The cramping has to be brutal, and it’s not going to be just in his stomach if I can’t get him hydrated.
I wedge myself right up against him, pressing all of me into all of him, though he’s far too sick to notice. Not that he would anyway.
For the past five years, Wilder dated Alicia Thorton, one of the world’s most beautiful models. The public adored them. Shipped them. Stanned them. What-the-fuck-evered them. When they broke up three months ago, hearts were broken worldwide, and dating offers immediately tripled online and in person.
Tripled? I use that unit of measure lightly. They might have millionified.
The point is, Jackson Wilder can have anyone he wants. The world is at his feet. There’s no way he’d give a shit, even if he weren’t feeling like total ass and just about ready to pass right out, that my body is right there, my breasts jammed into hischest, my arms a solid circle around him, and my legs parted around his rock-hard thigh to pin him in place.
Wilder gulps in air, chokes, gags, and lets out a groan that vibrates all the way straight to the pit of my stomach. “I’m okay,” he wheezes, even though he’s so clearly not okay. “Let’s go. We need to get back on the road.”
He still has to lean heavily on me, but he hobbles, slightly crouched over, into the bedroom. It’s only a few feet away. When we enter the room, he peels himself out of my arms, falls onto the bed, and drags himself over it, curling into a fetal position.
I get him a trash can for the side of the bed and squeeze his shoulder. “I’ll be right back, okay? I’m just going to see if my bag is here yet, and I’ll talk to Benny about getting the bus going again.”
He closes his eyes, swallowing convulsively. “Okay.”
Benny meets me in the hall, carrying my bag. “I was just coming to give this to you.”
I thank him, clap him on the shoulder, and give him a quick debriefing. He’s driven through the worst of shit over the years. Storms of all kinds in all seasons, crazy road conditions, jam-packed traffic… In the dead of night or the light of day, there’s no one better than he is.
When he says he’ll get us up and running immediately, I trust him.
Not even ten minutes later, the bus is moving again. I give the guys an update, not that they were overly interested in what I had to say,assholes times ten,take my bag, and head back to the bedroom. I shut the door behind me, locking Matt and everyone else out.
If Wilder could just, for one second, not have to rise to every freaking dare they ever threw his way, then this wouldn’t be happening. He’d still have his real teeth too.
The tour bus is spacious, but this back room isn’t as big as one might think it would be. The queen-sized bed takes up most of the room, but there are a few built-in nightstands attached to the back wall, a small closet on the far side, two windows with the blinds tightly closed, and a whole lot of Matt’s stuff strewn about.
Matt shoved most of his bags against the far wall, but it wasn’t done with much care. His guitars, on the other hand, are neatly placed in the corner, their cases carefully aligned and blocked in with a row of duffel bags to keep them from going anywhere.
Wilder eyes me from the bed like my small black duffel bag contains the end of the world. “I hate this room,” he grunts. “Everyone would have accused me of being a diva if I’d taken it, but that wasn’t why I didn’t.”
I know that, but I don’t interrupt him.
“I like being in the bunk. It’s closed in, pressing down all around you. I find that comforting,” he continues.
I found the bunk to be as coffinlike as everyone said it was, at least at first. On the first tour I went on, I don’t know how many audiobooks I listened to just to take my mind off the crushing claustrophobia.
I unzip my bag. “What else do you find comforting?” I ask, trying to divert his attention from it.
He narrows his eyes. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“I absolutely am. Talk to me about something else, and it might work. Think good thoughts. Think about tomorrow night when you’re on the stage staring down the massive crowd, singing your heart out, and listening to thirty thousand people echo it back at you. You wave your arms, they wave their arms. You tell them to clap, they clap. You want them to riot, they’ll riot. You ask for their lights up in the air, they’ll give them to you. Whatever you ask for, they’ll give back to you. They love you, but you loved them all first. You’ve given everything you have tothem. Every award you get, you thank them. Every opportunity, you turn it back to the fans and every single person working behind the scenes.”
All this time, I’ve been prepping the IV while trying to angle my body away from Wilder so he can’t see it. It’s not like I’m going to trick him, but I’ve always thought that watching someone set something up is unnerving. The unholy anticipation and all that.
I drop down on the side of the bed and set my hand on his shoulder. As always, the contact sends a charge of electricity through me at dangerous levels. He’s still soaked, his skin pallid and clammy. I need to get him out of these clothes and into something clean, or at least stripped down and tucked under the blankets.
I ignore my hopeless hormones and concentrate on reassuring Wilder before he rolls off the other side of the bed and tries to drag himself out of here to escape. “I know you’re distrustful, but you know who I am. I think, most days, you even feel like I’m an okay person.”
“You’re super nice, Carissa. Everyone thinks so.” He only manages a tiny, watery smile, but it’s still utterly disarming. Wilder has thisgift. Every time he looks at a person, he listens as though they’re the only person in the world. He doesn’t just pay lip service. He actuallyrememberswhat people tell him. Their experiences arespecialto him. “You’re incredibly kind. I find that, out of everything, kindness is always in short supply.”
“I happen to know that of any fanbase, yours is full of people who value kindness above all because that’s the example you’ve set.” I smooth my hand over his shoulder, trying to comfort him while, at the same time, having an internal nervous breakdown over the fact that I have zero right to this level of intimacy. Not that it is. Not in the traditional sense. This is one thousand percent platonic. I would comfort any other nervous, sick patientthis way. “You could just close your eyes and pretend I’m just a friend who wants to help you feel better so you can get on the stage for one last time and give the performance of your life.”
His brow tilts up slightly, but if he’s surprised at anything, it’s only that I’ve tipped my cards, proving that I suspect something. “One last time?”
“Last show of the tour,” I correct hastily.
