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I know it’s stupid, but his words make me feel better. They ease the pressure cinching around my ribs so I can suck in a full breath.
Easing back from his neck, I look up at him with tears drying on my skin. He doesn’t hesitate, just drops his mouth to mine in a deep but soft and slow kiss. It’s not meant to get the blood stirring, only to bring comfort. And it does.
Brendon may have been the one to need touch first, but he’s made me crave his nearness. Nothing calms me like he does, like his skin against mine, his heart beating with mine. The raging, turbulent emotions ease into a calm, flat sea.
“Get some sleep, love,” he says against my lips, and I smile, lying down on his chest once again. I know it will take time to process the scars left on my heart that day, but I’m on my way.
32
Brendon
I’m awoken a few hours later by a weird noise.
Is that groaning?
Is there a werewolf transforming in here?
What time is it?
I force my eyes open, and once my eyes adjust to the dark, I find Paul on his side, curled up into a ball, kind of rocking back and forth, and groaning. Not the sexy kind of sound either. Sitting up, I rub my eyes and reach for Paul.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
“It hurts,” he moans. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
He jerks upright and hustles toward the bathroom, moaning in pain the entire way. I get up and follow behind him, getting a washcloth wet and a cup of water while he throws up, and it sounds like he’s choking back tears.
“I think you should go to the hospital,” I say as I hand him the cup to wash his mouth out and wipe the back of his neck with the cloth.
“We have a game tomorrow,” he argues and tries to stand up but cries out and drops back down to the floor.
“And you think you’re going to play like this?” I cross my arms and lean against the sink. “You can’t even stand.”
Paul leans his head against his arms on the toilet. “It hurts so fucking bad.”
“What hurts? Like, your stomach or the muscles?” I’ve never seen him like this, and honestly, it’s scary. I don’t know how to help him, but he’s obviously in pain.
“I don’t know.” He breathes for a second. Panting, almost whimpering in pain. “It’s, like, inside.”
“Did you eat something weird?”
Paul tries to stand again, and this time I pull his arm around my shoulders to help him shuffle back to the bed. This isn’t normal. I’ve seen him get the flu, food poisoning, all kinds of shit, but this is so much worse.
“Maybe you should go to the ER?” I ask as he curls into a ball on the bed. Grabbing my phone, I google “stomach pain.” Sitting on the bed next to him, I scroll through the results and narrow my search down to “how to tell when stomach pain is serious.”
“How long has this been going on?” I ask him as I read. This is bad. He needs to go to the hospital, and he’s not going to like it.
“I don’t know,” he whines.
“You need to go in, dude.” My heart rate skyrockets as “emergency surgery” and “sepsis” hit my brain. I stand up and grab him some pajama pants and a zip-up hoodie. “Come on.”
“I don’t want to go to the hospital. I’m just going to sit in the waiting room for three hours and be told to take pain reliever.” He turns his face into his pillow and yells a pain-filled sound that solidifies my determination.
Without waiting for his agreement, I slide his feet into the pants and work the fabric up his legs as far as I can while he’s lying down.
“Come on, lean on me. We’re going.”
Paul doesn’t argue, but it takes him a bit to get up enough for me to finish getting him dressed. He’s gritting his teeth and breathing too hard; pain is etched into every line of his face.
