Lingus (15 page)

"Sure," I answered and went to sit on the end of the bed around the same time he started patting the empty spot next to him. The mattress was king-sized, so I nodded and climbed over to sit to where I was only a couple feet away from him.

In the middle of a sip, he stopped and turned to look at me sharply. "I'm going to get you sick, Kat."

"Don't worry about it, I get my flu shot every year, so if I do catch anything, it won't be too bad. My immune system blows, so I drink that gross shit," I pointed at his cup, "all the time."

He tipped the cup back to drink the last bit and shivered again, setting the cup down on the nightstand. "Gross," he muttered, licking his lips. Tristan closed his eyes and wiggled his way down the bed to lay flat against the mattress. "I don't have a TV in here so you're going to have to tell me all of your secrets to entertain me."

"In that case—," I started to say but laughed. "I don't have any secrets."

"I don't either besides Robby. Just tell me about your family... or anything, I don't care. Just talking makes me feel terrible," he groaned.

So, I told him. I told him about my dad, Frank Berger, and how he was the hardest-working electrician in Gainesville, Florida. I told him about my mom, and how she worked odd-end jobs until she died from a brain aneurysm right before her thirtieth birthday. Tristan learned about my bad haircuts, which made him laugh even though his eyes were closed. He found out about the time I went to a Marlins game with Frank and was dumb enough to wear a skirt that I ended up tucking into my underwear after a restroom break, so I practically mooned hundreds of people with my white cotton panties. He had tears in his eyes after he asked me how old I was when it happened, and I answered with a whopping sixteen. How he managed to stay awake and pay attention to me while I rambled, I don't know but he did, because he constantly laughed quietly despite the fact that his eyes were closed.

I wiggled my way off the bed and headed over to his side to take his temperature one last time. Once the reading was over, the digital numbers showed that his fever was down to 101.8. "Can you take another cold shower?" I asked him, and he nodded, rolling out of bed sluggishly before heading toward the bathroom.

Exhaustion hit me while I paced around his room, waiting for him to finish his shower. He was fast; in and out — dressed, undressed, and dressed again — in less than five minutes. He looked tired and half-asleep despite the freezing shower. Tristan dragged his feet across the floor, making moaning and grunting noises as he settled into bed. The noises were so distracting that later on I realized I didn't get a chance to ogle his abs, or the little trail of dark hair from his belly button down the front of his boxers.

"Thank you for coming, Kat," he whispered, his silhouette illuminated by the side lamp.

"Don't mention it," I said softly. My watch showed that it was passed two in the morning and more than an hour after he took the Theraflu. I let out a big yawn and rubbed at my face. "Will you be okay alone the rest of the night?"

He opened a single eye but didn't focus it on me. Instead, he settled that piercing gaze at the ceiling. "I think so," he said, but I could hear the hesitation in his voice. "Can you come back tomorrow and make sure I'm not dead?"

"Of course," I said. I'd stay if he'd asked me to but he didn't.

Tristan rolled onto his side and started digging through his nightstand drawer, moving all kinds of things over before pulling out a shiny new key and holding it out for me. "Can you lock the door for me, and this way you can let yourself back in? I think my neighbor might try to sneak in and molest me if the door is unlocked all night."

"Oh! The old guy next door?" I joked, even though I didn't see anyone outside.

He groaned and pulled the sheet up to his neck again. "Wait until I feel better," he threatened in the worst ominous voice I'd ever heard.

After a brush of my fingers over his forehead, I slipped his house key into my pocket, and gave him instructions to set an alarm so he could take the Theraflu again in a few hours. I was in my car and heading back home while trying to fight back the fatigue that overwhelmed me. It was so fucking hard to keep my eyes open, and I immediately regretted not asking him if I could sleep on the couch. I was so tired that I barely made it up the stairs before kicking and yanking off all of my clothes as I fell onto the bed in a tired heap. Tristan's house key lay discarded on my floor, inside of my jeans.

Right before I fell asleep, I remembered randomly that the last guy I'd gone on a couple of dates with wouldn't even tell me the security code for the gate to his apartment.

Chapter
20

Four hours after I had passed out on my bed, I woke up hearing my phone ringing and felt utterly exhausted. I should have gone back to bed and slept at least another hour or two, but my mind was already racing between the events of the previous night and wondering who the hell was calling me so early. Frustrated and annoyed, I grabbed my phone like it was the phone's fault why it was ringing at the crack of dawn and stared at the screen to see Zoey's picture from Halloween last year. She was dressed up like a member of KISS.

"Hello?" I asked, my voice thick with sleep.

"Katherine Alba Berger, I'm so, so sorry to call you this early, but have you talked to Nicole? I'm worried," she spilled out as quickly as possible. Zoey knew that I'd never been a morning person, whether it was back when I was a student or now that I was a real adult with a full-time job, I hated the morning time.

My yawn sounded like something out of
The Lion King
. "Yesterday. She's fine; she's having a sex marathon with Calum."

I think Zoey chuckled, but I was so out of it, she could have been braying like a donkey for all I knew. "Oh, okay. Go back to sleep then."

"Okay, bye Zo." I tried to say, but yawned instead.

"Bye!" she chirped out before ending the call.

I had a headache which could only be blamed on how tired and sleepy I was, but all I could think about was the sick man I left across town. It wasn't even eight in the morning, and I was wondering if he was conscious enough to call into work to say that he was sick. There were times that I really hated how stubborn I was because once the idea that I should call in for him popped into my head, I had to do it or else it'd bother me the rest of the day. I wouldn't want him to get fired, I reasoned with myself. After doing a quick search on my browser with one eye open, I called the law office he worked at and left a voicemail explaining that Tristan King was very sick and couldn't make it in.

I shot a quick message to Tristan. There was no use in coming over if he was dead.

Are you alive?

About two minutes later, I saw 'Magellan' pop up on the screen while I was still in a half dream, barely awake stage.

I wish I wasn't.

I snorted at his dumb antics and gradually crawled out of bed, showering, and getting dressed to go visit quite possibly the most annoying sick person on the planet. He whined more than I did even as a kid, which hadn't escaped me, but how could I avoid that handsome face? The handsome face that also needed to use the largest kinds of condoms made.

I waged an internal battle from the Starbucks drive-thru window all the way to his house, debating whether I should've tried to sneak a peek at his mighty scepter or not.

My phone chimed when I was only a few minutes away from getting to Tristan's house, and sure enough, 'Magellan' appeared on the screen again.

Are you pro assisted euthanasia?

Oh lord.

I waited to reply until I was parked in front of his house. It was one of the nicest and well kept homes in the neighborhood with a really nice front lawn and lots of pretty flowers. I wondered if Tristan mowed his own lawn? He probably did, and then there was the possibility that if he did, he didn't wear a shirt. That would explain the neighbor he was worried about yesterday. I was a little surprised that he lived in a house and not a condo or an apartment. Maybe I'd ask him about it later, but by the text messages he sent me, he wasn't feeling any better than yesterday.

I whipped out my phone and sent him a reply with a snort.

No puss but I am pro involuntary euthanasia.

Tristan's key was now attached to the rest of my keychain so I unlocked the door, and then kicked my shoes off to run upstairs and check on the whiney, too-hot baby with the flu. The door was cracked and all I could see were long, bare legs and the smooth, creamy flesh of his back sprawled over the bed. His head was buried beneath the pillow, and only the long strands of hair at the nape of his neck escaped the cover.

"Hey," I said softly.

He let out a muffled noise but didn't move an inch.

"Tristan."

Another muffled noise.

"Tristan," I said again, in a sing-song voice.

I finally stepped closer to the bed and swallowed in every inch of his pale skin. He had muscles I didn't even think existed; there was a ripple on his back when he breathed, and there were these two small dimples right above the elastic of his dark boxer briefs. That ass...

"Get up. Have you taken your temperature and your Theraflu?" I asked, tearing my thoughts away from the round curves of his butt.

He made another strange noise against the mattress in response but didn't move.

"C'mon, Tristan." This time I poked him in the ribs and he tensed at the contact. "I need you to get up."

Finally, he rolled over lazily and pulled the pillow away from his face. He was so pale and sickly looking, his green eyes looked even more dull than they did the day before. A pitiful whimper slipped out of his dry, chapped lips. "Kill me now," he moaned.

I pressed my hand against his forehead, noticing how ridiculously hot it was. Measuring his temperature with the thermometer, I noticed that he managed to drink all of the Gatorade I'd left on the nightstand while I waited for the small tool to beep. It read 102.5 across the small display. FIfteen minutes later, he'd managed to shower, brush his teeth, and take more Theraflu. He put on some lounge pants and an undershirt before following me downstairs, where I forced him to eat two slices of toast while he made a big fuss because he was, "not hungry."

"Calum hasn't called me back," he said in a voice laced with exhaustion, before sipping the glass of water I left out.

"I think he's still with Nicole," I explained, and he nodded with a weary smirk.

"I hope she doesn't break him."

I snorted and took a bite out of the toast I made for myself. After all, I paid for the bread, right? "His career might be over after Nikki."

Tristan smiled, but it wasn't the same as his usual smiles because he was sick. His right hand moved up to reach for his head, but dropped to the side after a second with a sigh. "I hate being sick."

"I know, why don't you go lay down?"

"No energy," he mumbled.

I put up a finger for him to give me a second while I ran upstairs for his comforter, sheet, and pillow. Folding the huge comforter in thirds, I made him a couch palate on the big, heather sofa he had in the living room. It was wider than any normal sofa I'd ever seen, but something told me that we probably didn't shop in the same places. "Tristan!" I called out to him.

He shuffled out of the kitchen, wide shoulders slumped and body tense with discomfort. He stopped behind the couch and looked at the way the couch had been set up, giving me a tiny, crooked smile. "Can I put my head on your lap?" he asked so sweetly that I couldn't find it in me to make a smartass comment.

"If you want," I told him, taking the pillow off the couch to set on my lap.

In a speed that was much faster than it should have been, he shuffled around the couch and plopped down, facing up with his head on the pillow that rested on my thighs. "Thanks, Kat," he cooed, looking straight up at me. "Will you rub my head for me?"

I couldn't help but snicker. "Are you serious?"

He nodded, looking sheepish. "My mom would always do that for me."

I rolled my eyes like I was annoyed but it was pretty cute. I started running my left hand through the wet locks of hair, slowly, and brushed my fingertips against his scalp. "Your parents live in Miami?" I asked.

He nodded in response before his eyes screwed shut. "Are you from here?" I asked another question. He shook his head.

"We lived in Chicago until I was about fourteen, then my dad got a job transfer," he explained, quietly. "Are you from here?"

I knew he was probably not exactly crazy about wanting to talk, so I did most of the talking myself like the night before. I explained how my family lived in Gainesville. We talked quietly for minutes, asking each other questions about our families. I learned that he was an only child just like I was. He also had an imaginary friend named Mickey until he was nine. I didn't bother asking where he got the name Mickey from, even though I really wanted to laugh. Soon enough, he'd fallen asleep with a relaxed look on his face. Exhausted and so warm with body heat, I felt myself nodding off and fighting the urge to close my eyes.

A quiet chuckle pulled me out of my dream state; my neck hurt from how I'd been positioned and my legs were asleep. I opened my eyes and looked down to see two green orbs looking at me in amusement.