Page 58 of The Idiot

“Thanks.” I take the glass from his hand, but don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t think my stomach can handle liquor right now.

I came here to see if they had any motion sickness medicine. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to mix alcohol with that—seems like it would kind of defeat the purpose.

“Now, let’s see if we can get you loosened up,” he adds, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of me.

Smiling up at me, he slides his palms over the bare skin above my knees. Massaging little circles with his fingertips, I tense when they swipe underneath the legs of my shorts.

“Um, I… I think Darnell’s working on that already,” I let out on an anxious laugh.

Leaning closer, Darnell’s chest presses against my back and his hands slide down my arms. The whiskers on his chin brush the shell of my ear and he purrs, “But we do everything together,” he reassures me.

At least, I think he meant to sound reassuring. It feels like anything but that as Walt’s hands slide further up my short legs, kneading the muscles in my thighs.

Swallowing, I try to tell myself it’s just the sea sickness that has my stomach flipping. I kind of feel like the filling of a donut, or rather like a slice of beef suspended between two hungry old wolves, as Walt’s eyes twinkle at me.

Oh, God. I’m in a sandwich—aJessesandwich!

CHAPTER 18

Murphy

Glancing at my phone, I curse again as I approach Jesse’s room. This better not be some kind of trick and yet, at the same time, a sense of dread is choking me over the distress signal that he sent me.

Help. Please. Injured and sick.

Sighing at the text message, I put my phone to sleep and rap on the door to his room. Injured? Injured how?

I’m about to knock again when the seconds feel like minutes, but then the door cracks open. Jesse’s face comes into view, his expression pinched as he leans his head on the wall. He looks green, and what in…

“Thank you,” he mumbles, drawing the door open.

“What happened to your head?”

Wincing, his fingertips gingerly finger the beige daisy-shaped bandage stuck to his forehead right above his left eye.There’s a dark circle in the center, almost like blood has seeped through.

Tromping to his bed, he murmurs over his shoulder, “I was throwing up in the bathroom and hit my head on the vanity when the ship rocked,” he groans, flopping down and covering his eyes with his forearm.

Shit. He could have a concussion. Rounding the bed, I set my phone on his nightstand and sit down on the edge of the mattress. Leaning over, I move his arm.

“Do you need stitches?”

“I don’t think so. I put a boobie bandage on it.”

“A what?” Inspecting his bandage, I realize it’s rather large. It’s the largest circular bandage I’ve ever seen. Circular isn’t accurate, though. It really is shaped like a flower. “Did you put a freaking nipple pastie on your forehead?”

“It’s all I had,” he whines.

“Why the fuck do you have nipple pasties?”

“The girls gave me some one night. I threw some in when I was packing my suitcase. Mom always says you should have a first-aid kit on hand.”

Sighing, I peel the adhesive back and cringe at the sight of him wincing. This thing is entirely adhesive. It might work great on holding in nipples, but it would be my last choice to cover a wound. The cut is fairly small, but he’s going to have a goose egg at the edge of his eyebrow in the morning.

“Stay here. I’m going to get you some ice and a real bandage.”

Before I can get up, he clutches onto my wrist. “Murph?”

“What?”

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