The Henson Brothers: Two Complete Novels (17 page)

She squinted up at Drake. Through the pain that racked her head she could see that he was furious. His eyes glowed with yellow fire.

"Playing hide-and-seek again?" he murmured satirically.

"Don't," she pleaded in a fragile voice. "I have to go."

"Why don't you get up and walk then?" He lifted one shoulder. "I'm not going to stop you."

Cassie was too weak to answer the anger and hurt that echoed in his tone. Her only goal was to get out before she disgraced herself and destroyed the beautiful night they had spent together.

"Good." She continued on her hands and knees as if walking were a preposterous idea.

"What are you doing?" he asked, seizing her arm. When she cried out in pain he immediately let go. He knelt in front of her and cradled her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. "What's wrong?" he demanded, concern making his words harsh.

"I'm okay." She stood and took two small steps toward the door.

"You're not okay."

"I know." She swayed against him and they both fell against the wall. Drake swore.

"Did I hurt you?" she whispered.

"No. You're burning up. Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"

"Because I... Oh, no," she groaned in an ominous tone.

"What?"

"I'm going to be sick."

He rushed her to the bathroom just in time for her to empty her stomach completely. It later felt like a vise, her tongue and mouth like a sewer system. Drake tenderly washed her mouth and face with a damp cloth, wiping away the hot shameful tears that fell down her face.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbled. "So very sorry."

"No apologies, love." He brushed a tear away with his thumb, then tasted it. "Even your tears are sweet."

"It's not funny."

"Sorry, I was trying to make you feel better."

"It didn't work," she said, the flow of tears increasing. "I feel awful."

"It's all right. We all get sick sometimes."

Why now?
she fumed. She must look dreadful and she probably disgusted him, but he was too kind to say so. She could not look at him. She rested her head against the toilet bowl, squeezing her eyes shut. Tonight she was aware of every aspect of her body, every roll, every curve, every clinging fat cell. She felt dumpy, worn, and revolting; her dress like sausage wrapping. Now he would think she was a reckless party girl who threw up like a drunk teenager at night. When the truth was that she'd never gotten drunk in her life.

"I'm taking you to the hospital."

Cassie could hear him standing up and tossing the rag in the sink. She kept her eyes shut, hoping to convince him to listen to reason. "No, please. I'll be fine in a minute. I just want to go home. Adriana can help me."

He didn't hear her. He had disappeared into the bedroom to pull on a pair of jeans.

"After the hospital," he continued, "I'll take you back home and take care of you." He knelt in front of her and held her shoulders so that she was no longer slumped against the toilet. Her eyes remained closed. "Do you think you can walk or do you need me to carry you?"

Her eyes flew open and she gaped at him. Did he think he was Superman? Able to leap tall buildings? Able to lift cars and large women? It was bad enough that she'd embarrassed herself, she would not worsen the situation by having him struggle to carry her down to his car.

"I can walk," she said. And she would if it took the last breath in her.

On unsteady legs, she allowed Drake to half walk, half carry her to the elevator. She rested against the wood-paneled wall, watching Drake push the G button to the garage level. She let her eyes trail to his condo door and a sense of ending crept over her as the elevator door closed, as if the curtains were closing at the end of a great performance. The fantasy had finally finished.

* * *

Damn it!
He slammed down the phone, resisting the urge to rip the entire structure from the wall. Where was she? Why didn't she answer the phone? Three times he'd gathered the courage to call and three times she wasn't there. She was probably out with some guy, some guy who wasn't good enough for her. He took a deep breath. It was his own fault; he shouldn't have tried to get in touch with her, not yet at least.

He sat on the couch and rubbed his temples, fighting the headache that was racking his skull. No, he could not blame her. Cassie was too sweet to know what she did to others. That man on the other hand was an entirely different issue. Others had come and gone and this one would be no different, but he had to make sure. He looked at the various IDs scattered on his worn coffee table. He picked one up and frowned at the picture. Seemed he'd have to be Clay again.

* * *

"Food poisoning," Drake snorted as he helped Cassie into bed. "I'm not surprised. I half expected that we'd all need to be quarantined after that party."

Four hours after leaving Drake's place, they were back with the doctor's diagnosis and a prescription. He pulled the blankets up to her chin.

"Don't be mean," Cassie chided in a groggy voice. "It could be the flu."

"Are you feeling better?" He touched her forehead. His fingers were cold from the cool evening.

She felt drowsy and the world had a bad habit of spinning at odd times, but her stomach had quieted. "Yes, much."

"Then it wasn't the flu." He tucked the blanket around her until she felt as if she were inside a papoose. "You'd be feeling worse if that were the case."

"I suppose in your spare time you study the symptoms of gastrointestinal disorders versus influenza?"

He squatted next to her, grinning broadly. "Hmm. You're being sarcastic, that's a good sign."

"I wish you had taken me home. I hadn't planned on turning your place into an infirmary."

Drake rose to his feet. "Would you like some tea?"

"No."

"Then sleep."

"Don't go yet," she said when he raised his hand to turn off the lights.

His eyes darted to the door, then returned to her face. "Okay." He folded his arms. "Is there something you wanted to say?"

"No."

He leaned against the wall. "Then I'll just be here until you fall asleep."

"You could sit down."

"No, I'm okay."

She frowned. "Where are you going to sleep?"

"I'm not very tired. Don't worry about me."

He was lying. He looked exhausted. Of course, he had to be, she concluded. He didn't want to sleep in the same bed with her. She wished he hadn't brought her back; now even the memory of the night before would be soiled. She could tell by the restless way he moved his hands and shifted from one foot to the other that he was eager to leave.

"You can go," she said, sorry that she had asked him to stay. "I'm all right now."

"Are you sure?" His voice sounded concerned, but his eyes looked relieved.

"Yes."

He turned off the lights, leaving Cassie to stare into the darkness. Tonight she had accomplished her goal; he was no longer blind to the truth. They weren't meant to be. She just hadn't expected it to hurt so much.

* * *

Drake was exhausted but he couldn't sleep. He was afraid that if he shut his eyes the nightmare that had haunted him since his teens would return. He opened the fridge and grabbed a drink and a bag of plantain chips and then turned on the TV to keep himself from thinking. Cassie had really scared him. He had never felt such a sense of helplessness since he'd seen the viciousness of disease take his parents away from him.

He angrily flipped through the channels, then tossed down the remote. He shouldn't have been such a coward. He should have stayed with Cassie until she fell asleep, comforted her. But seeing her look so weak and fragile ripped at his insides until he felt as if they were bleeding. God, how she must despise him.

It wasn't just her illness that disturbed him. It was his reaction to it—the desperate need to do something, be something that would end her suffering. Looking at Cassie reminded him of how his father must have felt watching his mother die. In his mind he could hear the echo of his father's pleas, smell the musky stale scent of death stealing life, see the peeling brown wallpaper of the bedroom, and watch his strong father bent over his mother's prone form in the small bed weeping like a child. Those thoughts had passed through his memory and all he could think of was escape.

Perhaps that was why she had tried to leave him. Perhaps somehow she had sensed his weakness. He shook his head. No. She didn't know enough about him to come to that conclusion. He stood and shut off the TV. He had to do something proactive or thoughts would devour him and eat away at his conscience. He looked at the list of suggestions the doctor had given him. He would be the man his father hadn't been. Slowly the demons disappeared until another question only Cassie could answer rose in his mind.

Chapter 8

Cassie opened her eyes and saw the sun peering through the closed blinds, spilling onto the carpet. Her nose twitched at the calming scent of peppermint tea. She stretched and saw a picture on the side table—Drake with a young man and woman. She wondered if they were his family since they all seemed to share the same smile. She'd probably never find out since today she would be leaving. She saw her handbag on the dresser and took out her contacts and put on her glasses, ready to face the inevitable.

Feeling chilly, Cassie grabbed Drake's maroon terry robe that hung behind the door. It was too big, falling past her hands and dragging on the floor, but infinitely comfortable and warm. It smelled like cinnamon, and crumbled recipes filled the pockets. She walked through the living room and saw Drake in jeans, stretched out in a garden lounger on the balcony, smoking. She opened the sliding glass door and the crisp morning air slapped her face.

"It's too cold to be half dressed," she said.

He glanced at her, then out at the city, which hummed with its morning activities. "I like it. You didn't sleep long."

"No, I usually don't." She hesitated. "You're annoyed," she said, nodding to his cigarette.

He studied her for a moment, stubbed out his cigarette, then said, "Let me get you some tea."

"Look, I—"

He held up his hand. "Tea first."

She followed him into the kitchen and halted. It was gorgeous. The walls were painted a bright yellow, bronze pots hung overhead, a marble-top island stood in the middle, and tall, pine-nut cabinets lined two walls. A bowl of exotic fruit sat on the large counter. To the side was a breakfast nook with a country table and chairs. He pulled out a seat, gently pushed her paralyzed frame into it, then prepared the tea.

"Could I have some toast as well?" she asked carefully, wondering how far she could push his hospitality.

"Sorry, but you're strictly on a liquid diet today. Doctor's orders." She pouted when he handed her the tea. A small rueful smile touched his mouth. "Don't worry, I've stocked my cupboards with broth and we have more Popsicles than anyone could hope for."

She paused, unsure she had heard him properly. "We?"

He pulled out a chair and sat in front of her, his eyebrows raised in wonder. "You didn't think I'd let you enjoy this liquid diet all by yourself, did you?"

She lowered her eyes, embarrassed that he felt the need to go through all this trouble. She took a quick sip of her tea. "You don't have to do that."

"I know." He reached for the carton of cigarettes that sat near the tin of tea bags. He took one out and began tapping it against his palm in an absent gesture.

"Aren't you going to smoke that?" Cassie asked after a while.

"No, the smell might make you feel queasy."

"It won't," she assured him, not wanting him to feel put out. "I feel fine."

He frowned down at the object as if it were offensive. "It's a stupid habit anyway."

"You only do it when you're annoyed."

"Hmm."

"And right now you're annoyed."

He tapped the cigarette against his palm and sighed in irritation. "Are you ready to talk?"

"About what?" She wasn't trying to be dense, but she wasn't sure which aspect he wanted to talk about. The fact that the possibility of them having a relationship was similar to a shark dancing or the fact that last night she had almost puked on him?

"Why you felt it necessary to crawl out of my apartment when you felt like death."

"I didn't feel like death," she muttered with resentment.

He continued to stare at her. His eyes intense but unreadable.

She tugged on the cuffs of his robe. She didn't know how to begin. She didn't want to begin. "I'm sure you think me rude, wearing your robe like this, but I was cold."

"Cassie, you're free to wear whatever you want, especially me, but that's not the point. Answer the question."

"It's so embarrassing," she hedged.

He waited, his tapping becoming more impatient.

She took a long swallow of her tea as if it were stiff bourbon, then placed it aside. "Timothy hated to see me sick," she explained in a rush. "He would call me a fat, disgusting slob and leave the house until I got well. He hated weakness, and sickness was a weakness. I didn't want you to see me that way."