Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
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.