"Come on, Kai," she prods, taking my hand. I let her lead me into the house, only offering up my other hand for the bioscan pad to let us in.
It sure feels nice to let someone else handle everything. I'm so glad I called her.
My little woodpecker assistant knows what to do. She always knows what to do.
chapter fifteen
Denali
"Talk to me,Stone. What's going on?"
Arista's voice is worried, on edge, but I've assured her seventeen hundred times that I've got everything under control. She doesn't need to do anything, at this point. "Your medical team showed up a half hour ago, put an IV in his arm, took some samples, gave him fluids. They just removed the IV and taped him up. Said the drugs will run their course, they suspect he was roofied at the club." It was scary, but they assured me other than feeling like he'd been hit by a truck, and some flu-like symptoms for the next twenty-four hours, maybe less, he'll be fine. Unless, of course, he was actually assaulted, which he insisted over and over didn't happen.
I hope he's telling the truth.
"I'll touch base with the team and find out what the bloodwork shows. Should I send over extra security?"
"No. I plan to stay here tonight, to watch him. And we have Anton and Roger. We'll be fine." I don't think it's wise to leave Kai alone until these drugs work their way out of his system. "If something changes, I'll let you know? And in the same way, I want you to call me when you know what they gave him. It'll help to know how to make it easier on him, coming down."
"Well, has he tried to put the moves on you?" Her voice isn't all worry anymore, there's a hint of amusement in it.
"No," I grumble, because I can't believe she'd assume he would do that even if hewasn'tdrugged. He's not that kind of guy. A womanizer, yes. A pervert? No way in hell.
"Then it's not molly," she assumes, confidence leaking through the line. "If it was ecstasy, he'd either be trying to touch you, or trying to get you to touch him." She pauses for a moment, thinking, then giggles. "Or touching himself. Good luck with that."
"It's not X," I agree, because I've seen what that shit can do to you. This isn't that. "Rohypnol is illegal here, but not hard to get ahold of if you're determined. Ketamine, too. Lots of things it could be."
"Just keep an eye on him. I'll call around and free up his schedule for a few days. He'll need the rest. Just make sure he gets it."
I nod before remembering she can't see me, and then verbalize it. "Sure thing, boss."
And then, we're alone. We meaning me, Kai, and this huge ass house of his.
I take up post at the foot of his bed, watching him as he sleeps off the drugs the paramedics gave him when they were here. They offered him some charcoal slurry to help him empty his gut, but when he told them it'd been two hours since he left the club, and that he'd already puked, they put it away. I can't imagine having to drink that shit, knowing the whole point is to barf it back up. No thank you.
He looks so peaceful, sleeping there, in a fresh pair of pajamas, the semi-permanent scowl he always wears conveniently absent for a moment. I want to reach out and touch him, so he knows I'm here, just put my hand on his leg,or his arm, a reassuring weight, but again, I'm not sure if it's overstepping.
We've been growing involuntarily close lately, though. Would it really be overstepping to offer him comfort?
"Mmmm," Kai groans, and I know that groan. I've been around enough post-binge partygoers to know what that means.
I dive for the trash can and move it to the side of the bed just in time for him to lean over and miss it entirely, splattering my sleep shorts and shirt with the spoils of war, as it were.
Great. Just how I wanted to spend my night—covered in my boss's vomit, keeping him from swallowing his own tongue, talking to police, and now, cleaning a rug.
I do it, because that's what I'm here for—to help him. On the down low, I'm glad he called me. A part of me knows that was a conscious choice, something he had to think of when the rest of his brain wasn't functioning so well, and I wonder why he chose me. Was it habit? Have I become such a problem solver in his life that he thinks any problem he has is something I can deal with? Or is it more?
Did he choose me because he wanted to? Or because he had no other choice?
"Denali," he groans, peering up through his lashes pitifully at me as he takes me in and realizes what he's done. "Oh, my god, I'm sorryyyyyy." The whine is unbecoming of him, very out of place in such a typically rigid man, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing at his misery. "Your clothes—yourhair?—"
I try to ignore the smell emanating from my vicinity, and nod. "I'll be okay. Just have to borrow your shower, I guess. How are you feeling?" I put my hand to his forehead, wondering if he's starting to run a fever, or get chills. "Where can I find the cleaning supplies?"
"I'll—I'll clean it up," he says, but when he tries to stand, I throw a hand out and stop him.
"No way," I tell him, "you stay right there. And if you have to get sick again, hit the trash can this time, yeah?"
He nods solemnly, leaning back on his pillow with a sigh. "Cleaning supplies are under the kitchen counter. And there's some fresh shirts and boxers you can borrow in the top drawer of my dresser. You're welcome to any of my soap, too. There's a variety in there."
