Minka
MINKA
I wake to the pounding bass of a drum solo in the apartment across from mine. The thudding of footsteps stomping through a song. The heat must be on full-blast, because sweat trickles along my spine, and the air is surely made of razor blades because my throat aches with every inhalation I take.
But then I peel my eyes open and groan, which only hurts my throat more, and I realize there are no drums. No one is dancing. And chances are, the heating is fine.
It’s me. All of it, is me.
I whimper and breathe through my mouth, because my nose is stuffed full of snot, and if I relied on that blocked passage for air, I would surely die. But each time I inhale and my oxygen picks up the tang of phlegm, nausea follows and settles in the depths of my stomach. “I don’t get sick,” I groan. I really, really, really don’t. Germs are mere hitchhikers a clean adult can choose not to pick up, and sickness is nothing more than an unwelcome visitor and the unwanted delay of more important things, like work and life.
“Goddammit.” My body hurts, and my hip, most of all, aches. I’m not sure I’ve moved since I came to bed at whatever the hell time that was. But as I slowly turn to my back and hit the mattress with what feels like a thump of epic proportions, pain radiates throughout every limb I possess.
But worse, nausea grows more potent in my belly, tickling the base of my throat and taunting me with what could be a really awful day spent wrapped around a toilet.
“No.” I swallow, though I really shouldn’t, and blink my eyes open. If ever I get to be stubborn, I choose now for it to protect me from a sick, sad, comatose state of sweating through my sheets and grossing myself out with the stench of puke. I refuse to stay down. I absolutely do not accept the idea of this over the reality I have waiting for me back at the George Stanley.
I have bones to organize, a skeleton to recreate, and a deer carcass to set aside. I have a professional gold mine to work through, considering how rarely a medical examiner gets to reconstruct a complete human being and find out who it belongs to.
Of course, we’re all pretty certain the bones we found belong to Danika Smith. But until I’ve done my job, dental records have been assessed, and a formal report is complete, no one gets to move forward with assumptions.
I want to get up. Shower—again—and brush my hair. I need to wash the sheen of sweat off my skin, find clean clothes, and make sure my feet haven’t fallen off while I slept. Then, as I turn my head to triple check I am, in fact, here alone, I need to find my husband.
Because fevers, bad dreams, sweaty boobs, and a sick stomach don’t exclude me from remembering the absolute hell we put each other through yesterday.
But having plans, and executing them, aren’t always mutually inclusive. And Archer not being here to nudge me off the mattress and face first onto the floor means I’ve yet to move.
I’m not even sure I know how.
I glance to my right with slow movements, and still, it hurts so damn much, to look out the window and find Copeland City buzzing with a new day. It’s not raining, at least. Not even snowing.
It’s not, like… sunny or anything. But the clouds are a little less gray than usual. The light, a little less depressing.
Good signs, no ?
“Hey. You’re awake.”
I startle and drag my focus to the partially open door, my eyes locking on Archer’s kind gaze, then down to the coffee mug held firmly in his strong hands. My tongue comes out to lick my lips, though I don’t consciously consider the action. Then I look up again and study his friendly expression.
The soft lines of his gently curled smile and the selfless compassion he wears today are worlds removed from the feral anger he wore yesterday.
“Is that coffee for me?” I swallow the razor blades in my throat and lock the groan attempting to be free, down, down, far down so this man doesn’t get to hear me complain. “Thanks. I?—”
“Not for you.” He breaks my heart in just three words, but he steps into the room and comes around to my side of the bed, setting the mug on the table and half his backside on the mattress.
Finally, he places his palm on my forehead.
Somehow, I can tell this isn’t the first time he’s done so today.
“Still pretty hot, huh?” He pulls back to search my eyes. “I said you were getting sick.”
“I just need ibuprofen and coffee.” I blindly reach for the mug, though he chuckles and pushes my arm back. “Archer?—”
“Water.” He presents a half-filled glass and two little pills I know will solve all of my troubles. “Pain relief. These will make your fevers go away for a few hours, and the water is so you don’t die of dehydration.”
“Thank you.” I dig my elbows into the bed and attempt to sit up, but the movement sends bolts of pain slamming through my muscles. It’s like diving into icy water, head first, from a hundred feet up. Like shards of glass in my blood and a brick wall tossing itself mercilessly at my face. “What the hell?”
“Like I said…” He helps me sit and holds me steady, then he drops the pills on my tongue and offers the water, giving me no choice but to drink. “Sick. But you insisted on standing in a frozen hole, your feet in the water and your clothes soaked through, until three o’clock this morning.” He lowers the water when I’m done, shaking his head. “I’m glad we made up already, because I’d feel shitty if I was still mad at you while you were so unwell. ”
“I’m not sick.” And yet, I slump back against the mattress and tremble when my fever turns to a chill that wracks my frame. My teeth chatter and my toes curl under the blankets. “I have to get up and go to work. I?—”
“Have to listen to me. For once in your fucking life,” he grits out. “The George Stanley is doing fine without you. Aubree’s clocked in and is being the 2.0 in your absence. The rest of the team are doing their jobs, and even Detective Dickface is calming the fuck down with his incessant calls.”
“He… You…” I tilt my head up and meet his eyes. “What?”
“Well, first of all, he started way too early this morning. So either he forgot about the time difference, or he’s really fucking rude. Secondly, he was calling on the hour, every hour since eight.”
“He…” Every hour? How many hours? “W-what time is it?”
“Once we got to the sixth unanswered call, and I was tempted to wring his fucking neck, I texted him from my phone, since using yours would misalign with my statement about how I totally and completely trust you. So I let him know you were asleep and sick and that you would contact him when you could.”
“You texted him?” Oh god. Why does my stomach want to paint the walls with green mucus? “With those words?”
“Mostly those words.” He flashes a devilish grin that does nothing to ease the worry in my belly. “I might’ve started with ‘ this is Chief Mayet’s husband. ’ Emphasis on the husband bit,” he teases. “And ended with ‘ stop blowing up her phone, or I’ll break your fuckin’ hands. ”
“Archer—”
“But I mentioned the bit about being sick and assured him you’d get him back when you could. Now I’m telling you, a mere two minutes after you woke. That’s me keeping my end of the deal. No jealousy. No drama. And I’m definitely not fighting with you about it.”
“God…” I burrow into the bed and close my eyes, since keeping them open is a lot of hard work, anyway. “Fine. Whatever. I’m not sick, though.” I swallow and lick my lips. “I don’t get sick.”
“Mmhm.” He sets the glass of water on the bedside table—I don’t open my eyes to watch. But I feel the shift of the bed—then the shift again as he turns back and curls around to lay on his hip and set his hand on my belly. “You were blue when we came home, Mayet. Now you’re green all over and a little smelly.”
“Stop.” I squeeze my eyes tighter. My only defense, since it’s evident I can’t run away. “I smell and I’m gross. Go away and let me rot in peace.”
“Not going away,” he chuckles, nuzzling my hair. “I’m sticking it out, in sickness and in health.”
“The vows weren’t referring to a nose leaking with green snot.”
“They were. Just like you nursed me through a bullet wound, and I got you through a shoulder reconstruction. Our vows were referring to this specifically.”
“I’m heading to work in twenty minutes.”
“No, you’re not.” He drops a kiss against my lips.
But if he thought it would be a sweet thing to do, he backs up again when my eyes snap open. “Stop kissing me! You’re gonna get sick too, dummy.”
“Funny.” He glances down at what I know is snot proudly perched atop my lip. “How could I possibly get sick if you, yourself, are not sick?”
“Shut up.” I swipe the moisture from my face and shove up in bed. And by shove up, I mean slowly, torturously bend at the hips with the last scraps of strength I possess until I’m somewhat, somehow, pointing toward the ceiling.
Though not really.
“I’m not sick. But there’s a definite sheen of mucus leaking from my anterior naris. It’s smart business, really, for you not to put that in your damn mouth, you freak.” I drag the covers off and tremble as the cold hits my naked skin, reminding me I slept in the nude.
I could do all this with so much more dignity and grace, if only I wasn’t already on my deathbed. But since I am, and pride isn’t within my budget right now, I crawl out of my sweaty hole of depression and move on my hands and knees.
Amazing show for the man I leave behind, no doubt.
If ever I wanted to be a greasy burrito left over from last week’s kitchen duties, this, right now, is surely the best representation one could conjure.
I reach the end of the bed and slowly turn to sit and place my feet on the floor, then I stand and sway, hissing as a reminder of yesterday’s stupidity comes sprinting back to the forefront of my mind.
Dread swirls in my stomach, the expectation of black toes drumming to the same beat as my fever, but I peek and find all ten piggies still in place. No bruising. No blistering or swelling.
Oh, thank God.
“What?” Archer leans forward to look, too. “Thank God, what?”
“I said that out loud?”
His brows shoot high and his lips smack closed, stunned surprise beating in his eyes. “I mean?—”
“Never mind. Forget it.” A brand-new bout of nausea knocks at my consciousness, and darkness swims in my peripherals, taunting me with what’s coming if I’m not careful enough. So I swallow it all down and hold still until my dizziness passes. Then I turn back in search of my towel. “Cato here?”
“No.” He stares into my eyes, challenging me to do the same in return. “He’s at school. He’s worried about you, too, but I promised I’d keep an eye on you.”
“We’re here alone?” Hope jumps, though sickness keeps me humble. “No Aubree or Tim or Fletch or anyone?”
“Just me and you.” His lips curl into a playful smirk. “And one slutty cat.”
“Good.” I turn again, forgoing the towel, and walk my naked ass through the door. It’s so rare I get to do this now that Cato is our permanent guest, but for today, at least, I’m not sure I’d have the strength to get dressed even if he was here. “I need a shower, and I’m not saying I’m sick or anything, but maybe check on me in a few minutes. I have a habit of fainting in the steam when I’m a little under the weather.”
“For fuck’s sake.” He bounds off the bed, his smile dropping away as he chases me into the hall. He wraps his arm around my hips and flicks the taps on before I have a chance to truly process the fact he ran faster than my brain can… brain. “Estimate for me, please, Doctor Mayet, how many times you’ve waterboarded yourself because you were sick and alone and passed out in the heat?”
“Two or three times, maybe.” I want to puke. I want to die. I want to make this feeling go away, but all I manage is to step into the shower and burn my skin all over while Archer fusses with the temperature. “I don’t get sick often.”
“Only two or three times,” he growls. “No big deal.”
“This isn’t real sick, anyway.” I walk straight to the wall and press my forehead against the cold tile. “This is ‘ stayed out too late and got a little chilled ’ sick. Coffee and a decent breakfast will get me back to normal.”
“Uh-huh. You fucking liar.” I startle when he steps in behind me, his chest warming my back and his cock nestled by my ass.
I guess he undressed faster than my brain could brain, too.
“If you think you’re about to drop, can you give me a warning? I’m gonna do my best to predict this shit, but a little help wouldn’t go astray.”
“You’re overthinking it.” But I close my eyes and groan when his soapy hands work along my back. “I’ve lived twenty-nine years and haven’t split my head open or died in the shower. It’s not as scary as you’re making it out to be.”
“Sure,” he grumbles. “But since you’re so clever and intuitive and shit, you’ll have no problem telling me you’re about to drop.” He presses a rough kiss on the back of my neck. “Do you feel nauseous?”
“Nauseated,” I correct him. “Not nauseous. And no.” It’s hardly a lie if he knows I’m lying. “I’m fine.”
“Throw up in the shower. It’s not like you’ve eaten in a whole fucking day anyway, so whatever comes up will go down the drain easily.”
“You’re kinda cranky, considering you’re supposed to be here to comfort me.”
“I’m cranky because you scare the shit out of me. Cranky is my default. Turn.” He doesn’t wait for me to brain . He grabs my hip and spins me long before his command reaches my thoughts, and then he pushes me to the cold, hard tile. “I’m sorry I’m cranky.” His words are hard, but his eyes swim with sorrow. With desperation. “I’ve been dealing with some stuff lately, and that stuff all revolves around the debilitating fear of losing you.” He pumps soap into his palm and rubs it over my belly. “Whether I lose you to sickness, or another guy, or because of my own fucking behavior, the outcome remains the same. And it’s the outcome that makes me feel like I’m losing my mind. It’s exhausting holding all of me in when I want so badly to explode and make everyone else pay for the shitty things I’m feeling.”
“Timothy The Second would explode.” I drag my eyes up and search his, even as pain radiates throughout my stomach in waves of stabbing agony. “He would take his temper out on everyone else, no matter who they were or how they didn’t deserve it. Micah, too,” I ponder aloud. “Probably. He carries a hairline trigger he works hard to keep under wraps. Felix, as well. Though he’s more able to hide his behind humor.”
“…”
“You’ve come a long way from where you began.” I bring my hand up and swipe the snot leaking from my nose. Sexy, I know . “We’re not destined to follow in our parents’ footsteps, no matter how hopeless it all seems sometimes.”
He pulls back, tilting his head and searching my eyes. His lips opening, then closing. Opening again, as though to speak, only to close once more when he can’t find the words he wants to offer.
But then he gulps, his jaw firming and flexing. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you’d done something wrong yesterday. We both messed up because neither of us was brave enough to just fucking talk. But you didn’t cheat, . You didn’t even come close to it. But I made you feel as though you had. That was wrong of me.”
Tears sting my eyes and steal what little strength I possess. But I nod and try with everything I have in me to stop my jaw from trembling. “And you have a history of men destroying the things you love. Your mom, from the very moment you came into this world. And Jill, because your dad wanted to hurt you. We each brought baggage into this relationship, and now we’re the idiots left holding it all and hoping not to make things worse.”
“No one’s taking you away from me.” He slides his soapy hand up my torso, stopping at my throat. “I’m scared of it, every fucking day. Accident. Illness. Your own medical fragility terrifies me. And that doesn’t even touch on the men who think they could step in and try their luck wooing you.”
“But we choose each other.” I drop my head back, pain radiating through my skull when it hits the tile with a thud. But I drape my arms over his shoulders and blink away the sleepiness attempting to put me on the floor. “As long as we do that, everything will be fine.”
“Right.” He draws a long breath until his chest expands and touches mine, then exhales so I get my coffee fix second-hand. “I can help you medicate and keep you safe. As your husband, those are my jobs.”
“Archer—”
“And as a Malone, I’ll slit the fucking throat of any man who tries to step between us.” He flashes a taunting smile and captures my yucky, snotty lip with his. “My penguin.”
I sigh and take a micro-nap against the wall. But I mumble the words we both need. “My rock.”
“Are you gonna pass out?”
“Nuh-uh.” I roll my head from side to side. “Just sleeping.”