by Kacey Shea
Fuck me—
His low chuckle scrapes me out of my little daydream. “Whatcha doing here, Lex?”
“It’s Lexi.”
“Right. Did you just fall out of your bunk?” This time he laughs louder.
“Shut the fuck up. Trying to sleep,” Austin grumbles from behind his curtain.
A thread of coughing, one I can’t seem to control, spills from my mouth and shakes my body. It’s both tight and loose in my chest, and my muscles ache. I give in to the fit and collapse into a ball to protect the throbbing against my ribs.
“Hey, hey.” Trent’s over me. His hair, the long and rebellious curls, tickle my forehead. “Shit, you’re sick.”
“No. I’m not,” I growl between another flip of my stomach. I will not vomit. I will not vomit. “I don’t get sick.”
Trent leans back on his heels, crouching at my side as I finally pull up to sitting. I meet his calculating stare . . . or at least I try to. My eyes burn. Or maybe that’s my skin. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“You’re sick,” he states plainly.
“I can’t be. I have to sing tomorrow night. I can’t be sick. I don’t get sick. I don’t miss shows. I don’t—”
“So, what you’re saying is you’re sick.”
“Fine! I’m sick. Happy?”
“Not really, but now that we’ve established your level of health, let’s get you better.”
“What?”
“Come on, Queen Bee. Let’s get you comfortable.” He stands, holds out his hand, and pulls me off the floor. Blaming my state of unrest for letting him get away with such an awful nickname, I try not to lean on him more than necessary and follow his lead toward the bathroom. Except he doesn’t stop there. He takes me to his room.
“No! Not the sex sheets!” I dig my heels into the flooring, but he tugs me forward and through his doorway.
“They’re unscathed. I swear it,” he whispers and then shuts the door behind us.
“When was the last time they were washed?” I grip the wall until I overcome my dizziness, unwilling to settle on the gross sheets. I’ve heard enough stories—they brag about fucking groupies like they’re gallant war time conquests—and even though I’ve never seen Trent bring anyone back here, I don’t trust him.
He pins me with a glare a moment before his smile kicks up the edges of his lips. “For someone who eats ramen, you sure are a diva with the linens.” He arranges the pillows, sheets, and blankets on his bed, and damn if it doesn’t look like heaven right now. My limbs beg me to give in and cuddle into the middle of it all.
“I like ramen. But I don’t want your sperm all over me.”
“Pity,” he says and straightens before he walks my way. He’s still only in his boxers, and I have to work extra hard to not let my eyes drop to examine that bulge below his waistband.
With a deep sigh and one rough cough, I lift my chin. Trent steps forward until he looms over me. He’s so much bigger. Larger than life in everything he does. I feel like a child standing in front of him.
His hand skims along the side of my sweatshirt and I can’t help but close my eyes. The back of his hand presses to my forehead and I sigh again, because damn that feels good.
“Shit, Lex. You’re burning up.” His voice is soft, like a familiar melody and it fills me with comfort.
“I am?” That sort of makes sense, what with how odd I feel and the dreams that seemed so real.
“Yeah,” he says and his hand leaves. My eyes open as he cradles me to his chest and lifts me in the air. “It’s okay, I’ve got you now.” He walks us to the edge of his bed and sets me in the middle.
As I expected, it feels amazing. I glance from side to side, my gaze roaming the surface. “Your sheets are clean.” My voice is full of surprise.
He chuckles. “Told you they were. Here, let’s get you out of that.” He grabs my sweatshirt and pulls. “Arms up.”
I obey and I’m left in my lacey cami and pink short shorts. I’d be embarrassed if this were awkward, but it’s not, and once the comforter covers my body, I’m glad he thought to take it off. “This down?” I say.
“I don’t know what the fuck it’s made of, but it’s comfortable.” He chuckles, then opens the door. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
I settle against the pillows, my body seeking warmth and feeling flush all at the same time. Trent’s only gone a few minutes, then returns with his hands full. My pillows, water bottles, medicine. He’s like a sexy nurse. The thought hits me with a giggle.
“What’s so damn funny, Miss Sicky?” He smiles, stuffing one of my pillows under my head and handing me the water. My eyelids are heavy but I force my gaze to follow his long fingers. How come I never noticed before how long they were? I don’t know, but he moves them with fluid grace and it’s mesmerizing. He unscrews the cap of the medicine and hands me a few pills.
“Swallow,” he orders.
“Only if you’re lucky”
“Lexi, you’re so naughty when you’re sick.”
“I know, right? Too bad I’ll be back to my bitchy self tomorrow,” I joke, but when Trent answers he’s serious.
“I don’t think you’re a bitch.”
“No?”
“No. I like your quick sarcastic humor. Now, swallow.”
“Fine. Only ’cause you’re pretty.”
“You think I’m pretty?” His eyebrow, the one I jacked up, rises with his lips.
“It’s the hair. I wish I had your hair.”
“Just what every man wants to hear.” He stands from the bed, taking my water and setting it on the bedside table. “Need anything else?”
“You’re leaving?” I don’t know why that bothers me. I’ve never needed anyone to hold my hand or take care of me, but the thought of him going back to the main area of the bus doesn’t set well. Almost as if I’m scared to be alone. Must be the fever talking.
He stops, hand on the doorknob, and turns to consider me. Of course he’s leaving. It’d be stupid for him to stay. He owes me nothing, and what he’s done has been nothing short of sweet. “Only if you want me to.”
“Sorry. You can leave. It’s . . . This . . . It’s messing with more than my head. I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve never been sick.”
“I know just the thing to make you feel better.” His grin stretches wide on his face and he opens a cupboard, searching inside until he produces one of those old CD cases that holds disks.
“Not listening to Three Ugly Guys right now,” I mumble into the sheets.
He laughs and shakes his head, flipping through the pages. “No. We’re watching a movie.”
“Better not be porn.”
“Darn it.” He snaps his fingers. “Second choice, then.” He slides a silver disk from the sleeve and feeds it into the flat screen affixed to the wall. I scoot further back against the headboard, my head cradled by pillows and my body wrapped in cotton warmth while I anxiously wait to see what he selected. My bet is some raunchy comedy, or even a classic 80s flick—those would suit him—but what I don’t expect is the signature castle that appears on the screen.
“Never pegged you as a Disney fan,” I observe.
The bed is king size, and there’s plenty of room when he climbs onto the pillow top. With his back against the wall, his legs and torso are so long they stretch the length of my entire body. He stretches one arm across the back of the bed frame and I lift my head so we don’t touch.
“Lion King?” I say and he turns to smile down at me. A shiver works its way through my body and my teeth chatter in its wake.
“Still cold? Come here.” He scoots down the bed and wraps his arm around the blankets covering my body. His bicep makes a heater for my neck and he curves his elbow so his fingers find their way into my hair. It’s all surprisingly comfortable. His fingertips continue to move along my scalp. Brushing. Massaging. It feels really good.
“Hakuna matata.” He grins and his eyes find the screen again. I can’t help but notice the way his
lips move with every single line. We watch in companionable silence. But once the poor lion cub’s father is killed I have to interject.
“You really like this movie?”
“Yeah. It’s what I watch when I’m sick. Always made me feel better when I was a kid.”
“Trent?”
“Yeah, Lex?”
“How did this make you feel better? This is a horrible story! The evil uncle plots and murders Simba’s dad. This entire thing is depressing.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
The film continues and I assume he’s distracted with what’s on screen. I’m caught up watching it again when Trent’s voice, low and masculine, fills my ears.
“When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot. You know? But my mom picked up this movie from the dollar bin and my aunt gave us her old VHS player. Every time I was sick I had to stay home alone because my mom couldn’t afford to take the time off work.”
In my mind’s eye I can picture a younger Trent, a child, all alone and sick. It breaks my heart. “That’s horrible.”
“Nah. It was fine and I understood. She had to take care of us. She didn’t get paid if she missed work. Anyway, she set me up on the couch and I watched this movie over and over.”
“Why this movie?”
“Well, it was this or Winnie the Pooh, and come on, that shit’s for babies.” His teasing tone is back and I tilt my head to meet his eyes.
“Obviously.” I grin.
His fingers brush through my hair again and I have to close my eyes. I’m unable to hold his stare when his touch feels that good.
“My dad wasn’t ever around, so I liked that the father was always in the stars, always looking down on his son. Watching out for him, you know? It’s silly, but I always felt someone was watching out for me when it was on.”
I open my eyes to find his gaze trained on the television. “Your dad is dead?” I don’t know why I’m pushing, prying into Trent’s past when I hate when anyone does that to me, but here, in this bubble of fever induced boldness I can’t help but wonder about his story. About what makes Trent Donavan tick. When he answers, I wonder if Trent is feeling extra bold himself in the safety of this space.
“Yeah, he is now but not when I was a kid. He wasn’t around because he was a bastard of a father. My parents split before I remember. I actually used to lie and tell everyone at school he was dead instead of a deadbeat. I guess I sometimes believed my own lie.”
“I get that. It was always easier to tell my friends my dad was gone. Whatever they assumed I meant was fine by me. They asked fewer questions that way.”
“Plus, when I was a little older it helped me score pussy.”
“Trent!”
“Can you blame me? Teenage boy. Poor. Stupid. Horny. But hey, I played guitar and could kinda sing, so you bet your pretty little ass I played up the dead dad card. I worked with what I had.”
“Sounds like you were smarter than you give yourself credit for.”
His soft chuckle washes over me and we drop back into the comfort of watching the cartoon. I try to keep my lids open, to watch the entire thing, but his warmth, the comfort, and probably the drugs all help me float into the safety of restful sleep. Trent surprisingly makes a good body pillow and I don’t feel one ounce of shame for snuggling closer into his chest. His heart beats at my ear, and it’s rock steady. I’m sure I’ll regret all of this tomorrow when he won’t let me live it down, but for now . . . For now, he’s just what I need.
Morning comes, and with it disappointment because I know this is over soon. Having Lexi in my arms, her holding me as if she can’t get close enough, is what I can only describe as a spiritually awakening experience. Sure, logically I know she was only attempting to stay warm. But until last night I’d never had a woman sleep in my bed, completely sober, with no sex involved. Before Lexi, I would have thought that was pure torture.
Only it wasn’t. And I didn’t even want to fuck her. I mean, I would have if she asked, but she wasn’t going to ask me. Besides, I was more focused on how her breath felt against my chest every time she exhaled, how her leg pressed against mine, the skin soft and smooth. How she felt like home to my wanderlust heart. If there was any way I could spend every night like this, with her wrapped in my arms, I would take the chance. Because she unlocked something I never knew I was capable of. I cared about her, cared for her, and I wanted more than to roll in the sheets with this woman.
I wanted her to be mine, and me to be hers.
It’s that frightening thought that has me sliding from her body and the warmth of my bed to gain some goddamn perspective. Pulling on a pair of sweats, I make my way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. I chug a bottle of water and grab an extra to take back to her before she wakes. She’ll probably want her toothbrush too, now that she’s feeling better. At least no fever. A quick peek inside her sleep cubbie and I can’t find it there. Her cell’s inside so I pull it from the charger. I’m not sure what else she’ll want and decide it’ll be easier to just ask.
The bus chugs along the miles of concrete while the landscape of green goes by in a blur. I’m not sure how far out we are from Baltimore, but we haven’t hit the city yet so I shoot off a quick text to Bedo before everyone wakes up and the craziness of preparing for another show begins. Creeping back down the hall I open the door to sneak back to Lexi.
“Hey. You’re up?” I’m surprised when I find her standing inside, the sheets wrapped around her like a cloak. “I brought you a water. How are you feeling?” I hand her the bottle and move back to the bed’s corner, taking a seat to get a grip on the nerves that bounce around inside my body. There’s a strangeness, an awkward feeling on my part, knowing we shared such an intimate but not sexual time, and I don’t know how to deal.
“Thanks for the water. I’m much better.” She doesn’t quite meet my eyes. She’s uncomfortable, too. “And thanks for last night.”
“But was it as good for you as it was for me?” I wink and stick out my tongue. Humor’s always my best defense.
“And he’s back!” She rolls her eyes, plopping on the bed with a sigh.
“I’ll be here all week, folks!” I laugh, stand up, and rummage through the dresser for a clean T-shirt. “You probably want something to wear, but I wasn’t sure where you have your stuff and everyone is still asleep out there. So . . .” I pull my lips into a grin when I come across one of our old band tees. “This will be huge on you.” I turn and toss it so she has to catch it. I’m a little disappointed she’s got that sheet secured under her arms. Of course, I already got a glimpse of her sexy panty and bra combo, but the enjoyment was tainted with real fear for how sick she was. It would be nice to get a better view today.
She holds up the shirt and shakes her head. “Oh, hell no. I am not wearing this!”
“What? It’s a shirt.”
She turns it around so I can read the front, as if I don’t know it says “I spent a night with Three Ugly Guys.” I’m the one who came up with the catchy slogan. “I’m not wearing this shit.” Her jaw locks in a stubborn glare.
“It’s not entirely untrue.”
“But if I put it on, it will burn away a piece of my soul. And self-respect.”
“Fine. Don’t wear it. But this belongs to me.” Faster than she can follow, I reach down to grab a fistful of the sheet she’s wearing, and yank.
“Fuck!” She springs off the bed and I get a clear view of the sexy pink undergarments before she tugs the shirt over her gorgeous body.
“It puts the 3UG band shirt on its skin . . .” I taunt, changing up the movie quote. She doesn’t think I’m funny. Or maybe she hates Silence of the Lambs.
“You are an asshole, you know that?” She twists the cap off the water bottle and gives me a glare before drinking.
“Come on. You don’t really think that,” I tease, pulling my buzzing phone from my pocket. “Good. Bedo’s got a doctor meeting us in Baltimore. I think you’re out of the woods now that your fever
broke.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor.”
“Yeah, but better safe than sorry.”
“Trent. I don’t need it. I’m fine.”
“You weren’t fine last night.”
“How did I know you would throw that in my face? Is that why you were so nice? So you could hold it against me later?” She pushes off the bed, grabs her pillow and rushes to the door.
I back up and grip the handle so she can’t leave. “Lexi, none of this was a game. I want to take care of you. I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
She inhales sharply, as if my words hurt as much as a slap. “I’m not yours to take care of. I’m fine on my own. Okay?”
“No, not really. It’s good to have someone in your corner, Lex. It doesn’t make you weak or insignificant to accept help.”
“Let me out of your room. Now!”
“Jesus. Why are you making this a thing?” I pull open the door and let her pass, only because I know she can’t run far. We’re on a goddamn bus. I inhale and exhale a harsh breath while my gaze passes over the rumpled bedsheets. We didn’t do anything last night, but goddamn that was by far the most exposed I’ve ever been, or want to be, with a woman. Everything about Lexi is a contradiction, and as confusing and frustrating as she is, I still want more. Maybe, just maybe, she’s as frightened as me. Maybe she wants more, too.
I change my clothes and when I feel the bus slow, then stop and go again, I decide not to give her any more time. If she won’t be real and talk to me inside the bus, she sure as hell won’t once we get to the arena. I want her. That’s true. But does she return the sentiment? Slamming the door on my way out, I’m determined to unveil the answer.
A few steps into the living space and I’m already irritated. “What’s this?”
She sits at the kitchen table, fingers pinched together as her pen flies over the pages of her notebook. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge my question, or give an indication she’s been up all night watching Disney movies snuggled at my side.