Foreplay

Chapter 16

Wait. He said he put his father in a wheelchair?” Georgia demanded over a stack of pancakes at our favorite waffle house a few blocks from campus. Her fork cut into a link of sausage and then swirled it in syrup. She pulled the glistening meat off her fork with a snap of teeth and chewed, staring at me as though concentrating on something complicated.

Emerson shuddered and sipped her coffee, carefully adjusting her leopard print sunglasses on the bridge of her nose and angling her face away from the window to the right of her. A barely touched bowl of oatmeal sat before her, which I made her order, insisting she would feel better with some food in her stomach. “How can you eat all that?”

“I can eat like this because I run five days a week and I don’t get piss drunk,” Georgia replied, cutting a perfect, bite-sized triangle out of her pancake stack. “Now. Back to the bartender. Did you ask him what he meant by that?”

I toyed with my hash browns, stabbing at them. “No. He was in a hurry to leave after that admission, and to be honest, I was kind of in a hurry for him to go, too.”

“No joke.” Emerson sighed. “The hot ones are always sociopaths.”

“Really?” I looked at her across from me in the booth. “Always?” I glanced at Georgia for help. “Always?”

Em cringed, touching her forehead. “You’re too loud. And if not sociopaths, they’re at least damaged.”

“Now you tell me that. If that’s the case, why were you in such a hurry to hook me up with the hottest guy you could find then?”

“Did you want to hook up with someone homely with no skills in the bedroom? I thought the point was to get you some experience.”

“Ignore her.” Georgia batted a hand in the air. “She’s moody because she’s hungover. Hunter is hot and not damaged. The same can be said for my boyfriend.”

Emerson muttered something into her coffee mug that sounded suspiciously like “Are you sure about that?”

Georgia shot her a look. “Funny.”

“I’m just saying you never know what’s really inside anyone.”

“Well, that’s a cheerful thought.” Georgia shook her head and reached for her juice. “Listen, I doubt he meant it like that. Maybe his father injured himself on the job, working long hours to support the family and Reece blames himself. You know, something like that. The guy obviously didn’t hurt his own father or he’d be in jail. And if he was that malicious, why would he feel obligated to run his father’s business?”

“Maybe he wanted the business for himself all along,” Emerson supplied.

“Gosh, you’re full of optimism this morning,” Georgia snapped.

“Sorry, I just don’t want Pepper hurt, and he’s starting to sound like someone capable of doing that.”

Georgia took a sip of her juice and seemed to consider this. As did I. We made out twice, and each time he made me come without any expectations for himself. He could have hurt me plenty of times.

Georgia swirled more sausage in her syrup. “I just think she needs to find out what he meant.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. In the light of day, my flight instinct had diminished. Now curiosity had hold of me. What really happened to Reece’s father? A guy who stopped to help a girl stranded on the side of the road wasn’t the type who would put someone in a wheelchair. Especially not his own father. “I want to know.”

Emerson muttered something into her mug again.

“What?” I demanded.

She leveled her blue eyes at me over the rim. “You know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat.”

Even though I had decided to see Reece again and get to the bottom of his confession, it took me several days to get around to it. Partly because of my wavering resolve and partly because I was busy. Between writing a paper for World Lit, studying for my Abnormal Psych exam, and working two shifts at Little Miss Muffet’s, I hardly had time to sleep.

It was probably for the best anyway. I needed a little space to remember why I began this whole thing with Reece. It was purely curiosity that refused to let me put him behind me for good. At least this was what I told myself after I turned in my paper and found a parking space in the parking lot at Mulvaney’s. Upon entering the bar, the tantalizing aroma of chicken wings assailed me. Apparently it was ten-cent wing night. The place was full of stocky rugby guys. A few girls sat at tables loaded with baskets of wings. They, too, looked like they might belong on the men’s rugby team.

I stepped into the open space of the main room, and it was like the last time I stood there all over again, when everyone had funneled outside after last call and the space felt wide and cavernous. There was no sign of Reece at the bar, but I recognized the older bartender with the handlebar mustache. He recognized me, too, apparently. He waved at me. “Hey, Red, what can I do for you?”

“Is Reece around?”

“Not today. He’s sick.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah. Called me in this morning. Asked if I could cover for him.” He shrugged a bone-thin shoulder. “I said why not? Tuesdays are slow.” He motioned to a basket full of chicken bones at his elbow. “I can get all the wings I want and watch TV here just as well as at home.” He nodded to the television positioned high in the corner above the bar. Without the usual din, I could actually hear it.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Didn’t say. Just sounded like death warmed over. Hope I don’t catch it.” His eyes glinted at me with a knowing light. “Hope you don’t, either.” He winked and it was enough to know he thought Reece and I were more than friends. He assumed we were the type of friends that might share a few things. Including a virus.

With overly warm cheeks, I waved good-bye. “Thanks.”

I headed back the way I entered, hesitating near the food counter. A few guys stood in line. The same girl who’d watched me and Reece go into his room the other weekend took orders. I hovered there for a moment, staring back into the kitchen as if I could somehow see up into his room.

Oh, what the hell?

I moved, unlatching the half door that led into the kitchen. The girl behind the counter started for a second and looked at me, a protest forming on her lips. When her gaze focused on my face, she hesitated, clearly recognizing me.

“Hey.” I sent her an easy nod, acting, hopefully, like I had every right to waltz through the kitchen.

“Uh, hey,” she said back, still looking uncertain. I felt her stare on my back as I strode deep into the bowels of the kitchen, where the sound of food frying in hot grease filled the air. None of the cooks paid me any attention.

Hoping the door was unlocked, I tried the handle, releasing a breath of relief when it opened. Closing it behind me, muffling out the sounds of the kitchen, I climbed the stairs. At the top, I slowed and called out.

“Who’s there?”

“Pepper.”

A groan met my response. Not the most heartfelt welcome. Ignoring that fact, I stepped onto the top floor.

The sight of the bed, the sheets all rumpled around him, hit me like déjà vu. It was so much like my last glimpse of him the night I’d snuck away. Especially considering the amount of his bare skin visible. A quick glance revealed that he wore a pair of athletic shorts. Grateful for that, I inched toward the bed.

“I heard you were sick.”

“Dying, to be more specific,” he croaked, his arm flung over his face, hiding all but his lips. Lips that looked ashen and leached of color. “Go away.”

“What’s wrong? Besides the fact that you’re dying?”

“Let’s just say that the toilet and I are suddenly on a first name basis.”

“How often are you throwing up?”

“I don’t know . . . think it’s slowed down.”

Without replying, I moved to his fridge and peered inside. Pulling out a liter of Gatorade, I poured him half a glass and dropped two ice cubes inside.

Walking back to the bed, I lowered myself to the edge beside him.

He peered out at me beneath one arm. His eyes were red-rimmed, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. His blue irises stood out in stark relief. “I said go away.”

“Here. Try a sip. You don’t want to get dehydrated.” I held the cup to his lips.

He shook his head and pushed it away. “I can’t keep anything down.”

“Maybe you have food poisoning.”

“I ate the same thing as someone else last night. She’s not sick.”

She. I don’t know why, but this single word jarred me and twisted my stomach into knots. Which was just wrong. I had no claim on him. I wanted no claim on him.

I set the glass on the nightstand and touched his forehead, wincing at the burn of his skin. “You have a fever, too.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” This time his voice had decidedly less bite to it. “You’ll get sick, too.”

I shook my head. “I never get sick. Second year working at a daycare. I have an iron constitution.”

“Must be nice.” His eyelids drifted closed.

I frowned at him. I had to work in a few hours, but it didn’t feel right leaving him like this.

“Do you have a thermometer? Have you checked your temperature?”

He cracked open his eyes. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You can go. I don’t need anyone to take care of me. Been doing it for years.” His eyes drifted closed over those brilliant blue eyes.

I sat there for a moment, staring at him. His chest eased into slow and even breaths and I knew he was sleeping again. I brushed a hand over his forehead. He still felt too hot. I wasn’t totally unaccustomed to caring for sick people. I’d lived with Gram for years, after all. I’d seen what could happen when people didn’t get medical care in time. Yes, he was young and strong, but one never knew.

Rising, I crept out of the loft and exited back through the kitchen again.

Five minutes later I was at the drugstore around the corner. Grabbing a hand basket, I filled it with a thermometer, Pedialyte, Sprite, and more Gatorade. I tossed in Tylenol in the hopes that he could keep some of that down, too, and then added saltines, Jell-O, and a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup for when he was feeling a little better. An employee helped me find those little frozen head packs. If he couldn’t keep the Tylenol down, I could press that onto his forehead.

Ten minutes later, I was walking back into Mulvaney’s. I gave a quick nod to the cashier. A smile touched her lips as she scanned the bags in my arms.

When I reentered the loft, it was to find the bed empty. Then I heard him in the bathroom.

“You okay?” I called out.

Several moments passed before he surfaced, wiping his mouth with a small hand towel. “Gatorade not such a good idea.”

I winced. “Sorry.”

His bloodshot eyes scanned me standing there with white plastic bags dangling from my fingers.

He flung the towel back into the bathroom with a sharp move. My gaze drank in the flex of sinew and muscles in his arm and torso. Even sick, he looked strong and powerful and sexy as hell. I blinked hard, shoving the totally inappropriate observation away. Now was not the time. And really, after his admission the other day, I wasn’t sure there would ever be a time for those kinds of observations anymore.

He took several dragging steps toward the bed. “You came back.” Not a question.

“Yeah.”

“And you went shopping.”

“Yeah. Just got you some things you might need.”

I moved into the kitchen area and put the cold things away, sticking the two little ice packs for his head into the freezer. Tearing open the thermometer’s package, I read the instructions and then approached him.

He watched me through slit eyes, eyeing the device like it might bite him. Or maybe that was just me in general. “You bought a thermometer?”