Chapter Fifteen
Abby
I am so freaking sick.
Not dramatically sick.
Not cute little sniffle sick.
Full-blown, head-throbbing, throat-on-fire, body-aches-like-I-got-hit-by-a-bus sick.
Luckily, I agreed a few days ago to work from inside the compound while the men sort out whatever secret-war-espionage-chaos they’re currently orchestrating. At the time, I rolled my eyes about it.
Now?
Bless their paranoid, overprotective hearts.
I knew I was coming down with something yesterday. I felt stuffy all day. That was it…just a little pressure behind my eyes, a faint tickle in my throat. But I knew.
You know when your body whispers, Oh, this is gonna be bad?
Yeah. That.
Now I’m wrapped in three blankets, sweating and freezing at the same time, staring at my ceiling like it personally offended me.
What I really need is medication.
Cold meds. Soup. Something that doesn’t taste ash.
But I don’t want to risk giving this to anyone else.
All it takes is one person catching this from me. One hug. One shared surface. One accidental breath too close.
Then it spreads to Max.
Then Lila.
Then Bree.
And if it hits Micah?
My stomach twists.
That boy cannot afford even something as simple as a common cold. His body doesn’t fight the way ours do. What’s inconvenient for me could be dangerous for him.
So no.
I’m not marching out of the house to announce my plague.
I roll over, immediately regret it because my sinuses scream, and groan into my pillow.
I could call Spike.
But my phone is on the charger inside the clubhouse.
Of course it is.
It died last night while I was over there. I tossed it on someone’s charger…probably Skip’s because he hoards them like a dragon…and then completely forgot to grab it on my way home.
By the time I left, I was so out of it that all I wanted was my bed.
A bed that I didn’t even make it to.
Now I’m trapped on my stupid couch.
Sick.
Phone-less.
And too miserable to make it to my room.
I consider my options.
Option one: suffer in silence. I like this option.
Option two: text from my tablet…which is at my shop.
Option three: wear a mask and attempt to walk to the clubhouse looking like death warmed over and risk being quarantined by overprotective bikers who think a sneeze is biological warfare.
I groan again.
The smart thing would be to ask for help.
The responsible thing would be to stay put.
The Abby thing would be to tough it out until I collapse.
A knock sounds at my door.
I freeze.
Oh no.
Did I accidentally summon someone with my dramatic suffering?
“Abigail?” Tank’s voice calls softly through the wood. “You up?”
Of course, it’s him.
If I answer, he’ll know.
If he knows, he’ll worry.
If he worries, he’ll hover.
And if he hovers, he’ll absolutely catch this.
I pull the blanket tighter around myself and clear my throat.
It sounds like a dying frog.
“I’m fine!” I croak.
There’s a pause on the other side of the door.
“Baby,” he says slowly, and I can hear the suspicion in his voice, “you don’t sound fine. I’m coming in.”
Logically, I know I can’t reach the door before he opens it. Logically, I know standing up while my head feels like it’s packed with cement is a terrible idea.
But logic and I have never been close friends.
I hear the handle turn and panic flares.
I jolt upright, blankets tangled around my legs like traitorous vines, but at least my feet are free. I push off the couch and try to rush forward.
Big mistake.
The second I stand, the room tilts. My vision tunnels. My head goes light, and I stumble forward…straight into the couch.
I crumple to the floor in the most ungraceful way possible. Thankfully, most of the fall is cushioned by the cushions.
But still…Ouch.
“Abigail!” Tank’s voice cracks through the room.
“Down here,” I croak from somewhere near the carpet. “But don’t come closer. I don’t want to get you sick.”
The door shuts anyway.
Boots cross the floor fast.
“Baby.”
I hear him kneel beside me.
“What happened?”
“I was attempting a tactical relocation,” I mutter. “Gravity disagreed.”
“Did you black out?”
“No,” I say, squinting up at him. “I executed a controlled descent.”
His jaw tightens like he’s fighting a smile and failing.
“You fainted.”
“I did not faint.”
“You’re on the floor.”
“I tripped dramatically.”
He ignores my argument entirely and scoops me up before I can protest. One arm behind my back, the other under my knees like I weigh nothing at all.
“Tank.” I protest weakly. “I told you not to come close.”
“And I told you I was coming in,” he shoots back.
He settles me back on the couch, rearranging the blankets around my body.
His palm presses to my forehead, and he goes very still.
“You’re burning up.”
“Practically on fire…in a snow storm,” I mumble, clutching the blankets tighter.
He doesn’t laugh.
“Why didn’t you call someone?”
“My phone’s at the clubhouse,” I say, blinking up at him through fever haze. “And I didn’t want to risk getting anyone sick and spreading it to Micah.”
That stops him, and his expression shifts.
“You stayed quiet because of Micah?”
I shrug, instantly regretting it because every muscle aches.
“He can’t afford this,” I whisper. “If Bree catches it, then Lila and Max. Then him. It’s not worth it.”
He studies me like I just said something that rearranged the world.
“You’re such a sweetheart,” he says quietly.
“I’m currently defeated by mucus.”
“You’re sick, and the first thing you thought about was protecting everyone else.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks that has nothing to do with the fever.
“Well,” I mutter, “my main concern was Micah.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” I ask immediately.
“Calling Patch.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, I don’t need…”
“You fell.”
“I tripped.”
“You fainted.”
“I did not,” I glare.
He doesn’t budge.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Abigail’s sick. She’s running a fever. Lightheaded. No breathing issues that I can tell, but her throat is pretty swollen by the sound of her voice.”
I groan and bury my face in the blanket.
“You’re so dramatic,” I whisper, really wishing I had some hot tea.
“About you?” he says calmly. “Always… Thanks, brother. I’ll see you in a bit.”
He hangs up and moves to sit on the coffee table in front of me, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on my face like I might evaporate if he blinks.
“Patch is coming over with some meds,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t check on you sooner. I was out with the men at Maverick’s place.”
“I’m fine,” I start.
And then my lungs betray me.
A coughing fit rips through me so hard my eyes water. My chest burns. My head pounds. For a solid ten seconds, I’m convinced this is how I go…taken out not by cartel members or kidnappers, but by mucus.
He’s on his feet instantly, hand braced at my back.
“Easy. Breathe, baby. Slow.”
Eventually, death decides I’m not worth the work and backs off.
“I just need to sleep it off,” I rasp.
“Let’s agree to disagree,” he says gently. “I’m going to run to my house real quick and change clothes. I came straight here when I got back after Sunny said she knocked on your door and you didn’t answer.”
“She did?” I mumble, trying to replay the day through the fog. “Weird. Anyway, don’t bother coming back. I’m just going to bed. I’ll lock up when you leave.”
He stands, but his eyes narrow.
“Five minutes,” he says. “And when I get back, you better be right where you are.”
“I’m still locking the door,” I say, closing my eyes.
“I have the key, babygirl,” he replies, and I can hear the smirk in his voice.
Crud.
He does have the dang key.
“Your brother’s on his way over with your phone,” he adds. “Now get some rest. I’ll be back in a few to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself,” I mutter into the blanket. “I’ve been doing it alone for years now. I can handle a freaking cold.”
There’s a pause.
Then his voice softens in a way that makes my stupid heart squeeze.
“Maybe so. But my head is out of my ass now, and I’m here to take care of you. Please, Abigail. Let me do this. Let me help you.”
Double crud.
“I’m extra needy when I’m sick,” I warn. “Just ask my brother.”
“She’s an absolute nightmare,” Spike says from somewhere near the door.
I didn’t even hear him come in.
I want to open my eyes and ask him for a hug, but I’m so tired my bones feel heavy.
“She wants cuddles and foot massages and those extra-tight burrito blankets when she isn’t feeling well,” Spike continues. “She’s a needy woman.”
“Well,” Tank says without hesitation, “I’m a hungry man. I’ll take anything she’s willing to give. Even if it’s only because she’s not feeling well.”
My fever does not need that sentence.
“You say that now,” Spike laughs. “I’ll clear your schedule for the next few days unless something major pops up. I’ll have a prospect grab soft foods and broth. She hates broth and will fight you tooth and nail to avoid drinking it.”
“She can fight all she wants,” Tank replies. “If it’s the only thing her throat can handle, she’s drinking it.”
I want to inform them that I’m a grown woman, and if I don’t want the broth, I will not be drinking the broth.
But Tank fussing over me?
Tank claiming space beside me like it’s his right?
My traitorous heart is doing gymnastics.
“I hate you both,” I lie.
“Mm-hmm,” Spike hums. “Sure you do.”
He moves closer, and I feel the couch dip as he sits on the edge.
“I’ll sit with her while you change,” Spike tells Tank.
“Five minutes,” Tank repeats.
“She’ll be fine until you get back,” Spike mutters. “Go.”
There’s a brief shuffle of boots, then the door opens and closes.
Silence settles for a moment.
Spike’s hand brushes my hair back from my face like he used to when I was little.
“You scare him,” he says quietly.
“It’s just a cold, Bubby,” I mumble.
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” he says softly. “He’s so damn terrified you’re not going to forgive him enough to give him another chance.”
My eyes crack open.
“He told you that?” My voice is close to extinction at this point.