Page 58 of My Cowboy Freedom
First things first, I guessed he needed water.
“You want something to drink?”
For whatever reason, that made him laugh.
“I’ll have a double shot of the boss’s Milagro Select Barrel Reserve.”
“Probably not a good idea right now.” I squatted down next to him. “But I could get you a can of Coke. I saw a machine. I could make one of those entitled punks out there with the smartphones get you one. Or I could collect all those phones and throw them in the toilet.”
He smiled at that. “They’ve probably already”—even pointing his finger up seemed to exhaust him—“uploaded.”
“Fuck them.”
He lifted his brows.
“Seriously. Fuck them. I’m here for you. What do you need?”
He swallowed so hard his whole head bobbed. He rubbed his lips together.
He really was spacey as hell. No wonder Elena needed one of the hands.
“Shall we see about getting you to the car?”
“I have clothes.” He nudged his backpack with his free hand. “Back off, Maisy.”
The dog obediently stepped over his legs to stand at attention by his side.
“That’s one hell of a dog you have there. You broke her heart locking her out like that. You shouldn’t do that. A loyal soldier is worth more than that.”
“I know. She’s too forgiving too. I don’t deserve...” Tears tracked down his cheeks.
“Oh, now. None of that. You can see she’s happiest when she can do something for you.” I understood her completely too. “It’s not just about you. She’s got a job, you know? She likes that.”
He unzipped his pack and started pulling things out. Neatly packed, there were snacks, medications, a notebook and a change of clothes. The clothes had been vacuum-sealed by one of those machines you see on infomercials. He handed the bag to me and I tore it open while he started to strip.
I looked over just as he reached behind himself to pull off his T-shirt. I thought I was prepared to see that, but the breadth of his shoulders, the shadow of musculature under his skin, was so goddamn hot. Especially for me, because I’ve always had a kink for big guys.
For a few heartbeats, I worried I was going to screw things up, either by looking too long, or touching him the wrong way. But because he needed help, I shut off all my worries and simply got to work.
I let him peel off his clothes, and when he dropped them I folded them and put them into the plastic laundry bag he gave me. He had wet wipes, and while he cleaned himself, I set out new socks, new underwear, a pair of gray sweats, and another T-shirt, this time, a plain white Hanes, Beefy-style, washed to a softness that probably felt great.
“You always have to carry all this?”
He shrugged, shivering. Maybe it was a kind of shock. He was awful pale. “Put your head between your knees.”
“I’m okay.” He leaned his head back on the wall again. “Just groggy. It’ll pass.”
“How long does it take, normally?”
“You got somewhere to be?”
“Well, shit.” I dragged my fingers through my hair. “Nope. I do not.”
He glanced out the window, where the headlights from a car cruising across the parking lot flared and then faded. He braced his elbows on his knees and leaned his forehead on his fists.
“It’s calledaftermath. I’m in pain. I’m nearly helpless, I’m so weak. My blood sugar bottoms out when the seizure is especially violent.”
I had the urge to apologize, but figured it would be unwelcome, so I nodded.
