Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(34)

Everything hurt. My back, shoulders, hips, wrists.

The only thing that temporarily blurred the pain was remembering every second of that kiss.

I’d kissed Jonah by a bonfire on a clear summer night.

I’d also discussed the possibility of a no-strings-attached fling with the man.

And then his mother and my pain brought everything to a screeching halt.

I’d had to grit my teeth to keep from groaning when I got out of GT’s car. My brother didn’t know. No one knew. And no one was going to know until I had it under control.

I tried to roll over, looking for a comfortable position on my mattress, and a pathetic moan escaped.

My room in the Little Yellow House was small. The bed was wedged in between cute little bookcases that doubled as nightstands. Not that there was a need for two of them. It would be impossible to fit two adults on this mattress.

I groaned again and winced. Fatigue, aches, discomfort. It was like a never-ending case of the flu. Which sucked because at least when I had the flu, I knew there was an end in sight. Not with this.

“Shelby?” It was followed by a light knock.

Oh, crap. Jonah. Oh my god. Was he coming in to kiss me again? Was he expecting more? Not when I was curled in a ball with all my synapses lighting up with pain.

The doorknob turned.

Maybe if I pretended to be asleep? I closed my eyes.

“I know you’re awake,” he said, amused from the door. “I’ve seen your sleeping face. Now, you look like you just ate a lemon.”

I opened one eye. “Oh, hey, Jonah. How’s it going?” Playing it cool. Casual.

“I heard you moaning. Thin walls. You okay?”

I winced as turning my head delivered a new shock of pain in my neck. “Must have been dreaming.”

“Or you must be lying,” he said, taking stock of me. I was curled in the fetal position, stiff as a board. Even I knew this didn’t look natural.

“I’m just coming down with something. Maybe I had too much sun,” I said lamely.

“Can I bring you some water or ibuprofen? A hot pad?”

The sweet, sexy man in my doorway thought I was getting my period.

It made me laugh, and that made me suck in a sharp breath when my back spasmed.

He was all the way inside the room now reaching for me. He laid a cool hand on my forehead and one on my back.

“It’s nothing,” I said through clenched teeth.

“You take meds every day on a schedule. Meds that you keep hidden in your room. You hold yourself like your back hurts all the time. And now you’re curled up on your bed in the middle of the night moaning in pain, Shelby. Don’t lie to me.”

“Look, there isn’t anything anyone can do,” I said, sharper than I’d intended. “Don’t think you can dig into this and fix it.” That’s what he was: A fixer.

“Talk to me,” he ordered.

“I don’t want anyone to know,” I confessed, squeezing my eyes shut again.

“Roommate confidentiality,” he said, his hands still on me. It was so different from the way he’d touched me earlier, still gentle but now almost clinical.

I cursed my stupid body. He’d never look at me the same now.

“I have a… condition,” I said, exhaling slowly when the spasm lessened.

“Okay,” he said, waiting for more.

“I was just diagnosed this spring, and it’s manageable and annoying, and I hate it, but I’m dealing with it, and it’s my body, so I don’t have to tell my whole family and have them worrying.”

“Shelby.”

“Ankylosing spondylitis.” I blurted the words out.

It was the first time I’d ever said them out loud. And that was weird. It wasn’t like saying it made it more real. Or did it?

“Bless you,” Jonah joked.

“Har. Har. It’s a form of arthritis. Spinal arthritis. I could end up bent in half.” I joked, but the thought of it was still terrifying.

“Arthritis. Inflammation,” he said.

I nodded into my pillow and tried not to whimper like a big, dumb baby. I hadn’t had a flare since just prior to my diagnosis. I’d thought there was something very, very wrong. Now, at least I had a name for it, and I knew it wasn’t some kind of rare form of meningitis devouring my innards. Small comfort in the moment though. With Hot Roommate Jonah sitting on my bed looking at me at my sweaty, pained worst.

He got up and walked out.

“Great. Just great. Thanks a lot, stupid garbage arthritis,” I muttered into my pillow.

“I can still hear you,” he called dryly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

I heard the water running in the bathroom and then his quick stride on the stairs. True to his word, he returned a minute later.

“Here. Take this,” he said. Grumpily, I opened my eyes. Jonah was standing before me. A glass of water in one hand, two caplets in the other.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Naproxen.” He dumped them in my hand and helped me into a seated position so I wouldn’t choke and die.

“Thanks,” I said, slugging the water back. “You look mad.”

He did. His jaw was tight, lips pursed.

“I’m not mad,” he insisted.

“Now which one of us is lying.”