by Lee Piper
“Shhh, baby girl. I’ve got you.” I’m lifted off the mattress and cradled in muscular arms, the scent of pine needles and fresh air invading my senses.
“Zeke?” I rasp.
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing? Why are you—” Feebly, I writhe in his grasp, a pathetic attempt at escape. “Stop. I don’t want—”
“Shut up and let me take care of you. You can go back to hating me later.”
It’s useless. I don’t have the strength to deal with him, with this. All I can focus on is the bonfire determined to cremate me, the agony that is my joints, and the sandpaper posing as my throat. Turning limp in his hold, I let my head flop against his chest. “Promise?”
“Promise.” His hold on me tightens.
“Where are we going?”
“My place.”
The rhythmic beat of his heart is my companion as he carries me through the apartment. The living room is bright. Too bright. The blinding light from the floor-to-ceiling windows is enough for my brain to cease operations.
I clamp my eyes shut.
A door opens, then closes. Then another. And another. We’re no longer in the apartment Drake and I are sharing. This one is darker, larger, it smells different—nice different. I inhale.
I’m carefully placed on a marble benchtop in what I’m guessing is the master bathroom. The frigid rock against the back of my thighs shocks my body into chaos. Shivers wrack my frame, my teeth chatter, and my limbs shake.
A tap is turned on, and soon the air is filled with steam. The shudders ease.
“Raise your arms.”
My half-hearted attempt is laughable at best. As hard as I try, I can’t get my fingertips above shoulder height. A sob crowds my chest, threatening to fill the silence with heaving cries, but I swallow it down. Like the pills, it’s not easy, but I manage.
Capable hands gently peel the damp fabric of my tank top from my stomach and ribs. They raise it over my breasts, tenderly pulling each of my arms through the material before lifting it over my head.
A small voice warns I shouldn’t be doing this, that being half-naked in front of Zeke is a bad idea. But I haven’t the vigor for anything other than trying not to slump to the left, so I ignore it.
“Can you stand?” His voice is lower, deeper than before.
A fair question. One I’d love to answer but can’t.
Firm fingers clasp my waist; they lift me from the benchtop and place me on my feet. The tiles are cool, a welcome relief. However, once I’m upright it’s with the startling knowledge my knees are useless. They wobble, buckle, and I fall.
“Whoa.” The hands are back. They wrap around my waist in a firm grip—the only reason I’m not flat on my ass. I’m beyond thankful.
Zeke takes my clammy palms and places them on his shoulders. “Hold on to me,” he rumbles, lowering himself until his knees hit the floor. The top of his head reaches my breasts, but he doesn’t look up. No, he pulls down my sleep shorts and panties, helping me step out of them.
I shiver.
He pauses, staring at the light blue nail polish on my toes. Shaking his head slightly, he mutters something under his breath before standing. “Everything you need is in the shower.”
Pause.
Swallow.
Then, a gruff, “You gonna be okay on your own?”
With effort, I nod.
He cups the side of my neck, his thumb tipping my chin until our eyes meet. There are fine lines in the corners of his eyes that weren’t there last time I saw him. Part of me wants to ask whether they’re because of me, if he regrets the outcome of our last conversation as much as I do, but the other part refuses to say a word, so I don’t.
It’s for the best. I’d need my wits about me, and I sure as heck don’t have them at the moment.
He tucks a limp strand of hair behind my ear and leads me into the shower. There is a bench seat built into a small alcove on one side, so he settles me onto it. Since there are jets coming from every direction, the water washes over me even though I’m sitting. After adjusting the temperature and handing me a cloth with some deliciously scented shower gel on it, Zeke murmurs, “I’ll be in the next room. Call out if you need anything.”
A minute later, the door closes with a click behind him.
Exhaling, I slump against the ash-gray tiles and close my eyes.
I don’t know how long I remain there, a marionette without her strings. What I do know, however, is the water is warm, droplets trickle their way down my skin, and the humidity does wonders for my throat. I could sleep here. In fact, I’m fairly certain I do at one point. It’s only when there is a sharp knock at the door followed by, “Wil?” that I peel my eyes open and half-heartedly finish washing myself.
Zeke strides into the bathroom and shuts off the water. He then wraps me in a towel—the expensive kind I’ve secretly coveted but never had the money for—and carries me back to the benchtop. With gentle, practiced movements, he dries my body before slipping a T-shirt over my head. It’s huge, soft, and smells of the forest after heavy rain. I want to keep it wrapped around me forever.
“Stand up.”
After being propped onto my feet, I clasp his shoulders and beg my knees to keep me upright. Thankfully, they do. Zeke helps me into a pair of boxer shorts and folds the waistband a few times until they no longer threaten to slip off my hips. Once satisfied, he gives a decisive nod, scoops me into his arms, and leaves the bathroom.
To be honest, I don’t pay any attention to his apartment. I don’t know how it’s furnished, whether it provides an insight into the real Zeke Danton, or if it’s as elusive as the man himself. Nothing except the well-worn cotton of his T-shirt, the strong arms cradling my body, and the subtle masculine scent of his skin infiltrates my subconscious. Well, that and the fact he positions me against the headboard of the largest, most comfortable bed I’ve ever had the pleasure to lie comatose in. Even in the semidarkness, I notice a steaming bowl of soup sits on the side table.
Soup.
Zeke must follow my gaze because he sits on the side of the bed, his weight causing the mattress to dip. He picks up the bowl, offering it to me. Leaning forward, I take it with shaking hands and breathe in. The intoxicating aroma forces its way through my virus-addled brain and reminds me of the fact I haven’t eaten in forever.
“It’s vegetarian.”
My eyes flit to his, only he’s not looking at me. He’s staring at his hands. Deciding it’s safest not to say anything, both for the sake of my throat and our temporary truce, I nod. “Thank you.”
Once my stomach is full, my eyes grow heavy and the need to rest is overpowering. Zeke places the bowl back on the side table and settles me under the covers. His fingers push wayward hair away from my face. “I’ll check on you in an hour.”
“M’kay.” I yawn.
Gentle fingers trace the shell of my ear. “Sleep.”
But his command is unnecessary because by the time he leaves, I’m already in slumber.
Hours later, I wake to a bladder that’s on the verge of exploding. Untangling myself from the covers, I sit up, pleased that my skin isn’t soaked with sweat and my joints aren’t screaming profanities. Zeke’s soup must have some powerful medicinal properties. Apart from lethargy and a scratchy throat, I feel a million times better.
“Need to pee,” I mumble into the darkness. Searching for the bedroom, I spy a doorway leading to what I’m guessing is the en suite bathroom.
I relieve myself, wash my hands, scramble around in the cupboard for a spare toothbrush and toothpaste, and make quick work of cleaning my teeth. I’m about to leave when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
“Wow.”
My hair is everywhere. A category five tornado is the only excuse for this much damage. Shocked, I step closer. My skin is pale, the freckles on my nose and cheeks even more prominent than usual, and there are dark circles under my eyes. With a rueful shake of my head, I fill the basin with wa
rm water, wash my face, and get to work on untangling the matted mess of wavy curls. It takes a while, and I’m tired by the time I’m done, but being able to run fingers through the strands without them becoming entangled is benefit enough.
“Much better.” I smile at my reflection.
When I move back into the darkened room, I stare at the bed. It doesn’t look as enticing as it did before. In fact, slipping under the cotton sheets is the last thing I want right now. A girl can only remain horizontal so long without going stir crazy, and it seems I’ve reached my quota.
Since I’m craving water and the glass on the nightstand is empty, I go in search of more. Soft light and muted sounds emanate from the end of the hallway, so I move toward them, hoping I’m not about to walk in on something I’ll regret.
The lounge room is bathed in flickering brightness courtesy of the flat-screen TV mounted on the far wall. In front of it sits Zeke, or should I say sprawls Zeke, because the man is owning the couch. He’s lying on his back, one hand resting behind his head, the other flat on his stomach, his biceps stunning me completely. A bare foot is on the floor, while another hangs off the edge of the leather sofa. The gray T-shirt does little to hide the eight-pack beneath, and those black mesh shorts do absolutely nothing to disguise his bulge. I swallow. He’s big. Really, really big. And so help me, I can’t stop ogling his junk.
“What are you doing up?” My gaze snaps to his face. Zeke’s staring at me, a cocky quirk to his lips the only indication he caught me admiring his package. “Come and sit down. You need to rest.”
Ducking my head to hide my embarrassment, I do as he says and move to the couch. Zeke sits upright, his long legs now bent in front of him as an arm rests along the back of the couch. Steeling myself, I relax into the soft leather, refusing to look his way when fingertips graze my shoulder.
“How are you feeling?” His eyes are on me, and even with my gaze trained to the TV, I can feel their weight. Heavy, expectant, beguiling.
I clear my throat. “Better. Tired, but better.” Smiling, I glance down at my fingers as they play with the soft material of Zeke’s shirt. It could easily pass as a dress. “Must’ve been the soup.”
He snorts.
“You’re a really good cook.” My gaze darts to his before shifting away again. “It makes sense, now that I think of it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, the cook controls all of the variables, don’t they? The ingredients, the preparation, the method, even the temperature. Of course, you’d find pleasure in it.” My tongue darts out to wet dry lips. “You seem to find pleasure in control.”
Silence.
“I do.” Zeke’s staring at me again, and my skin heats from the contact. For once, it’s not the fever.
Unable to avert my gaze any longer, my eyes meet his. “Thank you. For taking care of me, I mean.”
His expression turns possessive. Flashes of carnality mix with something deeper hovering in the shadows. And it’s strange because logically, I know it’s too soon to feel anything other than exhaustion, thirst, and possibly hunger. Yet somehow a ball of energy pulses, grows, radiates from inside my stomach.
The intensity of his gaze is unnerving. It reminds me that I need to keep my distance—fool me once and all that. The only problem is, I don’t want to. I don’t want to be anywhere else, or with anyone else but Zeke.
Oh, Aphrodite. What have you done?
Needing a distraction, I tear my gaze away and focus on the screen. It doesn’t work. I have no idea what’s playing in front of me; a duckling could be getting butchered with a leg of ham and I’d have no clue. Nope, every particle in my being is focused solely on the enigma seated next to me. I sigh.
“How long have I been asleep?” I ask.
“Three days.”
Blanching, I spin to face him. “Three days?”
He shrugs. “Give or take. Since it’s past twelve, it’s technically been four.”
I search the dark room, trying to locate my phone somewhere in the shadows. There’s no reason it would be here, but my gut tells me it’s imperative I find it. What if Mom needed me? What if she had moments of clarity and wanted to know where I was? Was she lonely? Confused? Safe?
“She’s fine.” A hand clasps my shoulder and my eyes flick to Zeke. “Your mom is fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do. And she’s fine.”
“Why should I trust you?”
He gives me a flat stare.
Nodding, I mutter, “That’s right. Because you never lie, not even when shaming people in public.” Glancing at my lap, I refuse to let the hurt show.
As though sensing the direction of my thoughts, gentle pressure from a thumb and forefinger force my eyes back to his. “I didn’t lie after Heathen’s concert the other night. It was a half-truth, not a lie.”
I clench my teeth. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better? It’s only half true that I’m no one?”
His hand slides to my nape, the span of his fingers so far-reaching they almost encircle my neck. “What I meant to say was that you’re no one to Selena. Completely different.”
Yep, I’m gaping. “Are you crazy? You’re seriously trying to justify—”
“You don’t want to be on her radar,” he growls in frustration. “I was doing you a fucking favor.”
“So you insulted me out of what? Concern? Obligation?” Rolling my eyes, I try to turn away, but the hand on my throat prevents me from looking anywhere else. It’s annoying. And hot. And annoying that I find it hot.
What a mess.
“I want her far away from you,” Zeke rumbles.
“Why?” I breathe.
“Because you’re mine. I take care of what’s mine.”
And there go my ovaries.
Mine. The word echoes inside my head, feeding back twice as loud as it did before. I don’t want to read into his statement. For all I know, he’s referring to me and my band, not—
“Shit!” I slap a hand over my mouth.
“What?” Two hands cup my face. “What is it?”
“The recording!”
Coarse thumbs caress my cheeks. “It’s under control.”
“How can it possibly be under control?” I push his hands away. “I’ve been unconscious for three days!”
Leaning back, he drapes a hand over the headrest. “Four. You’re not recording today either.”
“But—”
“Lie down.”
“Huh?” Scrunching my nose, I stare at him.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You heard me, lie down.”
Blink.
“Or do you want me to make you?”
Narrowing my eyes, I do as he says and relax into the cushions. It’s beyond comfortable, but I don’t say a word on principle alone. Zeke drapes my legs across his lap, lifts one foot, and with deliberate movements, massages the arch. My eyes roll back in my head.
“Ohmigod.”
When I peek at him from beneath my lashes, he’s smirking. “You gonna shut up so I can talk now?”
Huffing, I cross my arms. The gesture is moot when seconds later, I release them again on a moan. His hands are that damn good.
“We haven’t stopped production. Reid’s finished the drum tracks and Drake’s recorded vocals on three more songs. We’re just waiting for you to get the guitar down.”
“But we’ll still be over time.” Retrieving my foot, I sit up. “Even if I play night and day, we’ll be behind schedule. Our contract says we only have fourteen days for production, that’s it. I’ve wasted three of those lying in bed.” I nibble my bottom lip. “I’ve seen how much you charge, Zeke. It’s astronomical. The boys and I could never afford it.”
Zeke releases my lip from my teeth. “You’re not paying for anything.”
“But—”
“No. There’s a clause in the contract to cover injury and illness. You’re fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
My shoulders drop in relief, and I yawn, exhausted from the emotional turmoil. “Thank Tyche.”
Zeke snorts, pulling me against him, his muscular arm holding me close. “You need sleep. I’ll take you back to bed.”
Ignoring my aching body, I shake my head, burrowing closer to his chest. “No, I want to stay here.” Looking up at him, I murmur, “Is that okay?”
Warm fingers trace my jaw and skim the side of my face before grasping a handful of hair. “Yeah, baby girl. It’s fine.”
And it is, because I’m in Zeke’s arms. The only place I want to be.
Once again, I wake in a strange bedroom. This time, however, the light peeking from behind heavy curtains doesn’t cause a drum solo to pound in my head. In fact, after a quick scan of my body, I’m surprised to learn I feel pretty good.
“Zeke?” My voice reverberates back at me.
For the first time, I take in the space around me. It’s beautiful, in an understated, masculine way. The walls are exposed brick, a stark contrast to the hardwood floor, gray textured bedding, and ash accents. From the height and width of the curtains, I’m guessing they cover floor-to-ceiling windows on the east and north walls. The fact they meet in the corner to form an L shape must mean there’s one heck of a view. Tilting my head, I consider what it would be, since this part of the house doesn’t face the ocean.
After another sweep of the room, a thought occurs to me. I crinkle my forehead. “Strange.”
There are no mementos, no photos, not even stray items of clothing hanging from the walnut furniture. There is nothing, save the bed, side tables, and Zeke’s lingering scent, to say the space belongs to him.
The indent on the pillow next to me and the crinkled sheets are evidence of him coming to bed, though when I touch the Egyptian cotton, it’s cold. Figuring he must be in the apartment somewhere, I throw back the blanket and pad to the bathroom for a shower.