Page 17 of Racing Hearts

Pulling my phone out, I search for him on Instagram, easily finding him since he has tons of followers and posts. I skim his photos, idly noting they are good before I find one where he’s in front of a door. I memorize the number before heading there. Later, I’ll tell him what a moron he is for posting that for anyone to find. At the building’s entrance, I grab a skinny kid. “Which room is Evan Shaw’s?”

He looks at me over, confused. “Eighteen C.”

I nod and stomp upstairs. Once at the wooden door that looks like every other one here, I grind my jaw. I debate leaving it on his doorstep, but what if he’s dead? Slamming my knuckles into the door, I wait impatiently.

There’s no answer, so I knock again. There is a groan and a crash, so I rip the door open, noting it’s not locked, and storm in.

Evan is struggling in his duvet on a twin bed. His hair is sticking up all over, which is my first clue he’s sick, not to mention his nose is red and dripping, his skin is pale and clammy, his eyes are bloodshot, and he’s shivering even though it’s boiling in here.

“Anders?” he questions as he sits up, frowning. “Shit, am I seeing stuff now?”

The other bed is empty, and I scan the room. The left side is decorated in all dark colors and posters. Evan’s, the right side, is bright with color and photos. Setting the bags down on the table, I head over without saying a word. I slide my hands under him and lift him upright, throwing his duvet back at him. He frowns, wrapping it around his body.

“Wait, you’re really here. Why?” His face is puffy and adorable.

No, ugly.

“Alice made me,” I mutter. “She was worried.” I grab the bag and throw it his way. “Here, medicine.”

“Oh, thanks.” He searches inside, his eyes widening. “Did you buy the whole store?”

“I didn’t know what was wrong,” I grumble, my eyes lingering on the bruise on his cheek. Guilt spears me for a moment.

He nods and sits back, shivering.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.

“I’m not hungry.” He sighs, closing his eyes. He must be sick because he isn’t even fighting me.

I frown, not liking this defeated side of him. He isn’t fun if he isn’t sassy. Pulling out the soup container and spoon, I grab water and sit on the edge of his bed, ignoring its creak as I hand it over. “You need to eat.”

He watches me. “Why are you here?”

“Alice,” I remind him as I thrust the food at him. “Eat or don’t, I don’t care.”

I stand then, ready to leave, when his hand catches my wrist. I look down. His hand barely spans my tattooed wrist, and something about that has a spark of desire flaming through me. “Thank you, Alek. I mean it, even if Alice made you.”

“Whatever, rich boy.” I jerk my hand away, ignoring the burn lingering on my skin. “Eat and take your medicine.”

When I’m at the door, his voice stops me again. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re worried.”

“You wish, rich boy.” I slam the door and then hesitate as I hear him laugh, but it turns into a cough and then a groan.

Grinding my teeth, I glance at the hallway, knowing I need to leave or I’ll miss the race—one that I was lucky enough to get my name in for since so many want in.

Smashing my head into the door, I rip it open again, angry at myself. I stomp over and pat his back as he coughs, probably harder than I need to, and then I sit. “Eat,” I demand.

He eyes me worriedly but eats every last bite, and I throw him the water. He sips it before I clean up. “Now sleep.”

He snuggles down, still coughing, wrapped up like a burrito. “You can leave.”

“I am. Just making sure you don’t die or Alice won’t forgive me.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” he mutters, but he’s asleep before I can respond.

I should leave now, but I clean up his mess and then sit on the office chair, watching him.

He’s getting worse. He has a fever now and won’t stop moaning in his sleep. I run a towel under the faucet and keep putting it on his forehead, which seems to help. Water runs over my hands as I head back to reapply the new one.

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