Page 7 of Constantly Cotton
He’d soiled himself once in the three days, but that seemed to have taken care of the last thing he ate, and Cotton and the others had no problem with poop. They worked in an industry in which they all had to monitor their food and fluid intake to the last gram before they worked a scene so they didn’t poop on camera, and accidents still happened. Skin and sheets washed. It was a fact of life.
After that one accident happened, though, most of his fluids seemed to be sweated away, although Cotton had needed to clean up after that too. And it was funny, he thought, wiping down the unconscious man between the crease of his ass and under his balls. Nobody really thought porn could prepare a person to do something as important as nurse someone back to health, but not having a problem with body fluids—and having the upper body strength of a small bull—had really been a help during the last few days. He very carefully, because he respected that these bits were tender, wiped down the patient’s testicles and then pulled back his foreskin and made sure his penis was clean too.
That was the last part of the tour; he’d started at the head and sponged down the hair so the oil didn’t build up and worked his way to the feet and then rinsed out the water and done the privates. Lance hadn’t told him that, but he’d showered enough times before going on set to know how to wash all the parts for a close-up so that he gave serious thought to what you didn’t want touching what with only a soapy washcloth between them.
He finished up with a towel to all the points that could get moist and yeasty. Lance had used that word, and it had made every guy in the apartment go “Ew!” so Cotton was particularly careful not to let it happen on his watch.
And finally he was done, pleased with the fact that while he’d been fascinated with the patient currently taking up his bed, he hadn’t ogled or objectified—or counted scars, although the temptation had definitely been there.
Jason Constance, hero and badass, was an exceptionally well-made man.
Cotton’s gaze went up to his face, to take in the high cheekbones, square jaw, and the dark fringe of lashes one more time, and he gasped when he encountered wide brown eyes instead.
The man who’d been exhausted and feverish for three days was staring at Cotton, eyes fastened on his face hungrily, like Cotton was food when they all knew he hadn’t eaten in quite a while.
“Hello there,” Cotton said, surprised. “You’re awake?Areyou awake? Do you need anything? I should call Lance. He’s asleep, though, and he’swrecked. I mean, since you’re not dying, maybe we could let him sleep. Should we call Henry? Should we call Henry’s bosses, because they’re the ones who stashed you here?” Cotton stared back at those big brown eyes, eyes going liquid and half-mast in a face that seemed—under the beard and the lines of pain around the mouth and nose—almost sweet.
“Wow,” the patient rasped. “You are really pretty.”
Cotton grinned, surprised and delighted. “Thank you!” Carefully he stowed his sponge-bath supplies on the dresser they’d been using as a surgical table. He stood and stretched and then looked at Jason and sighed. “I hope you still feel that way in a few minutes. I put bed pads underneath you for the sponge bath, and they’re wet now. I need to change them, and if your pain meds are wearing off, that might not be fun for either of us. Are you up for that?”
Jason Constance’s eyes sharpened, and he took a deep breath—and coughed. Infection, Lance had said. Fluid in the lungs was a sign. But apparently Henry hadn’t been full of shit when he’d said Jason was a hero.
“Yeah. Knock yourself out.”
“Excellent!” Cotton gave the man his best smile. Anybody who could wake up after three days and tell Cotton he was pretty got all the good things.
Cotton had done this a couple of times during the last few days. He hadn’t stopped working out just because he no longer worked porn, so it had been relatively easy, once Lance had shown him the trick to it. It waseasierif he had help, but he was pretty sure he was the only one in the apartment at the moment.
“Okay,” he said, mostly to himself. “Here. I’m going to roll you over to your side, the one with the bandage on the arm.”
“Left,” Jason said, and when Cotton put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hips, he felt Jason tightening his muscles to help Cotton out.
“Yup! And when I get you there, I’m going to pull out all your bed pads and replace them so we don’t have to burn my mattress. Then I’m going to rock you to the side with the bandage around the waist—”
“There’s a bandage around my waist?” Jason mumbled, and it looked like he raised his head to see, but it fell back down again weakly.
“Yeah. You got shot there. Everybody’s going to want to talk about it. Anyway, I’ll rock you back on that side and straighten the pads.”
“Everybody?” Jason asked as Cotton rocked him to his left for the first turn.
Cotton tugged at the pads, pulled them out from under his side, and told him, “Stay there.” He bagged the used ones and spread the next set onto the bed. “Yes, everybody,” he said as he rocked him back. Jason was a good patient—allowed his body to be moved and held the position he needed to. Maybe it was just a change after the unresponsiveness of the last three days, but Cotton was grateful.
“Who’s everybody?” Pause. “Wait—did you say I’m in your bed?”
Cotton spread the pads, making sure there was some extra on the side to pull toward him after Jason rolled the other way. “Everybody is Jackson Rivers and Henry, I think. They’ll confab with your guy, Burton, and decide whether or not we’ve got snipers and assassins pointed here.” He put his hands on Jason’s hip and shoulder again. “Okay, pulling on this side usually hurts. Your arm doesn’t like moving more than it doesn’t like getting smushed up against the mattress. Are you ready?”
“Yeah, sure.” Jason helped this time too, and Cotton rolled him so he was facing the wall and pulled the bed pad straight.
“God, this issomuch easier when you’re awake. Seriously. I mean, if we can get you to stand up to pee, my life will begravy!”
Jason made a choked sound. “Jesus! What have I been doing instead?”
“Oh, honey,” Cotton said, rolling him so he was lying on his back again. “Don’t ask.” With that, he reached to the bottom of the bed and pulled up the medical-grade sheets and blanket that Lance had smuggled out of the hospital when it became clear that Jason was running through their linens faster than they could keep up with in the apartment complex’s four-machine laundromat downstairs.
“Gah!” Jason covered his eyes with his hand. “So embarrassing. First time in ten years I’m in a pretty boy’s bed, and I’ve been soiling his sheets!”
Cotton paused in the act of covering him up, and a number of things occurred to him in the span of a heartbeat.
