His smile fades. “What’s the matter? What can I do for you?”
I’m already tired of being the one that people do things for. “Just want ashower, and I want to go home.”
Nurse Bertha clucks her tongue from the doorway. “Gotta kick that fever if you want permission to use the shower. I’m a big lady but not big enough to catch you if you fall.”
“You still have a fever?” Wes yelps, clamping a hand on my forehead.
It’s a struggle not to push him off me. “Low grade,” I grumble. “No big deal.”
“I can bring a basin and a cloth and freshen you up,” Bertha offers. She taps one brilliant red fingernail against her smile. “Or, I could take a thirty minute break first. Then I’ll come by and help clean you up.”
“But I’m going home later, right?” I plead. Because that’s all that really matters. At home I can do whatever the fuck I want.
“Sure, sugar. The doctor will make his rounds at noon and release you. But I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” She leaves and I groan, which makes me start coughing. Yay.
Wes bolts across the room and shuts the door. “Okay, up!” he says, taking off his jacket. “Shower time.”
“What?” I cough again, because it’s hard to stop, even though my stomach is already sore from the effort.
“Jesus, Canning.” Wes gives me a smartass grin over hisshoulder, the same one he’s been giving me since we were fourteen. “Rules are for breaking. There’s no lock on the door, but whatever.” When he turns around, I see he’s unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t want to get my shirt wet,” he says as his tattoos ripple into view. He tosses the shirt onto the chair and then unzips his jeans.
I’m still hesitating, though, my hands on the sheet that covers my lap. The words are on the tip of my tongue:We’re going to get in so much trouble for this.
“You want a shower, right?” His eyes flash with humor. “The warm water will help you with that nasty cough. We got thirty minutes, tops. I’m starting the shower.”
He disappears into the little bathroom, where I’ve only been once. Last night, instead of calling for the bedpan, I walked shakily in there to pee. Which I have to do again now that I can hear the water running.
Well then. No time like the present.
I ease myself off the bed and onto the cold floor tiles. I hate the stupid hospital johnny I’m wearing. Can’t even look at the thing without feeling disgust.
Note to self—don’t ever get sick again. This place is the worst.
And I actually sway on my way to the bathroom. My fever is low, but I haven’t really eaten much in two days. When I make it to the toilet, I grip the grab bar bolted to the wall like I’m an old lady.
“Okay. Water’s warm,” Wes says in a cheery voice. But I know he’s watching me carefully, and there’s concern on his face.
I turn away and aim at the toilet, taking care of business. Wes pretends to fiddle with the shower faucet in order to preserve my tattered dignity. After I flush the toilet he unties the wretched hospital gown and tosses it onto a hook. I stagger past him into the little shower stall.
“Have a seat,” he says casually. There’s a shower bench waiting.
I ignore him and walk under the spray. It feelsamazing. I turn slowly around, just basking in it. But fuck, now I’mdizzy.
A warm hand closes around my upper arm. Whether or not I like it, I’m guided firmly onto the waiting seat. I put my elbows on my knees and drop my head into my hands. If I weren’t so tired I might even cry. And the water only hits me at an awkward angle from here, damn it.
There is a rustle beside me and then the water moves. When I open my eyes, Wes is naked and standing in the shower stall, too. He’s unhooked the showerhead, which is attached to a hose. Humming to himself, he eases it around to rain down on my shoulders. “Tip your head back,” he says softly. When I do, he wets my hair.
The water disappears a moment later, and then Wes’s hands are lathering up my head. We’ve showered together a hundred times, but never like this. I hate being dependent on him like this. Leaning forward, I rest my forehead on his hip bone and sigh.
He just keeps going. The strong hands that I love so much skim the back of my neck, my shoulders, behind my ears. He rinses me next, shielding my forehead with his palm to keep the soap out of my eyes. They sting anyway from frustration. Then he kneels in front of me.
When I look up, a serious pair of gray eyes are right there, level with mine. “Hey,” he says softly.
“H-hey,” I stammer.Don’t mind me, I’m just having a fucking breakdown.
