Foreplay (The Ivy Chronicles #1)(50)

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.