Chapter 15
chapter fifteen
Denali
"Talk to me, Stone. What's going on?"
Arista's voice is worried, on edge, but I've assured her seventeen hundred times that I've got everything under control.
She doesn't need to do anything, at this point.
"Your medical team showed up a half hour ago, put an IV in his arm, took some samples, gave him fluids.
They just removed the IV and taped him up.
Said the drugs will run their course, they suspect he was roofied at the club.
" It was scary, but they assured me other than feeling like he'd been hit by a truck, and some flu-like symptoms for the next twenty-four hours, maybe less, he'll be fine.
Unless, of course, he was actually assaulted, which he insisted over and over didn't happen.
I hope he's telling the truth.
"I'll touch base with the team and find out what the bloodwork shows. Should I send over extra security?"
"No. I plan to stay here tonight, to watch him.
And we have Anton and Roger. We'll be fine.
" I don't think it's wise to leave Kai alone until these drugs work their way out of his system.
"If something changes, I'll let you know?
And in the same way, I want you to call me when you know what they gave him.
It'll help to know how to make it easier on him, coming down. "
"Well, has he tried to put the moves on you?" Her voice isn't all worry anymore, there's a hint of amusement in it.
"No," I grumble, because I can't believe she'd assume he would do that even if he wasn't drugged. He's not that kind of guy. A womanizer, yes. A pervert? No way in hell.
"Then it's not molly," she assumes, confidence leaking through the line. "If it was ecstasy, he'd either be trying to touch you, or trying to get you to touch him." She pauses for a moment, thinking, then giggles. "Or touching himself. Good luck with that."
"It's not X," I agree, because I've seen what that shit can do to you. This isn't that. "Rohypnol is illegal here, but not hard to get ahold of if you're determined. Ketamine, too. Lots of things it could be."
"Just keep an eye on him. I'll call around and free up his schedule for a few days. He'll need the rest. Just make sure he gets it."
I nod before remembering she can't see me, and then verbalize it. "Sure thing, boss."
And then, we're alone. We meaning me, Kai, and this huge ass house of his.
I take up post at the foot of his bed, watching him as he sleeps off the drugs the paramedics gave him when they were here.
They offered him some charcoal slurry to help him empty his gut, but when he told them it'd been two hours since he left the club, and that he'd already puked, they put it away.
I can't imagine having to drink that shit, knowing the whole point is to barf it back up. No thank you.
He looks so peaceful, sleeping there, in a fresh pair of pajamas, the semi-permanent scowl he always wears conveniently absent for a moment.
I want to reach out and touch him, so he knows I'm here, just put my hand on his leg, or his arm, a reassuring weight, but again, I'm not sure if it's overstepping.
We've been growing involuntarily close lately, though. Would it really be overstepping to offer him comfort?
"Mmmm," Kai groans, and I know that groan. I've been around enough post-binge partygoers to know what that means.
I dive for the trash can and move it to the side of the bed just in time for him to lean over and miss it entirely, splattering my sleep shorts and shirt with the spoils of war, as it were.
Great. Just how I wanted to spend my night—covered in my boss's vomit, keeping him from swallowing his own tongue, talking to police, and now, cleaning a rug.
I do it, because that's what I'm here for—to help him.
On the down low, I'm glad he called me. A part of me knows that was a conscious choice, something he had to think of when the rest of his brain wasn't functioning so well, and I wonder why he chose me.
Was it habit? Have I become such a problem solver in his life that he thinks any problem he has is something I can deal with? Or is it more?
Did he choose me because he wanted to? Or because he had no other choice?
"Denali," he groans, peering up through his lashes pitifully at me as he takes me in and realizes what he's done.
"Oh, my god, I'm sorryyyyyy." The whine is unbecoming of him, very out of place in such a typically rigid man, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing at his misery. "Your clothes—your hair—"
I try to ignore the smell emanating from my vicinity, and nod. "I'll be okay. Just have to borrow your shower, I guess. How are you feeling?" I put my hand to his forehead, wondering if he's starting to run a fever, or get chills. "Where can I find the cleaning supplies?"
"I'll—I'll clean it up," he says, but when he tries to stand, I throw a hand out and stop him.
"No way," I tell him, "you stay right there. And if you have to get sick again, hit the trash can this time, yeah?"
He nods solemnly, leaning back on his pillow with a sigh. "Cleaning supplies are under the kitchen counter. And there's some fresh shirts and boxers you can borrow in the top drawer of my dresser. You're welcome to any of my soap, too. There's a variety in there."
Tell me something I didn't know. He never smells like the same thing twice—except occasionally, when I catch the same cinnamon scent on his hair when he walks by.
"You sure you don't mind me wearing your clothes?
" I ask, because in this state of mind, I'd be just as surprised if he asked me to draw him a cow on the wall.
"Wanna see you in them," he mutters, though his eyes are closed. "Bet you'd look sexy as fuck in nothing but my shirt the morning after."
Nope. Not going there. But now I'm thinking about it. Which isn't sane at all.
I scurry off, clean up the mess while he snores softly on the bed, and then hurry off into the shower, forgetting to grab the clothes on my way into the bathroom.
I can only hope he's still asleep when I have to leave this bathroom and get them wrapped in nothing but a towel.
Everything in this bathroom reminds me of him.
The shampoo I choose for my hair—it's the same scent he wore the first time I met him.
I remember the scent as we moved around in the car, meting after meeting, rushing from point A to point B, huddled over the tablet as I sorted out how to do the job I'd been hired to do.
A job I had no idea how to do. The body wash is the same one that he talked up for weeks, saying how smooth the soap and after-shower lotion makes his skin.
I know it by the logo, which he thinks is a bird, but I think is something else.
The conditioner matches the shampoo, though the bottle is a different shape, and I just hope that my memory isn't lying to me, because the only way I'm able to pick things out of the lineup he has on the wall of foreign products is by scent memory, because I haven't yet developed the sudden ability to read what looks like Kanji.
Not that I'd know, just that it looks a whole lot like the same symbols Kai used to sign his contract.
His towels are so soft it's insane. It should be illegal to have luxury this nice.
I'll have to splurge soon and get myself some towels this nice.
Makes the whole after-shower experience way better, in my opinion.
I peek out of the bathroom, expecting, with my luck, to see Kai sitting upright, well and ready for more mayhem on the edge of the bed, but he's simply lying facedown at the edge, his hand dangling over, soft little snores leaving his lips as I watch on.
Now's my chance. I dart over to the dresser, clinging to my towel like a lifeline, shaking like a leaf even though I'm perfectly warm in here. I manage to liberate a pair of briefs and a long-ish tee shirt from the drawer, and as I pull the damn shirt over my head, a doorbell rings somewhere.
I ignore it, hoping Anton and Roger will deal with it. They should; that's literally why they're still here. But it rings again, and I rush off, briefs forgotten about as I race to keep it from waking Kai up.
The door is heavier now, it feels like, than when we came in, but I wasn't paying attention to that when I walked through the foyer, so maybe I'm just imagining things.
Either way, I snap to attention when I realize the person on the other side of the door is none other than a police officer—and I'm standing here in nothing but a tee shirt.
No pants. No underwear. Just a shirt that barely hits me mid-thigh, and nothing else.
Great.
The cop does his level best not to gawk, and then fails miserably, reminding me once again why I don't like police. Or men. "Evening, ma'am. I'm here to take a statement from the victim, on kNight Entertainment's behest."
I don't remember Arista saying she planned to get the police involved. "I'll have to consult with my legal team before any of us make any sorts of statements."
"All due respect, ma'am," he says with a look down at my legs, like I'm a criminal for not wearing pants, "we already have permission. How do you think I got this far? My looks?"
I once-over him, cocking a brow. "Certainly not."
I think I'm funny. The short, angry cop does not. I'm not surprised.
"I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave your card, because the victim won't be making any statements right now. Now if you'll kindly see yourself out—"
I try, and fail, to guide him back out of the doorway, but he puts his foot in between the doorjam and the actual door, preventing me from closing it all the way.
His eyes narrow. "We're not interested in hearing from anyone other than the victim, ma'am, and unless I get orders from him to leave, I'm staying right here—"
"You heard the woman," an angry, weary voice behind me growls, and I turn around to find Kai leaning against the wall, his eyes narrowed, face paler than I've ever seen it without makeup, sweat beading his brow as he stares down the cop with one of his trademark death glares. "Get out of my house."
"But sir, it's important to gather the statement while the events from tonight are fresh in your mind—"
"Nothing is fresh in my mind, except the taste of my own stomach acid, currently," he says weakly, "now please—I'll come down and make a formal statement before week's end, just—just leave us for now. I need to rest."
As the cop withdraws, I throw him a bone, hoping it'll help him do his fucking job.
I'm not hopeful, though. Cops in this town are as reliable and competent as the weatherman.
"See our driver on the way out, his name is Roger.
He should have some in-car footage of the woman from tonight that was with Kai when he was last seen sober.
You might start with her. I have the feeling she had something to do with this. "
He nods and disappears down the hall, and I flip the lock on the door and turn around just in time to see Kai start to sink to the floor.
By some miracle, I manage to get to him in time to keep him upright, but as I throw his arm over my shoulders and clamp my other arm around his waist, I feel the cool air on my inner thighs and have to fight the urge to groan.
Just get him back to his room, it'll be fine, just ignore it, Kai's the important thing right now. Getting him back to bed before he passes out.
"You forgot something on my bed," he says with a wince, his eyes trained on the path in front of him as he holds a finger up, dangling the pair of his briefs I picked out to wear in front of us. "Does that mean you're naked underneath my shirt, kera?"
"You're still out of it," I growl, yanking the briefs from his hand. "Let's get you back where you belong. I didn't mean to wake you."
"Not your fault that cop was a prick," he mutters, his free arm holding onto the wall for strength. He's grinning like a shitheel, though, so he can't be too bad off, if he's teasing me.
Getting him back in bed isn't as rough as I think it'll be. What is hard, though, is leaving him. He looks so . . . miserable there, on his own in that big ass bed, pale and sweat-soaked and whimpering softly.
While he's rolled away, I slip into the briefs he handed me, and then duck into the bathroom to dampen a washcloth with cold water. He's on his back when I return, and watches me carefully as I step up to his side of the bed and sit down by his head, wiping the sweat from his brow.
I tell myself I'll leave when he's asleep again.
That I'll crash on the couch. That I can walk away and be totally fine with that.
But something in me refuses to go, even when his breathing evens out and his heart rate slows.
Even when his soft snores fill the room around me, I can't lay him back on his pillow and just walk away.
I'll sort out why I feel the need to stay later. Right now, I'm trying not to feel a certain type of way when he puts his head in my lap and wraps those strong, toned biceps around my waist, snuggling into my stomach.
Well, if you can't beat them, join them. I lean my head back on the headboard and close my eyes. I might not sleep, but at least I can rest for a moment.