“I hit on you?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, flushing. “Pinched my ass and everything.”
I wanted to crawl under the bed and die.
“And on that note, I’ll say adios.” Walker tipped an imaginary hat. “Sawyer, I’ll leave these on the hook by the door.”
“Thank you.”
He then left me alone with Sawyer, who’d tilted his head to the side, examining me. I stared back at him, bored.
“You’re more awake today than you’ve been the last three days.”
“Wait. You’ve been here this whole time?” I asked, scratching my groin. I despaired as my eyes caught on my ruined manicure. “Did I accidentally molest you as well?”
“I came over the second Ozzie said you were here. And no, thank the deities, you kept your hands to yourself around me,” he said, refolding his shirtsleeves.
“Must’ve been torture, holding back thatI told you sofor three whole days.”
He smirked at me. “Nah. I whispered it in your ear every night before I went to sleep on the couch,” he said as something whistled in the distance. “That’ll be the hot water for your tea.”
“Tea? You are such a fussbudget,” I muttered. I actually preferred tea, but I also enjoyed goading Sawyer. Win-win.
“Maybefussbudgetshould be my FetLife username,” he countered as he left the room.
Fucking Sawyer. He could be funny sometimes, for a stick-in-the-mud. No way he was on a kink app. Psh.
My eyes fluttered open, and the light in the room had changed. Also, a very tall woman wearing a hijab, a white jacket, and slacks was holding two fingers to the pulse point on my wrist. She had a stethoscope wrapped around her neck. I vaguely recalled asking for her number, like a fucking asshole.
“Uh… hello?” I asked, pulling my hand away. “You’re Dr. Ahmed, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Cavanaugh. I’m your concierge doctor.” Gesturing at my setup, she explained, “I’m the one you can blame for the IV and the feeding tube you hate so much. I’ve also been by a few times to check your vitals and to give my opinion on what therapy might be most useful to you.”
“I’m not going back to the hospital,” I said, letting her guide me into a seated position. “Nor am I doing one of those twenty-eight-day resort facilities for ‘exhausted’ celebrities.” I winced when I made the air quotes.
“Considering that you’ve already left one hospital AMA, then traveled—alone—across international lines while barely conscious, I’m inclined to believe you,” she said, her delivery bordering on judgmental.
“Good.” I said, as she slipped a baby pink blood pressure cuff on my arm. “Is that a children’s cuff?”
“Yes, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she said, gesturing for me to give her my arm.
I paused, because I was a little shit, then complied. If Sawyer saw me giving the doctor a hard time, he’d crawl up my ass and camp there.
She inflated the cuff while holding the stethoscope to my wrist, scowling at the number on the gauge.
“Not good?” I asked, knowing my blood pressure ran a little low to begin with.
“Better than I expected, considering what showed up in your blood work.”
“I didn’t even know what I was taking. Whatdidshow up in my blood work?”
“Ritalin, mainly. The hospital in Mexico City also suspected severe adrenal fatigue.”
“That what happens when you don’t sleep for days on end?” I asked casually.
“It’s kind of a chicken-and-egg thing. You don’t sleep, you get adrenal fatigue, and then you can’t sleep,” she said, injecting something into my line.
“What the fuck was that?”
