Page 25 of Steady Stroke
The parking lot and Aunt Beatrice’s car finally appeared like a mirage in the desert. Lincoln was a sweaty, shivering mess by the time Emmett tucked him into the front passenger seat and got his seat belt in place. Lincoln immediately reclined the seat, hands clutching at his stomach.
Panic at his state made Emmett’s fingers tremble badly enough that he missed getting the key into the ignition twice. Once he finally got the car started, he rolled down the windows and turned on the vents. Warm air billowed out but it was better than the stifling, heated air currently inside the car.
Getting out of the lot and to a traffic light that would allow him to make a left took forever, but by the time he was back on the main drag, cold air was trickling from the vents. Emmett aimed all of them toward Lincoln’s side of the car, then concentrated on traffic, bicyclists, and the occasional jaywalking pedestrian.
It took about fifteen minutes and a lot of red lights to finally pull onto Lincoln’s street. He parked, then circled the car. Lincoln clung to him getting out, so Emmett wrapped an arm around his waist and let him lean. He felt good there, warm and solid, and Emmett shoved those thoughts right out of his mind.
Concentrate.
The front door was, naturally, locked.
“Left pocket,” Lincoln said. “Keys.”
Right. Emmett used his free hand to dig into the pocket of Lincoln’s loose cargo shorts. Two keys on a small ring. The first one didn’t fit. The second opened the door, and a welcoming blast of cool air hit them full-on. Emmett kicked the door closed behind them, then allowed Lincoln to lead him through an open living room with an attached kitchen, to a hallway. Second door down.
A double bed took up most of the space in the room, which didn’t really strike him as being very Lincoln—an odd thought, since he barely knew the man. Emmett tugged the covers back so Lincoln could sit. Lincoln kicked off his sandals, using the last of his energy to do so, because he pretty much melted into the bed. So completely boneless that, for an instant, Emmett feared he’d passed out.
And then a soft moan drifted from his lips.
“What can I do?” Emmett asked.
“Pill. Bathroom. Blue bottle.” Each word seemed to cause Lincoln even more pain.
Emmett took a moment to draw the blackout curtains and dim the room to a murky dullness, instead of the previous brightness. It took him two tries to find which door hid the bathroom. Lincoln had three blue prescription bottles with his name on them on the bathroom sink. Emmett studied the names, but they meant nothing to him.
Only one said “Take 1 tablet at onset of symptoms,” so hetook a chance and shook a pill out of that bottle. He filled a rinse glass with water and carried it all back to the bedroom.
“Riza-trip-something?” He’d already forgotten the generic name on the label.
Lincoln grunted then gave him a thumbs-up.
Emmett scooted closer so he could give him the pill.
“Basin,” Lincoln said. His chest heaved. “Now.”
Uh-oh.
He didn’t know where they might keep a barf basin, so Emmett retrieved the bathroom wastebasket as quickly as he could. Lincoln had already rolled onto his side, and Emmett held the can while Lincoln’s entire body shook and expelled his lunch. Emmett tried not to flinch at the sight, sounds, or smell. He’d nursed his baby sister through the stomach flu once, and it had lasted for three days.
It took longer than Emmett expected for Lincoln’s body to stop turning itself inside out. He finally collapsed back against the pillows, his flaming cheeks streaked with tears. Emmett’s heart twisted at the sight of someone he liked in so much pain.
He left the wastebasket in the bathroom and brought back two damp washcloths. One he used to clean the inside of Lincoln’s mouth. The other he wiped over his cheeks, chin, and forehead. Lincoln didn’t resist any of it. He barely seemed aware, too wrapped up in the agony of his migraine.
Emmett returned the washcloths to the bathroom, leaving them in the sink to be rinsed out later. Back in Lincoln’s room, he debated searching Lincoln’s phone for a contact he should call. Someone who could come take care of him better than Emmett. Someone who knew him.
Except he didn’t want to relinquish Lincoln’s care to a stranger—a stranger to Emmett.
He squatted by the bed near Lincoln’s head and brushed alock of blond hair off his damp forehead. “Think you can take that pill now?” he whispered.
Without opening his eyes, Lincoln gave him a shaky thumbs-up. He parted his lips and poked out a slip of pink tongue. Emmett placed the tablet there. Lincoln withdrew and dry-swallowed.
“Can I call someone for you?”
Lincoln grunted. “You. Here.”
“You want me here?”
Another thumbs-up.
