Chapter 2
Chapter two
Carissa
Shit. This isn’t the time for a confession. It’s time to scrape Wilder off the freaking floor and do anything and everything I can to make him feel better.
The love thing? That’s… it’s complicated, especially because he’s sort of my boss and is five years younger than me.
He knows I exist, but in a realm of the same level of friendship that he has with just about everyone on this tour.
The world is all about double standards.
Even if all of that wasn’t true, Wilder happens to be a super-famous celebrity with millions and millions of followers, while my greatest phobia is quite literally the loss of privacy at all levels.
So, yeah. We’re not exactly a match made in fantasies that I’ve never allowed myself to indulge in because I’m not a masochist in my off hours. It’s bad enough that my waking hours are filled with pining for the world’s most unavailable man.
“Do you think you can stand up?” The answer to that is probably a hard no, but I want him to tell me himself.
He grunts, shrugs, shakes his head, and nods.
Right. That about sums it up. “We should get you into the shower and changed into fresh clothes.” I rub small circles at the center of his back.
It’s not professional, but fuck it. I hate this for him.
If even the smallest touch can help, then I’m going to do it.
I’d trade him my own health in a second, but that’s not an option.
“Everyone feels better when they’re clean.
If you’re not up to it, that’s okay. I can get you a wet washcloth, and I’ll help you get changed. ”
“You know I hate doctors, right?”
My lips twitch, my nerves settling in even if my heart is still careening all over the place like a malfunctioning pinball machine due to his proximity.
There’s no relationship. There’s never going to be a relationship.
This isn’t unethical because it’s nothing.
There are lines, and they’ll never be crossed, not even in my mind.
“I’m not a doctor. You know that.”
“You’re going to try and plug me full of shit. Drugs and other fuckery. I won’t take anything. You try and stuff it down my throat, and I’ll make myself throw up.”
“Wilder. You know me. You’ve known me for years.
” I don’t have to soften that. My voice naturally turns to velvet, thick with emotion.
“You make it a point to know more than just a little about everyone who works for you and with you because you’re amazing like that.
You know everyone’s names and all their families’ names.
You remember every face you’ve ever seen, even if you can’t remember all your fans’ names.
I promised you when we met and you told me straight to my face that you didn’t, and I quote, ‘fuck with me being here’ that I would never do anything to you against your will.
That’s a disgusting breach of medical ethics. I know your story.”
He’s been very open about what happened to his mom.
Tragically, she was dating a doctor who got her hooked on prescription medication.
During those years, Wilder’s life was worse than hell.
He lost his mom when he was nine years old.
He said he stands against those who abuse their power in any way, but at heart, he’s also scared shitless of anything medical.
It’s a mistrust rooted in childhood, and it’s very, very real for him.
“I’ll be totally transparent with you. I would like to give you an IV to get you hydrated,” I continue.
He winces and turns his face away. “You probably aren’t going to be able to even keep water down.
I’ve had Matt clean out his room for you tonight so I can monitor you or just sit with you.
” I lose the battle and give in, moving my hand to his forehead to push back his sweat-slicked dark hair.
“You need to try and sleep so you can scrape together enough energy to get on that stage tomorrow, because I know you, and I know that’s your only option. ”
Wilder has performed with broken bones. This isn’t the first time he’s been sick, and he’s always pushed through.
In seven years, I’ve only been needed as a nurse all of four major times.
Four years ago, he fell and dislocated his shoulder while giving a concert in the rain.
A few months after that, he knocked out four front teeth and one in the bottom row when Matt dared him to do a backflip while they were backstage waiting to go on to headline a show, and he landed face-first on the ground.
He pushed through the whole night with blood puddling down his chin on and off, and people still talk about it.
I guess some fans really liked it. In a panty-igniting way.
I’m not judging, but all it did for me was give me some serious sympathy pain.
Two years ago, Wilder slipped on a stage again, not in the rain this time, and managed to give himself a pretty good gash on the forehead.
Then, last year, he developed a sudden allergy to sunflower seeds.
All I’ve had to do is mop him up, stitch him up, totally unfrozen, put his shoulder back in place, and dole out one allergy pill, which he only took because he broke out in hives, and his throat was closing up.
“You didn’t take any painkillers through the worst of it.
” Strangely enough, he did submit to getting his teeth fixed, but I guess dentists are a different vibe.
They’re a nightmare vibe for a lot of people, but when you’ve got a gaping hole in your mouth and you’re a singer, I suppose they’re a welcome face.
“I know I’m not going to be able to convince you to take anything now, so it’s just the IV. That’s all.”
He groans and tries to push himself upright, throwing a hand against the glass shower door behind him. But the movement is way too much. He gags, drags himself over the toilet, and retches up nothing but spittle. I don’t know how many times he’s been sick, but this one hurts.
He’s drenched in sweat, with beads rolling down his forehead by the time he comes up for air. He shoves back the sticky strands of his tangled hair and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Can you… get me some water?” he pants out, ten out of ten hating having to ask me to do something for him that he could normally do for himself.
There are plastic-wrapped cups under the sink, so I fill one up and give it to him. He chugs it in one go, but before he gets to the bottom, he tosses it aside, grasps the toilet, and throws up half into it, half on the floor.
“Fuck,” he groans, tears and snot smeared across his face from the force of it.
There are two clean towels on the rack, and I tug on one until it gives.
Then, I kneel down next to him, set my hand on his arm, and pat his forehead, cheeks, and mouth dry.
He’s ashen, soaked, and completely wrung out, but he still gently pries the towel from my hand and cleans up the floor himself.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters weakly. “I’m so sorry, this is so gross. I’m such a mess.”
“Nurses exist because people get sick. No one wants to be sick, and no one wants to be taken care of. There’s this whole thing about independence and shame twisted into narratives where it shouldn’t be.
” He stares at me and slowly blinks long, dark, and impossibly thick lashes right near my face.
They’re clumped together wetly yet still so beautiful.
“I don’t think you’re gross.” That comes out far too intimate, but he’s too sick to notice.
“I’m not the least bit disgusted by bodily functions of any sort. ”
“Yeah? You ever thrown up on yourself in front of someone?”
“Of course,” I reply.
“Did you enjoy it?”
I flush. He does have a point. “It wasn’t a great experience.”
“It’s not very rockstar to get up on stage and throw up all over the place, or worse, is it?” He wads the towel into a ball and sets it aside.
I don’t know if this is him coming around to the IV idea. I also don’t want to tell him that there have been more than a few rockstar incidents in the past where people did just that, with emphasis on the “or worse” part.
“If you did, everyone would forgive you. Musicians spit on people all the time. They’ve even peed on crowds intentionally.” I can think of quite a few videos I’ve seen posted online of exactly that, and people seemed to be having a great time.
Granted, they were from quite a few years ago, and in a different era.
“Not me, though.”
Now is truly not the time for my brain to give me a mental image of Wilder doing some of the things from those videos.
To a crowd of one.
Meaning me.
That uncontrolled intrusive thought is a straight byproduct of my vibrator, when I’m at home without a bunch of people sleeping in bunks all around me, and my fingers, for exceptionally desperate nights when I’m the only one awake, I swear to goodness, getting real fucking tired of me.
Since I started working for Wilder, I haven’t even made an attempt to think about anyone else. Dating? When you’re traveling the world, there’s no time for it, but I could probably do something more casual if I wanted to.
However, I just don’t. Want to. I wouldn’t be into it in the slightest.
How could I be when no one else is Jackson Wilder?
I don’t mean that no one is like Jackson Wilder, the man who writes incredible songs, plays guitar so beautifully that it could make anyone weep, and is now pretty much richer than god.
I mean the Jackson Wilder who laughs at jokes that aren’t even funny and who goes out of his way to see his fans, no matter the cost to himself.
The man who sees all the things in the world that other people just miss.
The Wilder who misses his grandma with an ache that is still so raw that he can’t fall asleep unless he has the quilt she made him.
He doesn’t ask me about it, thank goodness. I’ll make sure it’s dry-cleaned or laundered very carefully.