You know how many times this little pipgeek almost died this week?
Go ahead, guess.
Four. And that didn’t even count the perv I caught eyeing him a little too long. He probably had other things besides murder on his mind, but I went ahead and vetoed that too.
Listen, I might have told him to stop looking for me, but I never said I’d stop watching him. I already told you I was nosy. And it’s a good thing I didn’t, because if I had he’d be dead. Worm food. No respawns available.
I had no intention of making my presence known, but this little pip was clearly born without a survival instinct, and his ears just hung out on his head for decoration because he clearly couldn’t hear. I swear he walked around just asking for annihilation.
And then I realized he was homeless.
Homeless.
I watched him crawl into a cardboard box.
I was a bad dude, definitely of the variety with a one-way ticket into hell. The only time I came out of the shadows was when I had someone to kill. You could liken me to a grim reaper except I didn’t work for Satan. I worked for the government.
Which, honestly, was pretty much the same thing.
Probably why spending all of eternity in hell didn’t scare me.
Point is I’d seen things. Done things. There were no dark corners in my mind because all of it was black. But even a man like me had his limits, and apparently, turning away from a sick, homeless pipgeek was mine.
I’d fully intended to drop him at a motel like before and disappear like smoke.
But now there was the matter of a name. My name.
Who was this man, and what game was he playing? I wasn’t letting him out of my sight until my suspicions were sated. So now he was currently in a motel room, shivering under a stack of blankets while a fever burned him from the inside out.
The moment I stepped out of the bathroom, my eyes swept over the parts of him I could see. His face was flushed and hair matted against his forehead with sweat. Setting the ice bucket on the nightstand, I submerged a small towel in the water and squeezed. The soft fall of water, almost tinkling, filled the quiet room. Leaning over him, I swiped at his forehead and cheeks, attempting to soothe the overheated skin while trying to ignore the soft whimpers escaping his lips with every careful stroke.
Just like that first night when I cleaned up his injuries, hisbody rotated toward mine like a plant seeking the sun. The second I brought him in the door, I’d managed to get some meds into him, which was nearly an hour ago. It bothered me that he was still burning up. Shouldn’t the meds have kicked in already?
The longer he went without improvement, the more I regretted doing what he’d asked and avoiding the hospital.
“If you aren’t awake soon, you’re going,” I declared, draping the towel over his forehead.
Another little helpless sound left him. “Water,” he croaked.
I grabbed the white ceramic mug off the nightstand, but when he made no move to open his eyes and sit up, I slid my arm under his shoulders and lifted him enough to put the mug to his lips.
“Drink,” I instructed.
After a few sips, he dropped back against my arm as if he’d just run a marathon.
“I’ve seen mice drink more than that,” I criticized.
“Hurts,” he mumbled, turning his face toward my chest.
The mug thunked against the nightstand, and I lowered him against the pillow.
Before I could pull away completely, he caught my hand. “Stay.”
I glanced at his fingers clinging to mine.
He’s playing you,the voice inside me warned.Trying to be all cute to throw you off.
“Please?” he pleaded.
