Page 138 of Inflame

“Ahhhh…”

I grab her hair as she retches into the porcelain bowl. She is trembling and crying, making my heart hurt from seeing her this way.

“Hey, baby, it’s okay. Just let it all out.”

After about four bursts, she slinks back into my arms, as I hold her on the bathroom floor.

“I knew we shouldn’t have had deli food for lunch. Probably both got sick from all of the preservatives and nitrates and carcinogens. Yuck.”

“Do you feel better?” I ask, rubbing her arms and sides. She feels so small in my arms, like a delicate little flower.

“Yeah. I feel much better now.”

“Less ocean wavy?”

“Much less,” she giggles.

“Good.”

I pick her up and carry her over to the sink. I load her toothbrush—a new one I found in the drawer—with toothpaste and hand it over to her. Her weak smile is on her lips in the reflection of the mirror.

“Thanks for taking such good care of me.”

I want to tell her that it’s nothing special. That I am just doing for her what I would do for a friend. That’s what we are, right? Friends. I promised Graham I would look out for Claire and Angie. This is just part of my duty.

I help Claire get to the spare room, stripping off her clothes and pulling over her head an oversized sleep shirt. She refuses to unpack her little pink-and-white-striped suitcase. When asked, she just shrugs sadly and mumbles something about the stay here just being temporary. Something tells me that she is used to temporary but yearns for forever.

I turn back the comforter for her to climb inside the bed. Her body barely takes up a quarter of the mattress. She looks so small and fragile against the stark white of the sheets.

“I’m going to go get you some ginger ale and maybe something light to have on your stomach. Are you in the mood for anything else?”

“Just a drink is fine. No food, please. Just the thought of eating anything is making my stomach clench.”

I nod. “Okay. Be right back.”

I walk into Graham’s kitchen and find the ginger ale that I had delivered when Angie first started showing signs of illness. I fill up a glass with ice and pour the soda over top, watching it fizz. I slice up some lemons from the fridge and squeeze some into the glass. This is what Mom would do for me as a child when I had a stomach bug. The citrus from the lemon always settled my stomach.

When Claire takes the first sip, she closes her eyes and moans with delight. “This tastes extra good.”

I smile at her. “I’m glad. I’ll let you get some rest.” I turn to walk out of the room, and Claire reaches for my hand to stop me.

“Please stay with me.”

I nod and remove my pants and shirt to get more comfortable. Claire moves over to make more room for me, and I climb in beside her. My body molds against hers, and she instantly relaxes to my gentle touches. I wish I could say she makes me a better man. Problem is, I can’t stop thinking of ways that this is all wrong. That sticking around longer is just prolonging the inevitable.

I am not the type of man who women dream about. I am too realistic to fall for the phony promise of forever.

* * *

I can’t sleep with Claire’s soft body pressed up against me. My dick has been alive since her first inadvertent touch, and I’ve been struggling to sleep ever since. If she wasn’t as sick as she was the night before, I may have woken her up with some kisses or some purposeful touches. I have seen her sexual appetite. I know she would be game.

She rolls and stretches, moving her arms above her head as she groans. Her eyes open slowly, and she turns to look at me.

“You stayed,” she murmurs, sleep still present in her voice.

“You didn’t give me much choice,” I say with a wink.

Her eyes study mine. “You are such a good guy, Nic. Thanks for taking care of me last night. I’m glad you were here with me.”

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