bad she doesn’t get here until tomorrow, though.”

“I don’t need Jess. I don’t need anyone,” I correct. Christ. My sister will just hog the TV remote and nag me.

But Wes tucks his phone away and relaxes against the seat. “Too late. Looks like they bought a ticket.”

He sounds ridiculously relieved, so I swallow my objections. “Thanks for picking me up,” I rasp to Blake in the front seat.

“No problemo! I like driving the getaway car like a gangster. Do you think I’d make a good gangster?” He clears his throat and does a poor imitation of the Godfather movie. “Luca Brasi sleeps with the dishes.”

“It’s fishes, champ,” I point out.

“Nah!” Blake snorts. “Can’t be. That’s not grammatical.” He takes a corner really fast, which means that Wes and I get tossed a little toward my side of the car.

Wes clamps an arm against my chest the way you do for little kids who aren’t buckled in. If everyone would just leave me alone, I’d be fine. I really would.

“Dunno if I’d put a horse’s head in some dude’s bed, though,” Blake muses from the front. “Kinda messy.”

I beat my head back against the seat and wonder how it all came to this.