Hot Commodity (Banks / Kincaid Family #1)(72)

But maybe, for some reason, Cam wanted to discuss this.

"Hell, I’ll even drink one with you if you want," he coaxed, thinking that would surely draw the man out.

Fear hit him when nothing happened. The house was too quiet—silent as death—so he panicked. Cameron was here; he knew it. But where was he? Starting back on the ground floor, Boston methodically went through every room.

He finally found his best friend in the master bathroom on the second floor, passed out next to the toilet. Boston smelled him first. Even as he flipped on the light, he knew what he was going to find. But he still wasn’t prepared for the severity of alarm that struck him when he spotted the drunk.

Cameron looked dead. His skin was gray, and he wasn’t moving at all.

"Cam!" Boston fell to his knees at Cameron’s side and pressed his fingers to the cold, clammy skin on his cousin’s neck, waiting to feel a pulse. When he finally felt a light yet slow thump, he nearly wilted in relief. "Cameron," he said steadily and shook his shoulders. "Wake up."

Cameron did move then, but only to slump limply against Boston’s leg. Unable to stand the stench, Boston reached forward and flushed the toilet. But as he did so, Cameron’s body heaved, and he vomited some more.

"Jesus," Boston breathed and hurried to position his unconscious friend so the outpouring was partially aimed into the toilet.

When it sounded like he was choking, Boston moved quickly to

reposition him before he suffocated on bile. All the while, Cameron remained comatose. He didn’t wake up once. Not when Boston used toilet paper to wipe chunks from his mouth or even when he pulled Cam into his lap and rocked him.

He’d never seen anyone so sick before. Or look so dead. It scared him. Something was horribly, awfully wrong and he instinctively knew that if he didn’t get help quick, his friend wasn’t going to make it through the night.

His voice shook as he gave the emergency operator Cam’s address.

Gritting his teeth, Boston cradled Cameron closer and cursed. "Stupid, selfish bastard," he muttered. "Don’t you dare die on me. I will never forgive you for this if you drop dead in my arms, you son of a bitch."

Though Cameron didn’t respond to the muttered ravings, Boston figured he’d still gotten through. At least Cameron had stopped throwing up and wasn’t in jeopardy of choking by the time paramedics arrived.





Nineteen



Cameron woke to the steady, calming beep of a heart monitor. He felt the IV next, plugged into his wrist like some kind of electrical socket to keep him running. Finally, the warm pressure of someone holding his hand entered his realm of consciousness. Knowing those comforting fingers anywhere, he managed a painful, cracked smile.

"Mom," he croaked and turned his face to the right as he opened his eyes.

"Oh, my sweet baby boy." Though tears clotted her lashes, she smiled and tightened her grip encouragingly.

"Where’s Dad?"

"Right here, kiddo," came his father’s voice.

Slowly, Cameron rolled his head to the left.

"Hey, there," Chuck said, bending down to get into Cameron’s field of vision. "Decided to join the living again, huh?"

Cameron didn’t bother to smile. He didn’t feel so alive at the moment. Drained and empty and a little numb, his licked his lips. His head felt as if someone was taking a jack-hammer to his skull and trying to drill down to his toes. Even lying down, he felt nauseous and dizzy.

"Wha...what happened?"

"Alcohol poisoning," his father answered, placing his palm over Cameron’s hair. The warmth of his fingers seeped through Cameron’s locks and soothed his aching head. "You went over the limit this time, son."

To his right, his mother covered her mouth and let out a small sob.

Cam winced. "Sorry."

"Yeah, well, you should probably save your apologies for those two." His dad hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the curtain that separated him from the main part of the ICU room. "They’re taking it worse than anyone. They both seem to think this is their fault."

Cameron managed to lift his face enough to see Boston and Olivia in the doorway. They’d wrapped themselves around each other in a very private embrace. Livy buried her face so far into Boston’s shirt, Cam feared it would

take a surgical procedure to remove her. And Boston—his best friend in the entire world—curled around Cam’s wife with his arms wrapped so tight he fisted the back of her shirt in his hands.

Jealousy hit hard. Well, thanks a lot, he wanted to snarl, though his energy level was so pathetic, he could only manage a small grunt. But it sure as hell hadn’t taken them long to turn to each other. He wasn’t even buried yet.

Then Olivia lifted her face and looked up at Boston. She was as pale as a ghost, save for the red rings around her eyes, where tears gathered and dripped. She said something, and Boston answered with a shake of the head. Then he wiped at his own eyes with the back of his hand.

Well, damn. Bos was bawling too?

"Why’re they crying?" he slurred, twisting his face toward his mom.

"Because they love you, and you scared us all half to death," she rasped, her voice growing hoarse.

Cameron closed his eyes, and listened to Boston murmur comforting words to Olivia.