Page 68 of Her Irish Savage

“Go to sleep, little girl.”

“I’m not tired,” she says, slurring like a professional drunk. But before she can argue further, she yawns. “Keep me company?” she asks.

I want to. I want to peel off my clothes and climb under the covers and rail her till we’re both blind, until Dowd’s threat seems like an idiotic joke and not a legitimate bid to steal the Crew out from under her.

But more than that, I want to protect Fiona. I want to keep her safe. I want to be closer to her than I’ve ever been before. So I lean over and brush a kiss on her forehead. “You need your rest. We’ll have a full day tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?” Her held tilts. I’m pretty sure she’s shooting forrebellious, but she miscalculates badly and lands onsweet.

“We’re going to the doctor.”

“I don’t like doctors.”

“No one likes doctors.”

“Why do we have to go? I’m not sick.”

I stroke her hair off her forehead. “That’s exactly what we’ll check for. Make sure neither of us can pass anything to the other. Because I won’t be satisfied with johnnies for much longer.”

“You don’t need to wear one. I’ll be fine.”

I head to the jacks, but I’m not going after a string of foilsquares. Instead, I shake some Advil out of a bottle. I fill a glass of water. By the time I bring her both, she’s fallen asleep, lying on her back, arms and legs spread like she’s trying to fill as much of the bed as possible.

I leave the tablets on the nightstand, and then I head out to the living room with my phone. First, I need to see if Jenn’s doctor is still in practice. I remember the woman’s name, and I can picture the medical building we visited for sonograms.

After, I’ll find out what Mike Barbieri’s been up to for the last twenty-five years.

And then I’ll try to figure out what leverage the feds have on Aran Dowd.

25

FIONA

Fuck Madden Kelly. And fuck the fucking chlamydia he gave me as a fucking going-away gift.

It had to be him. I’ve never let anyone else go bareback.

Doctor Prescott is matter-of-fact. Three million people a year get infected. It’s easily cured with a week of antibiotics. I should keep taking my birth control pills. Contact all my partners from the last six months. Test again in three months. Have my partner wear a condom for the next week.

There’s no partner for the next week.

At first, I tell Patrick I’m hung-over after he fed me all those milkshakes. I go to bed, and he goes out for a run. He’s started doing that every afternoon, leaving the apartment for a couple of hours. When he gets home, he watches something in the living room, keeping the TV so low I can barely hear it.

Next, I say the meds make me sick to my stomach. He makes me plain rice, which would be wonderful if I really felt like I was going to puke, but instead it just makes me feel moresorry for myself. The next day, when I tell him I’m still sick, he goes out to the store and buys fresh bread for toast, along with applesauce and bananas. I eat everything he fixes for me, but I’m starving by bedtime. I don’t dare tell him I’m lying.

Then, I pretend to have a migraine. He leaves me in the cool bedroom with the shades pulled, and he brings me fresh water and painkillers every four hours. Sometimes I swallow the pills. Sometimes I palm them and flush them down the toilet.

Patrick’s taking antibiotics too, even though he wore a rubber. The doctor said it was a good precaution. If he’s feeling any ill effects from his own meds, he doesn’t say a word.

Each night, he sleeps with me in the big bed, but that’s all we do—sleep. I’m grateful for his arm around me. It weighs me down, anchoring me to the mattress, keeping me from floating off into my usual nightmares.

I feel so stupid for getting this disease. I feel dirty, no matter how many times I take a shower. I feel ashamed, especially because I might have made Patrick sick too.

We finish our packs of baby-blue capsules at the same time. Patrick goes out on a run and comes back with a bouquet of white daisies. I put them in water and head back to the bedroom for a nap.

When I wake, I take yet another shower. I go to my closet, but the leather and lace make me want to puke. I tug open my dresser drawers, but the options there aren’t any better.

Instead, I sneak open the drawer Patrick is using. I find one of his T-shirts and a pair of his boxer-briefs. I remember that I still have his hoodie and his sweatpants hanging in the closet, the ones I wore when we left Philadelphia.

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