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As the seconds turn into minutes and I slip from the soft ambiance of sleep, more aches and pains spring up all over my body. In the oddest places, too. It throbs in the soles of my feet and the back of my legs, and my palms feel like they’ve been sautéd over low heat.
Crap, I’m sick.
I can’t say I’ve been ill often in my life—usually Dolores packed me full of Vitamin C and homemade concoctions the moment I even sniffled. But when I did fall sick, she was always there to take care of me.
This time though, I’m on my own.
There’s the familiar wave of grief accompanying Dolores’ voice filling my head.
You need to take a steamy shower,she would say while forcing me out of bed and into the bathroom. The water would be a few degrees short of scalding, but she would make me stand out of the spray, inhaling the steam.
Breakfast, lunch and dinner became different kinds of soups and flavored liquids until further notice becauseyou need to stay hydrated for your body to fight what’s going on. She’d basically stay at my bedside the entire time, scolding me for not telling her I was feeling bad sooner and taking care of me in equal measure.
I really do miss her.
Before I realize it, I’m wailing about my dead nanny, which only makes me feel worse. The tears are huge, and I feel stupid for crying and stupid for not feeling worse about it. It’s nearly half an hour before I can gather myself.
A painful twist of my neck, and I see that the clock reads seven.
I have an exam at nine today, but I’m not even sure I’ll be able to make it. My grades in the classshouldbe good enough for a pass, but I’m not satisfied with barely scraping by. Yet there’s little I can do if I feel like shit.
Right now, my first priority is making it to the bathroom for that steamy shower.
When I try to sit up again, things go a little better. I make it all the way to the bathroom before the horrible feelings have me doubling over. Then, the nausea hits and I’m bent over the toilet puking bile and bits of last night’s dinner.
Fuck, this is worse than I thought.
As my stomach cramps, I try to think of what could’ve caused all this. It might be because of all the cold air that Liam let in when he broke into my room. I was only in a thin nightgown and I’ve gotten sick from that sort of thing before.
Or it could be the fact that I was damn near naked in the cold yesterday while Alexander wrenchedfourorgasms out of me with his tongue and sinful fingers. Even in the throes of sickness, there’s a blush heating my already impossibly hot skin at the thought of it. He came so close to breaking down all the walls I had erected around my heart.
After all, can he really be bad if he makes me feelthatgood?
The more time we spend together, the more my resolve weakens, and I’m sure he knows it too. That’s why he’s gotten more persistent. If I don’t hold on to my thirst for freedom, he’ll sweep me off my feet completely and when the time comes I won’t be ready to seize my chance for escape.
I spent much of yesterday researching countries I could run away to after meeting my father. My shortlist has a variety of places—Turkey, Barbados and even Indonesia. Somewhere both he and Alexander would least expect, somewhere I’ve never been. A one-way plane ticket and some money to get settled is all I need, both of them easy enough to get.
I would make Alexander think my father took me, and make my father think I ran off with Alexander. The two of them would be so busy tracking down each other and being at each other’s throats that I would be gone in the wind.
It’s a mostly foolproof plan.
The steamy shower helps a little, but not enough.
The glimpse I get of myself in the mirror while I’m getting dressed almost has me puking again—I look like a rag someone left in the sun for a few hours. My skin is dull and clammy, my hair is wet and stringy from the shower, my eyes are bland and sunken.
I find the strength to change into some clean clothes. I’ll have to make some soup for myself, somehow. I’ve never made it before, but it can’t be that hard. It’s basically water flavored with a few spices. I doubt I would be able to taste much anyway.
I’m hobbling through the hallway when Alexander’s door opens.
His heavy footsteps fill the corridor, but I don’t stop. Suddenly, there’s a flash of embarrassment snaking up my neck. He’ll be able to tell that I’m not feeling well, and something about that makes me want to crawl into a hole and hide.
I hasten my steps.
“You’re up. I was just about to come check on you,” he says.
He catches up to me in a few strides. His hand is on my shoulder, turning me to face him. Stupidly, I close my eyes. Maybe if I don’t see his reaction the feeling will disappear.
“Alize, you’re burning up,” he says. Pity he doesn’t know that just the sound of his voice has me burning upeven more. His hand moves to my forehead, my cheek, then my neck. “Fuck, you’re sick.”
