Chapter Thirteen
Morning seeps in with the promise of another silvery day, even in the first rays of dawn.
From the comfort of the king-size bed, I peer at the network of pinks and reds bleeding across a cloudless sky.
Rhys is pressed against the length of me, our backs aligned as we face outwards.
His ribs rattle slightly as he breathes deep, hinting to him snoring.
Luckily, I have the option of leaving my receivers behind as I slip out from beneath the thick cover, the floorboards unforgiving beneath my toes.
Pulling on an oversized sweatshirt and socks, rubbing warmth into my arms, I pad downstairs.
The living room is still, absent of light and life.
Cinnamon candles sit melted on the mantel, our mugs forgotten on the table.
I collect them up, haphazardly folding the blanket and putting it back in place before heading into the kitchen.
Filling the kettle, deciding I need a hot drink before I can tackle making breakfast with icy limbs, my gaze snags on something beyond the back door.
The porch light is on, blinking as if it’s due a replacement.
Frowning, I step closer to the frosted window, rubbing at the glass to peer through.
The back yard is blanketed in white, the edges of my vision blurred.
The trees bordering this piece of land are pale and void of life.
The light continues to flicker so I unlatch the door, stepping out on tiptoes.
Maybe there’s a switch to turn it off until we can inform the owner.
But as I slip into the icy morning, my breath fogging before me, a dark bundle catches my attention.
Huddled on the decking, clumps of snow coat a military jacket and beanie hat. My heart stutters.
“Clayton!” The name tears out of me, half-choked.
Cold forgotten, I drop to my knees, lifting his head in my hands.
His skin is deathly pale, his lips tinged blue.
“Hey. Hey, can you hear me?” My fingers shake as I tap his cheek.
Clay’s head lolls slightly toward me, eyes barely open.
He tries to mutter something, but I can’t hear him, so I start screaming for Rhys instead.
Trying to shift Clayton, he’s dead weight, his muscles refusing to cooperate. I manage to lift his head uneven to drag his duffle bag beneath him, but his attempts to help are jerky and uncoordinated. Classic hypothermia.
“What the hell, Harp?!” Rhys’ voice suddenly explodes inside my head. I flinch, jolting Clayton and now hearing his resulting groan.
“Help me get him inside,” I order without looking behind me.
There’s a sigh and a grumble, but Rhys leans down and grabs Clay beneath the arms. I’m not much help, using the stiff material of his jacket to drag him over the threshold, like pulling a sandbag through water.
We manage to get him halfway across the kitchen before my trembling arms give out.
“Damn heavy bastard,” Rhys complains, heaving Clay the rest of the way to lie him before the fireplace. I run on shaky legs, collecting up the blankets that are dotted around, mostly for decoration.
“You need to strip off his clothes,” I demand. Rhys makes a guttural sound, suddenly dropping Clayton where he is.
“I will be doing no such thing,” Rhys scoffs. I swivel around to glare at him, now noticing the rush in which he got dressed. His vest is inside out, his sweatpants tugged in awkward angles and hair sticking up. It looks like he came running to my aid, until realising I’m not the one in trouble.
“We need to get him out of his wet clothes and bring his temperature up slowly. If we do it too fast, his body will go into shock. His heart’s already under stress.”
“Well, your screaming won’t help with that.
Sing him a lullaby or something.” Rhys pressed his lips together, not moving.
My face fills with rage, all of the curses and threats I could possibly think of filling my head.
Just before I lose my absolute shit, Rhys rolls his eyes.
“Fine. You undress him. I’ll do the fire. ”
Clay is freezing to the touch, his core temperature easily below ninety-five.
“Jesus, what the hell were you doing out there?” I hiss, carefully removing the clothes from his body.
I peel off his beanie hat first, before tackling his jacket and t-shirt.
Rhys conveniently becomes invested in picking the right pieces of firewood, not responding to any of my grunts or sounds of struggle.
Wrapping blankets around Clay’s torso and arms, I start removing Clay’s shoes, socks and sweatpants.
They’re like cardboard, rigid and awkward to drag off Clay’s motionless legs but I succeed, falling back on my ass. Now for the next challenge.
“I need you to lift him so I can get his boxers off,” I state.
Rhys drops the wood into the fire and pinches the bridge of his nose.
His hesitation is infuriating, and I use Clay’s soggy sock to smack the back of his legs.
“Rhys Maximus Waversea. You will lift him right now or so help me, I will tell any reporter who will listen that you have syphilis.”
Finally, Rhys growls and lifts Clay’s hips so I can peel off his boxers, both of us looking in opposite directions.
Covering Clay’s dignity, I wrap his legs and move up towards his head.
He groans low, his body convulsing with uneven shivers as I try to cradle him in my arms. Rhys returns to the fireplace, appreciating the flickering flames he’s conjured.
“I don’t have a middle name, by the way,” he mumbles into the mic. I stroke Clay’s hair with the edge of a blanket, drying it strand by strand.
“I know, but it felt like a full naming moment.” The fire crackles back to life, casting orange light across Clay’s face.
His skin’s blotchy, patches of red and white rising as if his body’s fighting to circulate blood again.
Dropping my voice, I move in closer to cradling his head in my lap. “You stupid fool. You could have died.”
“Would have served him right,” Rhys replies. I glare at his back, and I know he senses it. “He should have been here yesterday. Or maybe he shouldn’t have run off like a pussy in the first place.”
“You paid him to leave,” I narrow my eyes, jaw tight with frustration. Rhys shrugs without a care in the world.
“Pussies run.”
“And jackasses stay, evidently,” I snip back.
I can imagine Addy’s cheering in my head, her signing cum stain over and over like a cheerleader’s chant.
Rhys mutters something under his breath and storms toward the kitchen, knowing full well I can still hear him as he apparently opens every cupboard and drawer possible, before slamming them shut one after the other.
It’s like gunfire bursting within my skull, but I leave him to his tantrum, focusing on Clayton instead.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, rubbing his arm. “Come on. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.” Clay’s hand twitches beneath the blankets. I catch it before it falls away, wrapping my fingers around his cold ones. His skin is rough and clammy, his pulse a weak flutter beneath my thumb.
I don’t know how long we remain there, the cold seeping from his bones and into mine.
I’m shivering, until a thick parka jacket is wrapped around my shoulders.
Rhys drops to his knees, pressing hot water bottles to the outside of the blankets rather roughly.
Now the mic is back in the vicinity, I can hear Clay’s mumbling through lips that are developing in colour.
“Door…” he croaks, barely audible. “Locked.”
“That’s what happens after midnight, you moron.
Keeps the burglars out,” Rhys replies. Leaning his back against the sofa, he flicks on the TV and channel surfs as if we’re not in the middle of a crisis.
The screen’s light flickers over Clay’s face, highlighting the deep lines of his exhaustion.
The tremors in his jaw are easing, the faintest pink returning to his cheeks.
I reach down to press the hot water bottle against his abdomen, the heat seeping slowly through the layers of fabric.
Clay is stabilizing, his breathing evening out as sleep takes over.
His body has suffered a trauma, fighting against itself to keep his organs functioning.
Holding him close, I let him drift off, now that I’m not scared he won’t wake back up.
Although, it will be a long while yet before my heart will stop racing, because I know just how close it came.
One more hour in that cold, and he could’ve gone into severe hypothermia, unconscious, heart arrhythmias, cardiac arrest. My stomach twists painfully at the thought so I just keep brushing my thumb over his knuckles, letting him know I’m still here.