Page 62 of Give Me What I Want

She was right, she sounded awful, and I was damn happy that we didn’t have a show for a couple of nights. “Are you sick?” I asked her for the hundredth time this morning when I finally paused in front of her, shifting from foot to foot, unable to stay still. For some reason, my body had decided that constant movement was necessary to work out what was wrong, and it was starting to irritate not only Bea, but all of us, myself included. Which was a strange feeling to have, I never felt annoyance atmyself.

“Yeah, sick of you,” she sassed back, her eyes turning to slits.

“It wasn’t funny the first time you said it, and it’s not funny now.” Mav chimed in. He seemed just as irritable as I felt, but I wasn’t going to bother asking him why. If it was for the same unknown reason, I would work it out before he did, and without his help.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Bea said coldly, “I’m simply saying that I’m sick of him. I’m sick of his stupid pacing, and his snappy attitude. I feel like crap, my throat hurts, I want to hurl, and I’m just tired of him.” She stretched her legs out along the length of the sofa, rolling onto her side and peering through her lashes at Maverick. “Make him go away for me?” She pouted, batting her long, clumpy lashes, thick with last night’s mascara.

Her face was still caked in makeup and her hair had held its curls all through the night, but she didn’t look great. The curls were matted, and her face was blotchy, under her eyes smeared with black.

Annoyingly, I still managed to look at her like she was the most beautiful creature to walk this planet, and I cursed under my breath as I forced my gaze away from her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I hissed, pressing my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose.

“Well I am,” Mav said with a sigh, pushing up out of his chair and heading to his bunk where he wouldn’t have to put up with the explosion about to erupt between me and our girl.

Except, I didn’t actuallywantto fight with her. Something about the pathetic look in her eyes had softened me. I wasn’t sure if I liked it, or if it made me want to scream. So instead of working it out, I dropped to the floor in front of her face and examined her.

“Say ‘ah’,” I instructed, grabbing her chin.

“Why?” she asked, locking her jaw closed as I tried to tug it down.

Rolling my eyes and forcing myself to smile, I spoke with fake sugar lacing my words. “Because I want to see if your throat is inflamed. We have a show in two nights, and I’d like you to be able to sing without sounding like Louis Armstrong.”

She reluctantly opened her mouth for me, and after inspecting it for a few seconds, I confirmed that her throat was red as fuck.

“Red as fuck,” she mocked me. “You should hang up the bass, Ro-bear. You’d make a great doctor. Also, Louis Armstrong has an awesome voice, so I’m cool with that.”

Ignoring her mocking comments, I got to my feet. “You might be cool with it, but I’m not cool with your complaining, and don’t try to tell me you don’t complain, this is the longest you’ve gone without asking one of us to magic you all better in hours. So shut up, lay there, and try to snooze. I’ll cook you something that’ll help soothe that throat. Okay?”

Folding my arms, I glared down at her. She twisted her head, looked up at me with a defeated look on her face, then pursed her lips. “Fine. But bring me a bowl, just in case.”

“Good girl,” I muttered, then walked away, chuckling to myself as she groaned and called me an arsehole.

Out in the kitchen, I located a plastic bowl under the sink and tossed it in Bea’s direction before I started throwing together the meal that I usually made for any of my bandmates when they had been sick over the last four years. Sticky honey coated the diced chicken and broccoli that I was tossing in a pan, garlic, ginger, chilli, and lemongrass all mixed in too. I seasoned by eye, just as my father had taught me, adding soy sauce and sesame as I went along, cooking it until the honey had turned into a dark glaze, then plated it over two bowls of perfectly steamed fluffy rice.

Picking up a mouthful with a pair of chopsticks, I had a taste. It was perfect, just as I had expected. I speared the rice in the other bowl with a pair of chopsticks for Bea, then carried them through.

“Ro, you know I can’t use those with rice,” she whined, sitting up and reaching out for her bowl. “Just let me use a fork or a spoon or something.”

“Nope,” I stood my ground, sitting down on the other end of the sofa and tucking my legs up, my toes pressing against hers where they met in the middle. “You’re going to learn, you’ve mastered almost everything, it’s just rice left.”

“And it took me years to master them. Ro, I’m poorly, don’t make me try.” Her bottom lip wobbled, but I wasn’t buying it. She was going to at least try.

Also, she could have easily got up and gotten herself the cutlery that she wanted if she was really that desperate, something she didn’t bother to do. Sometimes, I thought, she just liked to complain for the sake of complaining. A natural reflex, especially when I was around.

“You’ve got this, Bumblebee,” I whispered softly, then froze, my next pile of food hovering in front of my parted lips.

“You sure about that?” she asked, a laugh bubbling in her throat as she dropped a pile of rice back into her bowl. She huffed, going for a chunk of chicken instead, humming her enjoyment loudly as she swallowed it down.

I stared at her for what felt like an eternity. I wasn’t sure that I had even breathed. I watched, on edge, waiting, as she lifted each mouthful of the meal that I had prepared for her, and wiggled her happiness the first time she managed to get the rice to her mouth.

“What?” she asked, her mouth filled, eyes sharp, suspicious.

“Nothing,” I muttered, finally opening my mouth to eat my food, yet I watched her cautiously.

She kept her gaze locked on me as she shovelled more food into her mouth, not even noticing anymore that she was scooping up the rice as though she had been using chopsticks her whole life. Then she laughed, choking on a piece of chicken.

“I let you call me Bumblebee,” she said once she had regained composure. “And you’re shitting yourself, thinking I’ll shout at you for it. Ro-bear…” She tilted her head, a kind smile on her lips. “If I was going to shout, I’d have done it the second I heard that first syllable leave those pretty lips of yours.”

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