Page 26 of Feuds and Interludes
I shook my head. Yeah, my band knew I had to make some “lifestyle changes,” and they’d seen me a little more tired than usual, but if they knew how terrified I was that Imight space out or, worse, fucking collapse, they’d insist we slow down, that I take time to get well, and that wasn’t an option. We had momentum going, and we had no time to rest if Stellar was going to remain relevant. I needed our band in everyone’s faces, everywhere they turned, for as long as it took for us to get to that level I knew we were capable of.
“Boone, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I told you. I choked on some water.”
“Sure. And before? You just plowed into me for no reason?”
Why I had to default to asshole when I was terrified, I had no idea.
“Maybe it was your giant ego in the way.” But I couldn’t add the sarcasm necessary to pull it off. I coughed some more and held on to the sink to keep from falling. Suddenly, all I could think of was crawling into bed, how nice it would feel to pull the covers over my head and pretend this wasn’t happening.
“I’m going to get Morrison if you’re just going to be difficult.”
“No! Please.” I couldn’t let anyone else see me like this. Shane hated me anyway, what did it matter what he thought? “I’ll be okay, I just need—” I thought I could get downstairs to my protein bar, and then I’d be fine, like all the other times.
Instead, I fell into Shane’s arms.
He grunted in surprise but took my weight with no effort. I looked into his eyes, intending to apologize—and that was all, folks. My legs ceased to function for a brief enough moment, and I finally got to experience what it felt like to be close to Shane Butler. Later, I would remember thinking that his lips looked even sexier up close, that the tendons in his neck would be perfect to nibble on, that he wasreallystrong.
“Dammit, Boone,” he muttered, and he managed to get an arm around my back and one of mine around his neck. “Let’s get you to the bed and we’ll figure out what to do.”
I desperately wanted to fight him, but I had no smart words. He got the door open and he dragged me over to the bed. Morrison had mentioned that he kept a bed up here in case he or any of his guests worked late and didn’t feel like trekking in the dark all the way back to the lodge. I’d be eternally grateful for his forethought.
Shane lowered me to the bed and lifted my legs onto it. I was about to thank him when he spoke angrily.
“Maybe you should lay off the shit. If I’d known I was giving up our time with Morrison so you could get high?—”
“I’m not—” I could see why he thought that. My eyes filled with traitorous tears, and I channeled my disgust with myself into my words. “Will you bring me my bag from downstairs?”
“Why? So you can take more?” He grabbed my arm and pushed up my sleeve before I could yank it away, and he seemed surprised to not find evidence of his accusation.
“My bag. Please, Shane. Then you can go back to hating me with the fire of a thousand suns.” I turned my head, hoping he wouldn’t catch the tear that escaped.
He started to protest, but I rolled over onto my side and tried to remember the meditation I’d learned from my nurse practitioner.
Finally, I heard his heavy steps pound down the stairs, so I pulled out my phone. My blood sugar was now even lower at 67.Shit. My heart thudded, and I prayed he did what I asked. In the meantime, I berated myself.
Thirty years old and you can’t even take care of yourself.
You’re an embarrassment.
You’re fucking everything up.
“Here.” He tossed my duffel onto the bed and stepped back. “I’m only staying to make sure you’re not going to OD, but you can bet your ass I’m going to?—”
I pulled out the protein bar and with shaky hands, I attempted to peel the wrapper down, only I couldn’t get a grip as my fingers were wet with my tears. I tried using my teeth, which was a waste of time, and I was about to throw the damn thing across the room when Shane took it from me. Gently.
“Here,” he said softly, pulling out his Leatherman tool and cutting the wrapper open. He peeled it down and handed it back to me.
I might have said thanks, but I sniffled at the same time so I’m not sure what sound came out. I took a bite, my stomach roiling at the taste in my mouth, and deliberately chewed slowly to make sure I didn’t choke on it, since I still felt that tickle in my chest like I might start coughing again.
“You want me to get you some orange juice? Or like a Sprite?”
My eyes shot to his. “Please, don’t say anything. They don’t know.”
“What? That you’re diabetic? What’s the big fucking deal?”
“No,” I said, holding up a hand so I could finish chewing the next bite. “My band knows I’m having some health issues, but they don’t know it’s this bad. Only my gran. I can’t tell them.”
