Page 33 of Off Balance

"Cam?! Cameron!?"

He's never called me before, so I'm immediately on edge when the phone rings. Then there's nothing but shuffling, a loud thud, and muffled voices. There's laughter, and I think I hear the word slut. More laughter that doesn't sound friendly. Or maybe it's just my anxiety making the voices sound sinister.

There's more rustling, and a groan. I hear a small voice say something that sounds a lot like a plea.

"Oh, for the love of God. You're a mess. You should be ashamed of yourself, embarrassing me like this." Through the phone, I can tell that's Alistar talking. Weirdly, his accent doesn't sound as thick as it has the few times I've met him in person.

Whenever there's silence, I yell Cameron's name, hoping he'll pick up and tell me where he is.

There's some loud rustling, and then the line goes dead. I call back immediately. The phone is on its third ring when a text comes through from Cameron. It's an address.

I'm in my truck and on my way in seconds, speeding through downtown. My GPS takes me to a tall building with floor to ceiling glass windows for at least four stories. There are colored lights and strobes flashing through the windows, and a loud thumping beat coming from inside. Double parking on the street right in front, I push through the long line and stare down the bouncer. I've got a good foot in height and a lot more bulk than he does, so he doesn't give me too much trouble when I start questioning him.

"I'm looking for someone. Cameron Stevens. He’s white, about this tall, slender, with dark blond hair. He's here with?—"

"You're talking about the sloppy drunk pretty boy? He's over there." The bouncer gestures to his right with a tattooed hand. It takes me a moment to scan the area, but then I see a small figure slumped on the ground. It looks like someone sat him against the wall and he fell over on his side. I curse and run over to him.

"Jesus, Cam, what happened to you?" He smells like liquor and vomit, and I can barely get him to wake up enough to focus his eyes on me. "Cam, wake up."

"Dom?"

"I'm here, baby. I've got you."

Scooping him into my arms, I walk him over to my truck and fasten him into the front seat. I thought about laying him across the back seat, but I want to keep a closer eye on him. He's light enough that it's not too hard to get him into the seat, but getting him to sit up straight enough to buckle him in properly proves difficult. I end up having to let him slump over until I can get back in the driver's seat and then hold him in place with one arm while I'm driving.

The drive home takes twice as long as my frantic drive to find him. He looks a bit green, and the smell is not great, so I crack the windows to get a little air, but not too much because his clothes are soaked and I don't want him to get too cold.

I automatically take him back to my place, because I want to be the one to keep an eye on him. If I take him back to Dwayne’s house, I'll have to come up with a reason to stay by his side, and he'll have to face judgement for overdoing it. I know he doesn't drink very much or very often, so he probably couldn't hold his liquor. I can’t believe Emile and his friends from work would leave him like that. What kind of man lets his boyfriend be dumped outside like trash and doesn't check to make sure he's getting home safely? Anyone could have picked him up or robbed him, or worse.

I'm acutely aware of my lack of furniture when I carry him through the front door of my apartment. I bring him into the bathroom first so I can get him cleaned up. He's a little more coherent when the sound of the shower cuts on. Holding him steady with one arm, I undress him, carefully removing his alcohol and vomit-soaked clothes.

"This isn't exactly how I imagined this would happen," he slurs. I chuckle, pointedly not thinking about the implications of that statement. Now is not the time to think of him as anything other than a semiconscious guy covered in vomit. His shirt, face, and hair are sticky, and he smells like a whole bar.

I manage to get him stripped down to his underwear, which of course are the tiniest black briefs known to man. Something I really didn't need to see.

I strip myself down too, because he's not going to be able to hold himself up in the shower and I don't have a tub. We end upon the floor of the shower, with Cameron's back to my chest. I wash his hair, rinsing it with the detachable showerhead. Then I gently wash away the last remnants of vomit and whatever sticky drink he must have spilled on himself.

When I'm finished, he turns himself in my lap, nuzzling his head under my chin.

"Did I get sick?"

"Little bit," I say, keeping my voice soft.

"I thought I was having an anxiety attack."

"Just had too much. It happens to the best of us."

"They all hate me," he slurs. “I hate me,” he whispers, so quietly I almost don’t hear it over the running water.

He's snoring softly before I can ask him anything more. His face is pressed against my wet chest, looking soft and innocent. A fresh wave of anger washes over me that Alistar didn't take care of him when he needed him most.

I get him dried off and tucked into my bed. It didn't seem like a good idea to have him wearing wet underwear, so I did my best to protect his modesty while changing him into a pair of my boxer shorts, since everything else would be way too big. They're still incredibly loose on him, but I roll the waist a couple of times so they'll hopefully stay on.There’s still too much leg showing, but I cover him up with a blanket.

I watch him sleep for hours, just observing the rise and fall of his chest. At around four in the morning, he stirs. I bring him a glass of water and some painkillers, which he takes gratefully before falling right back into the pillows. The covers slipped off him in the process, exposing all that smooth, flawless skin. I pull thesheet back over him, and the back of my hand accidentally skims his calf. I stop, staring down at my hand before pulling it back quickly. The skin burns where the heat of his body touched me.

The heat from his body is enough to make me concerned that he could have a fever, but I don’t trust myself to touch him. Instead, I let my hand hover just above his skin, enough to register his body heat without actually touching him. I move my hand gently up his body, not touching, skimming up the outside of his thigh, and along his hip. I splay my fingers out over his flat stomach, imagining circling half his small waist in one hand, tracing his defined abs with my fingers. I journey upwards, running my open hand over the side of his rib cage. I imagine I can feel his heartbeat with my palm, a steady thumping in time with my own. My fingers trace over his collarbone and the side of his neck, where I pause at the sight of a dark bruise.

Forgetting not to touch him, I tilt his jaw to the side so I can see it better. I run my thumb over it and resist the urge to squeeze, to cover the mark with one of my own. The thought scares me, and I snatch my hand back.

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