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“UW Hospital,” she said promptly. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No. I’ll take him myself.” I grabbed the cloth from McGee and bathed Reagan’s face with it.
“Don… ned… a’merency rum.” He could barely talk through the chattering of his teeth.
“Baby, you do. You’re burning up.” I spied a bottle of fever reducer on the nightstand. “When was the last time you took this?” I asked, holding the bottle where he could see it.
He began to speak but ended up coughing. He hacked out something like, “When JT told me to?”
I’d been texting JT throughout the flight, and I knew they’d spoken a couple of hours before. The medicine should have still been working.
“You need something stronger,” I told Reagan. “Come on. Let’s get you up. McGee, get him clothes from his suitcase.”
“’M fine. No trouble,” Reagan insisted, squirming away.
McGee threw a hoodie and sweatpants on the bed, then patted Reagan’s ankle gently through the blanket. “I hate to tell you, princess, but you look rough. You’d better listen to the boss man, okay?”
Reagan barely opened his gorgeous eyes. “M’Gee? Sorry I… made fun. You don’ have wrinkles.”
At that, McGee looked more nervous than he had all day. “Are you fucking kidding? Of course I do. Billions of them. And you’ll tell me all about them when you’re better, you hear?”
“Out,” I barked at McGee and the manager. “I’m getting Reagan dressed.”
As soon as they were gone, I pulled the covers back and attempted to wrestle the shirt over Reagan’s head and the pants onto his legs. His muscles were too listless to put up much fight, but he seemed not to understand what was happening. Every time he closed his eyes and opened them again, he seemed freshly shocked to find me there.
“Reagan, baby, let me take care of you,” I finally said, as gently as I could. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Trust me.”
“H-how?” He sounded like he might cry.
I wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking, but I pulled far enough back to meet his glassy eyes and gave him the only answer I had.
“Because I love you,” I said firmly. “I love you, so I flew to you—on a fucking airplane, through the goddamn sky—in case you needed me. Because I will always come when you need me. And I don’t ever want you to be alone.”
He stared at me in shock for a long moment before his face fell and tears filled his eyes. “Oh, shit,” he sobbed. “I’m ha-hallucinating.”
I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his burning forehead. “You’re not. I’m here. And I’m not leaving you. Not ever. Understand?”
“Yes,” he whispered sadly. “I understand everything now. Layla did it.”
I bundled the hotel comforter around him for the journey. “I know, sweetheart. You probably caught Layla’s flu, and then she sent you away. She and I are going to have words about that,” I said ominously. “About all of that.”
“No, no,” he insisted. “The shirt. It’s Layla’s…” He let out a breath and closed his eyes. “I told her to tell you.”
“Reagan?” I jostled him gently and then more firmly when he didn’t respond. “Reagan?” He still didn’t answer, and his chest visibly shook with each shallow inhale.
Fuck.
“McGee,” I shouted. “Time to go. Find his coat. I have his shoes.”
The next hour and a half was a nightmare. I spent most of my life in a protective bubble of power and wealth, but ninety helpless minutes watching Reagan float in and out of awareness while struggling to breathe was enough to remind me just how fragile and useless that bubble was when it came to protecting what truly mattered. Holding his body against me in the car and the ER waiting room was the only thing keeping me remotely sane.
“How the hell can they be so calm?” I fumed to McGee as Reagan weakly fiddled with the mask the doctors had given him and looked a bit like he was drowning. “They know he has the flu, for god’s sake, and his lips are nearly blue. ‘As long as he’s conscious, we’re not overly concerned’? That’s bullshit. Contact January. Have her find out who I need to call and how big a donation I need to make in order to get Reagan some fucking help.”
McGee simply patted my shoulder and forced me to take the antiviral medication my doctor had called in to the pharmacy across the street once Reagan’s flu test came back positive.
Reagan was no longer coherent by the time the nurses had gotten him in a hospital gown and assigned us a bed—technically, the bed was Reagan’s, but when I’d attempted to set him down and back away, he’d let out a plaintive whimper, so damned if I didn’t crawl in beside him. I refused to budge when the nurse who hooked up Reagan’s IV side-eyed me.
“Sir, you should probably give the patient a little space. I know it’s scary—the flu is particularly bad this year—but we’ve seen many severe cases like this, and the outcomes are usually good for a young, fit man like your, uh…” He hesitated, waiting for me to explain what Reagan was to me.
