Always Have: A Bad Boy Romance(28)

I race over to her apartment and find a spot across the street. I don’t see Derek’s car out front, but he could have parked around the block. I hope he didn’t make her walk too far. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had to carry her inside. I run up to the door and knock. At this point, I know it looks weird for me to come over, and Derek’s going to be pissed. But f*ck it. I don’t give two shits.

No one answers. I knock again. Maybe he took her to the hospital. Is she that sick?

I put my ear to the door, listening. I definitely hear something. In fact, I’m sure she’s in there. I decide I don’t care if Derek knows I have a key. I put it in, but the door isn’t locked.

The smell of vomit hits me like a truck as soon as I walk in. It’s sickly sweet and very fresh. It’s all over the floor, trailing up the short hallway. My stomach turns at the sight.

I hear Ky heaving, then a splash of water. Shit. I run down the hall, careful not to step in the puke.

I find her on her knees in front of the toilet, leaning forward, her hands on her thighs. Her back moves up and down as she takes big breaths.

“Kylie,” I say. There’s more vomit on the floor. I grab a towel, I don’t even give a f*ck which one, and wipe it to the side so I can kneel next to her.

“Braxton?” she says, her voice weak.

“Yeah, baby girl. Where’s Derek?”

“He dropped me off,” she says.

What in the actual f*ck? “He left you like this?”

“I threw up in his new car.”

I’m so mad I almost can’t see straight, but Ky sounds so miserable. She groans, clutching her stomach.

“Are you gonna throw up more?” I ask. I rub my hand across her back.

She nods. I pull her hair back—some of it’s wet, but I ignore that—and keep it out of her way while her body convulses. I don’t think there’s anything left for her to throw up. She heaves and gags, but not much comes out. She’s pretty empty.

She sits back on her heels, taking shuddering breaths. I keep her hair back in case she isn’t done. She closes her eyes and seems to relax a little. I try to ignore the smell, not let it touch me.

“I think I’m done,” she says, flushing the toilet. “For now, I guess.”

“Can you stand?” I ask.

“Maybe.”

I let go of her hair and take her hands, helping her to her feet. She’s got puke all over—it’s in her hair, soaking the front of her shirt, and on her skirt.

“You need a shower,” I say, but I immediately know I’m not letting her take one alone. She looks so weak, I don’t know if she can hold herself up.

“I’m freezing.”

I glance around the bathroom, trying to think of how to make this work. She’s filthy. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. She’s with Derek. He should be the one taking care of her, showering her off.

Oh well, f*ck you, Derek. You left her here when she’s sick, you douche.

I untie her halter top at the back of her neck and gently pull it over her head.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Let’s get you cleaned up so you can lie down.”

She doesn’t protest as I take off her skirt, just stands there in a strapless bra and black panties, shivering. It’s not cold in the bathroom, and her cheeks are flushed red, but she acts like she’s outside in the middle of winter.

I turn on the shower. How am I going to manage this? I can’t get her naked, can I? Can she stand up long enough to get clean? She’s already swaying on her feet.

Fuck it. I pull off my shirt and strip down to my underwear. She hugs her arms around herself, still shivering, and I notice that her bra looks wet. The puke probably soaked through her shirt.

I decide I’ll just keep her turned away from me, and keep my underwear on. Steam pours out from the shower stall, so I adjust the temperature. I put gentle hands on her shoulders, turn her around, and unhook her bra. She widens her arms, letting it fall to the floor. Then she sticks her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and pushes them down.

I help her take them off. Fuck, I’ve wanted to take the panties off this woman for so long, but not like this. Never like this. She’s shaking, and her skin is burning hot to the touch.

I guide her into the shower and get in with her in case she falls. Her legs almost buckle, and I have to put my hands around her waist to hold her up. My heart pounds. I try to keep my eyes off her bare ass.

I look away and close my eyes while she turns to wet her hair. She doesn’t say a word. When she turns around again, I use her shampoo to wash her hair. I don’t linger, don’t massage her scalp and turn it into a back rub that becomes f*cking her from behind. It’s what I want to do—desperately—but she’s trembling and weak.

And Selene would murder me.

I take her body wash off the ledge and open it for her. The smell hits my nose, and I’m reeling. It’s her. Kylie in a f*cking bottle. It’s small and green and says lilac breeze. But it’s her. I know this scent. I’ve been smelling it for years. It never really leaves my nose, no matter how long we go without seeing each other. I hold it up to my face and breathe it in, the scent mixing with the wet shower air.

Now my legs almost buckle.

I put some in her hand so she can finish washing, then avert my eyes again while she rinses off. She needs my help getting out. I can tell she’s about to drop. I wrap a towel around myself, then one around her, and lead her into the bedroom.