She made a noise of protest, but she didn’t struggle as I got us both on our feet, supporting her around the shoulders with one arm.
Another peal of thunder rattled the house, and the lights flickered for a couple of seconds before steadying. Jez’s tear-streaked face turned a sickly shade of green, and she gulped ominously. I’d seen that look often enough that I rushed her into the bathroom and positioned her in front of the toilet, where she threw up every bit of the food I’d gotten into her earlier.
Followed by bile, yetmorebile... and possibly her toenails.
She moaned, weaving like she might fall over.
“Finished?” I asked gruffly, and helped her up again when she gave an exhausted nod.
“M’sorry,” she croaked, likethiswas the thing she had to be sorry for.
“It’s fine.” I flushed the toilet and guided her over to lean against the sink.
The water bottle from earlier was exactly where I’d left it on the floor, with exactly as much water in it as before. I scooped it up and went back to the bathroom, where she’d rallied enough to splash water on her face.
“Rinse and spit,” I instructed. “Then drink some. You’re gonna be dehydrated.”
She did, bracing herself upright with one hand—all the fight finally gone out of her. Another barrage of rain hit the roof directly above our heads, peppered this time with small hail. She twitched.
“I don’t like storms,” she whispered.
“Yeah, I got that part,” I told her. “It’ll probably pass soon. C’mon. Downstairs.”
“Why?” she rasped.
“Told you. It’ll be quieter. You’re right under the roof up here.” I tried not to think about what Heath would have to say, if he was awake to see this.
“Okay,” she said, still with that defeated air.
But when she tried to step away from the sink, her knees buckled. I caught her before she could hit the ground and swept her up into a bridal carry.
“I got you,” I told her, hating the way her entire body trembled with fear, or exhaustion, or both.
The back staircase was still a fuckin’ deathtrap, but on the positive side, she wasn’t actively trying to murder me anymore. I eased her down the narrow steps sideways, not letting any part of her touch the wall or the banister. On the second floor, I turned and headed for the hall bathroom, keeping my footsteps quiet so as not to wake Heath.
“I’m not going to puke again,” she said, when I settled her to sit on the closed toilet lid.
“Yeah, I know,” I told her, gesturing to her hands. “Your fingernails are all torn to shit, though. Just want to get them cleaned and bandaged.”
She looked bewildered, but she held out first one dainty hand, and then the other. I cleaned them with antiseptic, more than a little freaked out at the fact that she didn’t so much as flinch. Then I covered the six that were torn to the quick with two Band-Aids each—one doubled over the end of her finger, and the other circled around it to hold it in place.
When I was done, she stared down at them blankly.
“Can you eat? Some broth, maybe?” I asked, but she shook her head no.
She needed to eat something—and keep it down. But at least she’d finished the water bottle upstairs. I was beginning to think that she wasn’t so much ‘model-thin’ as a borderline starvation case. Not that those two things were worlds apart... but thestarvation probably hadn’t been by choice if she was living mostly on the streets.
“When this mess is over, I’m going to feed you steak and lobster until you pop,” I said, my mouth running away before my brain.
Shit. You weren’t supposed to say stuff like that out loud, were you. That had been... not good.
“Unless you’re, I mean, vegetarian or something like that,” I hurried on, probably making it worse. “I just mean, I don’t like to see you not eating.”
I should stop talking. My jaw snapped shut.
She was giving me the same blank stare as when I’d bandaged her hands.
“I’m just really tired,” she said, flinching when a distant crack of thunder broke the silence.
