Page 50 of The Guy in the Alley

Now I knew what I’d be forced to do on my break.

“We’re goin’ upstairs.” I sucked in a breath and tried to haul him up, and it took all my strength. “Ben, you gotta help me out.”

“No,” he coughed. He said no, but he did pull up a leg so he could stand. It was easy to see he had very little energy, though. “Don’t…don’t tell Trace I’m here.”

Oh yeah?

Fuck you.

I was so goddamn sick of worrying about him. Worrying, hating, resenting, missing… His dumbass letter had shot my brain into a million directions, and I’d spent weeks analyzing every word. I’d been a shitshow. Obsessed and pissy, obsessed and scared, obsessed and understanding. I’d hosted live debates in my head—with one part defending him and reminding me of his low self-esteem, and then another part cursing him to hell, and… The part I detested the most was the one asking why I fucking cared so much.

It took a while, but I managed to get him over to the stoop of my apartment’s entrance.

“Did the dog adopt you?” I asked, out of breath.

He coughed again and grabbed on to the railing. “He won’t…leave me alone.”

I nodded and scratched my nose. “Try’n write him a letter and walk out when he’s asleep.”

“What?” Ben gave me a bleary-eyed look, his gaze unfocused. He hadn’t made the connection yet, had he? “I…I tried to drop him off at…a shelter.”

“Okay.” I unlocked the door before I rejoined him down the three steps.

“They were gonna put him down because…because he’s not ch-chipped,” he muttered. “And—” He made a gesture, dismissive. “They’re overcrowded.”

So he’d kept Ziggy. Because Ben would rescue anyone but himself.

Dick.

I helped him up the stairs and opened the door, and I didn’t have to make a decision about Ziggy. He snuck in faster than I could react—but he was staying in the hallway. I loved dogs, but I wasn’t having a flea infestation in my home.

Just as we got inside and the door closed behind us, Ben half collapsed against the nearest wall, and he grabbed on to my arm. He lifted his head unhurriedly, as if it weighed a ton, and he stared unseeingly at me. He was trying. He blinked and frowned and squinted, and I could tell the moment it was dawning on him. He drew a ragged breath, and his sluggish focus followed as his hand slowly slid down my arm until he let go.

He knew where he was. He knew who he was with.

Even with a high fever, his shame burned hotter.

I hated it, because he made my heart pound, and I knew it wasn’t shame over how he’d left. It was shame over his situation and that he felt useless.

“Come on.” I cupped his elbow and nudged him toward the stairs.

Once this fever passed, man, I was gonna lay into him. The motherfucker had screwed me over and made me feel a bunch of shit.

I didn’t fucking do feelings. Anymore.

Actually, this crap was new. This was some next-level torture.

Ziggy barked from the top of the stairs, and I agreed with him. Ben was taking forever.

“When did you eat?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

I suppressed a sigh and pulled out my phone. I’d been gone, what, ten minutes?

How much could I accomplish in twenty? I had to figure out what was wrong with him—if it was a case of the flu that was going around or if it was dehydration, malnourishment, food poisoning, whatever the fuck. The fatigue was clear as day, as was the fever, the confusion, and the difficulty to speak. I couldn’t leave him alone until I knew whether I was up for taking care of him or if I should call an ambulance.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said groggily. “I’m s-sorry.”

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