There are two clean towels on the rack, and I tug on one until it gives. Then, I kneel down next to him, set my hand on his arm, and pat his forehead, cheeks, and mouth dry. He’s ashen, soaked, and completely wrung out, but he still gently pries the towel from my hand and cleans up the floor himself.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters weakly. “I’m so sorry, this is so gross. I’m such a mess.”
“Nurses exist because people get sick. No one wants to be sick, and no one wants to be taken care of. There’s this whole thing about independence and shame twisted into narratives where it shouldn’t be.” He stares at me and slowly blinks long, dark, and impossibly thick lashes right near my face. They’re clumped together wetly yet still so beautiful. “I don’t think you’re gross.” That comes out far too intimate, but he’s too sick to notice. “I’m not the least bit disgusted by bodily functions of any sort.”
“Yeah? You ever thrown up on yourself in front of someone?”
“Of course,” I reply.
“Did you enjoy it?”
I flush. He does have a point. “It wasn’t a great experience.”
“It’s not very rockstar to get up on stage and throw up all over the place, or worse, is it?” He wads the towel into a ball and sets it aside.
I don’t know if this is him coming around to the IV idea. I also don’t want to tell him that there have been more than a few rockstar incidents in the past where people did just that, with emphasis on the “or worse”part.
“If you did, everyone would forgive you. Musicians spit on people all the time. They’ve even peed on crowdsintentionally.” I can think of quite a few videos I’ve seen posted online of exactly that, and people seemed to be having a great time.
Granted, they were from quite a few years ago, and in a different era.
“Not me, though.”
Now is truly not the time for my brain to give me a mental image of Wilder doing some of the things from those videos.
To a crowd of one.
Meaning me.
That uncontrolled intrusive thought is a straight byproduct of my vibrator, when I’m at home without a bunch of people sleeping in bunks all around me, and my fingers, forexceptionally desperate nights when I’m the only one awake, I swear to goodness, getting real fucking tired of me.
Since I started working for Wilder, I haven’t even made an attempt to think about anyone else. Dating? When you’re traveling the world, there’s no time for it, but I could probably do something more casual if I wanted to.
However, I just don’t. Want to. I wouldn’t be into it in the slightest.
How could I be when no one else is Jackson Wilder?
I don’t mean that no one is like Jackson Wilder, the man who writes incredible songs, plays guitar so beautifully that it could make anyone weep, and is now pretty much richer than god. I mean the Jackson Wilder who laughs at jokes that aren’t even funny and who goes out of his way to see his fans, no matter the cost to himself. The man who sees all the things in the world that other people just miss. The Wilder who misses his grandma with an ache that is still so raw that he can’t fall asleep unless he has the quilt she made him.
He doesn’t ask me about it, thank goodness. I’ll make sure it’s dry-cleaned or laundered very carefully.
“I can’t even stand up,” he mumbles, slumping down against the shower door behind him again.
“I know. But you will. I’ll help you, and you’ll accept my help, because spending the night on this floor, suffering, isn’t an option.” I wrap my arms around his chest—I use that statement in the most professional capacity—and press my body up against his.
Professional. Word of the day. Be it. Completely.
I force myself to ignore the riot of sensation that swamps me at our proximity as I give him my support, helping brace him so he can get to his feet. He’s shaky, but I’m not. Despite our height difference and the weight he has on me, I’m solid. There’s no way I’m letting him fall.
“I know the IV isn’t fun, but sometimes it’s necessary. We’ll get you into bed and get you taken care of, then the buses will get back underway. We won’t be late, everything will get set up on time, and by tomorrow evening, you won’t be good as new, but you’ll be out there doing what you love.”
I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. But Iwillkeep this one. I’mnotletting Wilder miss this show. At least not if sheer force of will has anything to do with it.
My confidence seems to give him what he needs. He powers through the nausea of getting upright, and even though he has to lean heavily on me, we squeeze through the narrow bathroom doorway, make a hard turn, and almost make it four steps to the bedroom before Wilder’s legs give out.
Luckily, he throws a hand out to the wall, and I lean into him, sandwiching him there until he can catch a breath.
“It feels better when I’m doubled in half.” He side eyes me. I wipe all traces of alarm off my face. “That’s not good, is it?”
