Page 33 of Rock Bottom

Not on my watch.

I took a step back and kicked open the door. Church shot up upright in bed, clutching the blanket to his bare chest like a scandalized maiden. “Christ! Did you ever hear of knocking?”

“I tried that! You didn’t answer. But if I’m interrupting your alone time…” I trailed off and let go of the door. He was pale and sweaty with dark circles under his eyes, which left me doubting he’d been in there jerking off. “Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” he lied, his voice scratchy. He didn’t even pull away when I put the back of my hand against his forehead.

“You’re hot! And not in the sexy way.”

“It’s nothing! Just a little sniffle,” he protested, but I was already halfway out the bedroom door.

I went straight to the bathroom and started searching through the cabinet. What did people take for a fever? Was it the same thing as a headache? That was Tylenol, right? Ibuprofen? Not that it mattered because neither were in the cabinet. Some cheapskate had stocked the place with off brand medicine, and to add insult to injury, the strongest decongestant in the house was off-brand Benadryl. Church deserved the best non-prescription pain relief on the market, not some markdown pill, but I supposed that would have to do for now.

I grabbed two bottles from the cabinet and a water bottle from the fridge on my way back to his room. When I returned, Church was bleary-eyed, but halfway out of bed.

“Oh, no you don’t, Mister.” I marched into the room and pointed. “You get back in bed this instant!”

He blinked up at me. “But…”

“The only butt I want to see is yours scooting back up on this mattress where it belongs. Don’t make me make you.”

He stared at me blankly for a moment before slowly sliding back into bed.

“That’s better.” I set the pills and the water aside long enough to pull the blanket up over him, but quickly took them up again. “Take these and drink this.”

He frowned at the pills. “What are those?”

“Generic aspirin and Benadryl. It’s not the best, but it’s what we’ve got.”

Watery blue eyes locked on mine, making my heart beat harder than an industrial bass line. “I’ll be fine,” he assured me, but he took the pills and the water, anyway.

I shook my head when he tried to hand the water back to me. “All of it. Down the hatch.”

He sighed, but did as he was told. I watched the muscles of his throat move as he chugged the water, imagining him swallowing something entirely different. When he was finished, he crushed the bottle into a tiny cylinder and held it out to me. “Recycling is under the sink.”

“I know where it is.” I seized the bottle. “You rest. I’ll be right back with your afternoon tea.”

He winced and grabbed the blanket like he was going to pull it off. “I’ll make my own tea.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Christian Pope, if you step one foot out of that bed, so help me God, I will tie you to it.”

His already flushed cheeks flushed a little redder at the threat. He sank back against the headboard and tucked his chin.

“Good boy,” I said, and went back out to the kitchen.

While I waited for the kettle to heat, I found the grocery list Church had been working on all week and added Sudafed and Tylenol to it, underlining both to make sure Bowie got the right thing.

Then I threw open the cabinet in search of his tea. Unlike the tea I grew up drinking, his didn’t come in a cute little cardboard box with a teddy bear on it. Church’s tea came in a fancy looking black and gold tin. I lifted the lid and inhaled the pleasant familiar scent of Earl Gray tea. God, I hadn’t had that in forever.

I pulled down the cup and saucer combination I’d seen him using before—an adorable white porcelain duo with pink roses—and dropped the tea bag in. I didn’t know if he took cream and sugar in his tea, but he wasn’t getting either, not with his congestion. Black tea was better for him. In the back of the cabinet, I found some weird-looking cookies called digestives and put two on the saucer next to the cup. Digestives was about the least appetizing name for a cookie I’d ever heard of, but I’d seen him have them with his tea all the time. He’d complain if he didn’t get them for sure.

When the kettle went off, I brought it straight over to fill the teacup, dropping the little metal ball full of loose leaf tea in before moving it all onto a tray to take to Church.

“You know,” I said, setting the tray on the bedside table, “you could’ve told me you were feeling sick. I’d have been down here earlier to take care of you.”

“I don’t…” He paused to clear his throat. “I don’t need to be taken care of. It’s just a little sniffle, Dante.”

“Fever, runny nose, scratchy voice, exhaustion…” I handed him the cup and saucer with the two boring-looking cookies on it. “Don’t downplay it. If you’re sick, you’re sick, and you should get to rest like anybody else.”

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