Page 71 of Storm over the Caribbean
Shut up, inner voice! I’m trying to work here!
I stuck my finger in his mouth again. And again. Going deeper every time, until…
“Bleeeargh!”
I couldn’t deny the slight hint of satisfaction as I watched my dear husband empty his stomach on the forest floor. The only way I’d have been more satisfied would be if he’d been conscious and had his belly bloated to thrice the size.
Hah! Take that, hubby! Now you know how we future mamas feel!
Of course, I was doing all of this only to save my dear husband’s life. There definitely wasn’t any ulterior motive.
Scrutinizing the pool of vomit on the ground critically, I bit my lip. Hm… It looked like he’d thrown the fruit back up, but better safe than sorry, right? After all, I had to do everything I could to save my beloved Dick.
Grabbing his chin, I jammed my finger back into his throat.
“Blluuurgh!”
Ah, the feeling of saving someone’s life… Altruism was truly a beautiful thing.
Although it would have been even more beautiful if he’d have woken up already. By now, I was pretty sure he’d regurgitatedevery single piece of food in his stomach, but for some reason, he still didn’t open his eyes. Every now and again, he twitched in a manner that most certainly wasn’t entirely natural.
Crap!
All right, list of priorities:
1. Bring him somewhere safe.
2. Get some water into him. (And me.)
3. Find a way to bloody wake him up! Preferably without using excruciating torture methods.
Pushing myself up, I glared down at Mr Rikkard Ambrose and pointed my finger at him.
“You,” I ordered. “Stay!”
And, whirling around, I rushed into the forest. I wasn’t entirely sure I was thinking clearly. Scratch that! Dehydration? Exhaustion? Near a panic attack? Imost definitelywasn’t thinking clearly. Luckily, the patron saint of pissed off shipwrecked pregnant women seemed to be smiling on me that day, since I had hardly gone twenty steps before the trees opened up in front of me, revealing a cliff-face with a gaping black hole in it.
A cave.
Hell yes!
Rushing to the entrance, I peeked inside. Not too large, not too small. Moderately dry. Apparently only one entrance. Perfect!
Turning around, I rushed to return to Mr Ambrose as fast as I could—which, admittedly, wasn’t very fast. But it sure as hell was a darn sight faster than I moved on my way back to the cave while dragging Mr Ambrose behind me.
“Come on! Move!”
Silence. Unsurprisingly.
“How can you…huff, puff…weigh so much while looking like you do? It’s not fair!”
More silence. How the heck did he still manage to be his infuriatingly superior self while beingbloody unconscious? One day I was going to force him to teach me the trick! One day!
If he survives.
Shoving that little voice away to the very back of my mind, I tightened my grip on him and gave another hard tug towards the cave—to no avail. I wanted to curse the bloody heavy bastard, but right now, I was far too busy trying not to collapse from exhaustion to bother. I just about managed to drag him the last few feet into the cave because I fell over, panting like an asthmatic pantry.
Note to self: find a better simile when your brain starts working properly again.
