“Where the hell am I?” he asked before realizing the answer was obvious. The bedroom was decorated in jewel tones and Lucy was wearing a bathrobe. Dunce. “How did I get here?”
Lucy and Patrick crouched on each side and helped him to stand and he saw Lucy bite her full lower lip as she looked down at him. Glancing down, he realized he was buck-ass naked and shoved a pillow against his groin. The room spun violently and Lucy clucked sympathetically as they helped him to sit down.
“You walked all the way here and passed out on the side of the road just a few houses down from here. You were soaked to the skin and running a fever. I think you may have the flu. Patrick helped you—”
“I remember some of it.” I think. He looked around the room and vaguely remembered debating with her about staying. “Are my clothes dry yet? I need to go home.” The room spun and the nausea returned again and he groaned miserably as his stomach revolted. “I need—”
In the nick of time, Lucy held up the trashcan for him and he humiliated himself further by getting sick in front of the most beautiful—second most beautiful—woman he’d ever known. That honor still went to—
“Oh, fuck me,” he groaned under the weight of the painful memory. Chloe!
“You need to lie back down. Is she the one who called you?” Lucy asked softly as she stroked his bare back.
Had he spoken her name out loud? Chills ran up and down his spine. Up until that night, Lucy had never seen him at his worst. What was happening now was definitely it. He’d thrown up in her home, more than once as he recalled. He’d made an ass out of himself falling out of her bed. What else could go wrong? He knew he was a sweaty, feverish mess and put up his arm to stop her from touching him. He wound up overshooting the distance and knocked her arm away with more force than he intended. “Don’t touch me, I’m—” I’m a disgusting mess.
“Fine.” Lucy handed Patrick the trashcan. “I won’t touch you. I’ll go get your clothing. It’s obvious you really, really don’t want to stay here and I won’t make you.” He could hear the hurt in her voice. A second later she was gone and he wished he could call her back.
“You son of a bitch,” Patrick growled.
Guilt made him defensive. “What?” he asked with upraised hands. “I’m sorry I’m sick, all right? Fuck!”
“At her insistence we searched for you for two hours in that downpour before I finally brought her home. She has to get up early in the morning, dickhead. I’ll go start the truck. You can dress yourself, fever or not.” Patrick continued cursing as he left the room. Very unlike him.
He sat on the bed and groaned, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Every muscle, every joint, every fiber in his body hurt. Even his hair ached. He knew Lucy had taken what he’d said the wrong way. She was a caring person and he hadn’t meant to hurt her. He just wasn’t good at delivering lines and talking smooth like some men were.
Judging by her state of undress, Patrick must’ve smooth-talked her out of that sexy little outfit she’d been wearing earlier. Not that he could blame him. Even though he was a fucked-up mess, he was half in love with her himself. He knew how Patrick felt about Lucy and wondered why they held off. He suspected it was only a matter of time before the two of them got together permanently. They were just taking pity on him by including him when they went out.
“Here are your things. I washed and dried them for you.” She put his warm, folded clothes beside him on the bed and placed his boots by his feet.
He reached out to stroke her arm, where he’d struck her unintentionally. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I’m just…” Used up. No good.
Her cheeks were a beautiful rosy color in the lamplight as she pulled away from him. He didn’t deserve her friendship, much less her forgiveness. “You’re sick. And drunk. Save the apology for when you’re sober, Beck.”
“I’m sick, but I’m thinking straight enough.”
“Save it. I’m tired and Patrick has the truck running and warmed up for you.” She walked out of the room, her silky robe fluttering behind her like a walking watercolor painting.
Boy, you’ve gone and fucked it up now. She’d never refused to listen when he’d apologized before. She always listened. “You’re right,” he whispered to himself in the empty room.
A painful void opened in Beck’s chest as he wearily dressed and pulled his cold, sodden boots on. He looked around the warm space that she slept in and it occurred to him how wrong it all seemed. Wrong that he was in her private sanctuary, and sick and in a beat-down ugly kind of mood…and wrong that he was leaving like this.