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Motherfucker.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Later. We would be rolling out in the morning, and I could start working on some sort of solution. With that in mind, I set her phone back down on the counter.
I walked into Sawyer’s room and pulled the blanket up a little further. She was out cold. When I felt her forehead, she stirred.
“Kurt?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I need you to drink just a little more, okay?”
“Umm-hmm.”
I brought the Gatorade to her lips and let her take another sip. “That’s it, baby. Now rest.”
She lay back down. “I wish you would give us a chance.”
“What?”
No response. She was sound asleep.
Yet I knew what she had said.
“I’m working on it.”
Chapter Twelve
Sawyer
I cracked open my eyes, feeling disgusting. My stomach was raw, and I put my hand to my head, trying to piece it all together. Oh man, the food truck. Kurt had brought me back to the bus to take care of me. I remembered the doctor but not much after that.
Where’s Kurt?
Following a soft snoring sound, I gingerly rolled to the edge of the bed. On the floor beside the bed, there was Kurt, crammed against the wall. The covers were askew. My heart warmed. He’d stayed with me, looked after me. I sat up a little to get a better look and noticed the cute little fluffball on his lap. When I cleared my throat, George lifted his head for a second before snuggling deeper into Kurt. Moments like this made it so hard to accept I would never have him.
I glanced down and noticed I was still in my halter top from last night. Ugh, I needed a shower. I smelled terrible. Without making a sound, I eased out of bed, careful to take my time. At one point, the bus lurched. Did we stop? I felt achy and weak but figured I was through the worst of it.
The warm water in the shower was a heavenly caress on my skin. After several minutes, I got out and dried myself off. The shower had worn me out. I was such a wimp when it came to being sick. I threw my hair up in a messy bun. At least the next gig wouldn’t be until tomorrow in Seattle. We were zigzagging across the US until we shot up the Eastern Seaboard. Today, however, Kurt had a promo event in Portland. A radio host would be interviewing the band. Hopefully, I’d feel better by then.
I walked back into my bedroom only to find it empty. Out in the living room, Kurt sat on a chair. George was in the kitchen, eating.
“Morning. How are you feeling?”
“Better. I think I’m through the worst of it.”
I stopped to kneel and pat George’s head before making my way to the couch to sit near Kurt. Kurt, first thing in the morning, wearing only his boxers and a T-shirt, was a sight that would help me feel better. “Thank you for taking care of me. I’m sorry I ruined your New Year’s.”
“It wasn’t ruined, Sawyer. I’m glad you’re okay.”
There was something different about Kurt today—I couldn’t pinpoint it. Or maybe it was my imagination. “Well, thank you.”
“Here, drink some Gatorade. Slowly. If that goes over well, I’ll make you toast.” He scooted the drink closer to me.
I took a few sips. The cool relief was welcomed, so I took a few more. “I will never ever eat pork and corn again. I’m ruined for life.”
“Shame. I was thinking of making pork chops tonight.” Kurt’s deadpan stare told me he was trying to be funny.
I pretended to gag. Then gagged again.
Kurt raced to get a trash can while George barked and nipped at his heels. He thrust it at me. “Here. Use this.”
