She stands to leave the bed and nearly falls. I jump to my feet to help her, but then I remember what I look like. I’m a giant green monster with his stiff dick swinging toward her like a weapon. But as she goes to stand again, I get a better look at her face. She’s turned tomato red and begun to swell up like a biscuit in the oven. I can’t even ask her what’s wrong, as my voice would give me away.
“Don’t go. I really just need a sec,” she says as she stumbles to the bathroom. Before she can reach the door, she doubles over and grips her stomach. “On second thought, we might need a raincheck.”
She needs more than a raincheck. She needs a fucking doctor.
“Jesus, why am I so itchy? The soles of my feet, my scalp.” Her short nails claw at her skin as she scratches her stomach, and then I realize what’s going on.
How the fuck do I mime “allergic reaction”? Where the fuck is Rose when I need her?
I move past her and begin digging through her bags on the sink. She goes to protest, but a sharp pain strikes her silent as she clutches her stomach again. My fingers graze Tylenol, some sort of bloat guard, and a few freewheeling Tums, but I see no Benadryl.
“Listen, I know this isn’t exactly sexy, but I think I’m going to be sick. Could I ride this out in private? I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”
A loud fart rips out of her. It startles the fuck out of me, and I send her toiletries scattering over the counter.
I turn back to her and nearly speak out of shock. In the span of a few seconds, she’s swollen even more. If this keeps up, she’ll choke on that fat tongue of hers and dash all fantasies of her wrapping it around my dick. I have to help her. And fast.
But as she stumbles against the bathroom doorframe and collapses on the floor, I realize I’m out of time.
Chapter Twelve
Quinn
When I open my eyes, my quirky German neighbor is the last person I expect to see, yet there he is. His silent lover stands beside him as he speaks to Aven. The woman holds an orange-capped stick in her hand, which she tosses to the floor when she sees that I’m awake. She tugs on the German man’s arm and points down at me.
“Ah, the prostitute is conscious once more,” he says. “Are we needed further, or may we leave now?”
Aven clears his throat and tosses a towel into my lap as I sit up and try to clear the fog from my head. “She’s not a prostitute, pal.”
“Technically, I am, but we prefer the term sex worker.” I use the towel to cover my breasts. The evening’s events come rushing back to me, and I remember why I’m shirtless. “Shit, how bad did I fuck everything up tonight?”
“We can handle it from here,” Aven says as he begins ushering the elderly pair out of my room.
The woman stops and grabs the German’s hand. She scrawls something on his palm with her finger, and he nods before turning to Aven.
“The epinephrine may not be enough. I am content to leave her to die, but Rose feels?—”
“Content to leave me to die? Epinephrine? What the fuck is happening right now?” I look down and spot the pinprick bruise on my thigh. “That was an allergic reaction?”
“Aye, wee lass,” Aven says, his voice a touch softer than he usually speaks. “When you went off camera, I came right over and found you collapsed on the floor.”
I place my hand to my head as the room begins to spin. “I think I’m going to vomit.”
Rose pushes a trash can in front of me, and I lean forward and retch. My entire dinner lands in the bottom, and let me tell you, shrimp scampi does not taste as good coming up as it does going down. The sight and smell are enough to make me gag until I only have frothy yellow bile to offer the trash-can gods.
Aven kneels beside me and pats my back. “That’s it, lass. Get it all up and out. But what would convince you to eat shrimp when you clearly have a shellfish allergy?”
Rose passes a damp rag to me, and I wipe my mouth. “I’m not allergic to anything other than turmeric, same as my father. My mother said it was his parting gift before leaving my siblings running down her thighs.”
Aven’s brows pull together, but he turns back to the couple. “I’ll get her down to the infirmary if she shows symptoms again. Could you be a friend and go ask Chef Maurice what he put in the scampi tonight?”
“No, we do not have any desire to be of future service to you. We planned to try painting with our anuses this evening, and you are killing our vibe, as the children say.”
“Seriously, Grim?” Aven opens his mouth to argue further, but I place a hand on his arm.
“Just let them enjoy their literal artsy-fartsy stuff. We can speak to the chef later.”
“I am offended you would insinuate we would release gas onto the artwork.” He scoffs. “It would ruin the composition!Dieser Dummkopf!”
