The door opens out, which gives me just enough room to step in.
Wilder is wedged between the toilet and the small shower. He’s slumped with his head in his hands, his body folded pretty much in half. His black T-shirt is drenched in sweat, and he’s wearing the same black shorts he jogs in. I don’t like the gray tone of his skin or how his hair is plastered against his forehead. I especially don’t like that he’s covered in puke and keeps dragging in slow breaths like he’s going to pass out.
I crouch down, my hand hovering near his face.
I’ve touched this man a total of five times in my life. One for each time he was injured. It’s ridiculous that my heart hitches and then beats double time just because I’m this close to him.
It’s not because I’m starstruck.
Wilder’s just a man. He’s made that clear from day one. He doesn’t want to be treated any differently from anyone else.
When I said I loved him like the rest of the world, I meant it.
But the thing is… I’m alsoin lovewith him.
Chapter two
Carissa
Shit. This isn’t the time for a confession. It’s time to scrape Wilder off the freaking floor and do anything and everything I can to make him feel better.
The love thing? That’s… it’scomplicated, especially because he’s sort of my boss and isfive years youngerthan me. He knows I exist, but in a realm of the same level of friendship that he has with just about everyone on this tour. The world is all about double standards. Even if all of that wasn’t true, Wilder happens to be a super-famous celebrity with millions and millions of followers, while my greatest phobia is quite literally the loss of privacyat all levels.
So, yeah. We’re not exactly a match made in fantasies that I’ve never allowed myself to indulge in because I’m not a masochist in my off hours. It’s bad enough that my waking hours are filled with pining for the world’s most unavailable man.
“Do you think you can stand up?” The answer to that is probably a hard no, but I want him to tell me himself. He grunts,shrugs, shakes his head, and nods. Right. That about sums it up. “We should get you into the shower and changed into fresh clothes.” I rub small circles at the center of his back. It’s not professional, but fuck it. I hate this for him. If even the smallest touch can help, then I’m going to do it. I’d trade him my own health in a second, but that’s not an option. “Everyone feels better when they’re clean. If you’re not up to it, that’s okay. I can get you a wet washcloth, and I’ll help you get changed.”
“You know I hate doctors, right?”
My lips twitch, my nerves settling in even if my heart is still careening all over the place like a malfunctioning pinball machine due to his proximity. There’s no relationship. There’s never going to be a relationship. This isn’t unethical because it’s nothing. There are lines, and they’ll never be crossed, not even in my mind.
“I’m not a doctor. You know that.”
“You’re going to try and plug me full of shit. Drugs and other fuckery. I won’t take anything. You try and stuff it down my throat, and I’llmakemyself throw up.”
“Wilder. Youknowme. You’ve known me for years.” I don’t have to soften that. My voice naturally turns to velvet, thick with emotion. “You make it a point to know more than just a little about everyone who works for you and with you because you’re amazing like that. You know everyone’s names and all their families’ names. You remember every face you’ve ever seen, even if you can’t remember all your fans’ names. I promised you when we met and you told me straight to my face that you didn’t, and I quote, ‘fuck with me being here’ that I would never do anything to you against your will. That’s a disgusting breach of medical ethics. I know your story.”
He’s been very open about what happened to his mom. Tragically, she was dating a doctor who got her hooked on prescription medication. During those years, Wilder’s life wasworse than hell. He lost his mom when he was nine years old. He said he stands against those who abuse their power in any way, but at heart, he’s also scared shitless of anything medical. It’s a mistrust rooted in childhood, and it’s very, very real for him.
“I’ll be totally transparent with you. I would like to give you an IV to get you hydrated,” I continue. He winces and turns his face away. “You probably aren’t going to be able to even keep water down. I’ve had Matt clean out his room for you tonight so I can monitor you or just sit with you.” I lose the battle and give in, moving my hand to his forehead to push back his sweat-slicked dark hair. “You need to try and sleep so you can scrape together enough energy to get on that stage tomorrow, because I know you, and I know that’s your only option.”
Wilder has performed with broken bones. This isn’t the first time he’s been sick, and he’s always pushed through.
In seven years, I’ve only been needed as a nurse all of four major times. Four years ago, he fell and dislocated his shoulder while giving a concert in the rain. A few months after that, he knocked out four front teeth and one in the bottom row when Matt dared him to do a backflip while they were backstage waiting to go on to headline a show, and he landed face-first on the ground. He pushed through the whole night with blood puddling down his chin on and off, and people still talk about it. I guess some fans really liked it. In a panty-igniting way. I’m not judging, but all it did for me was give me some serious sympathy pain. Two years ago, Wilder slipped on a stage again, not in the rain this time, and managed to give himself a pretty good gash on the forehead. Then, last year, he developed a sudden allergy to sunflower seeds.
All I’ve had to do is mop him up, stitch him up, totally unfrozen, put his shoulder back in place, and dole outoneallergy pill, which he only took because he broke out in hives, and his throat was closing up.
“You didn’t take any painkillers through the worst of it.” Strangely enough, he did submit to getting his teeth fixed, but I guess dentists are a different vibe. They’re a nightmare vibe for a lot of people, but when you’ve got a gaping hole in your mouth and you’re a singer, I suppose they’re a welcome face. “I know I’m not going to be able to convince you to take anything now, so it’s just the IV. That’s all.”
He groans and tries to push himself upright, throwing a hand against the glass shower door behind him. But the movement is way too much. He gags, drags himself over the toilet, and retches up nothing but spittle. I don’t know how many times he’s been sick, but this one hurts.
He’s drenched in sweat, with beads rolling down his forehead by the time he comes up for air. He shoves back the sticky strands of his tangled hair and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Can you… get me some water?” he pants out, ten out of ten hating having to ask me to do something for him that he could normally do for himself.
There are plastic-wrapped cups under the sink, so I fill one up and give it to him. He chugs it in one go, but before he gets to the bottom, he tosses it aside, grasps the toilet, and throws up half into it, half on the floor.
“Fuck,” he groans, tears and snot smeared across his face from the force of it.
