Page 18 of Taken Off Camera
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “No financial offers, remember? That was our agreement.”
His shoulders tense, the expensive fabric of his sweater pulling taut across them. “You’re being stubborn.”
“I’m being practical.” My stomach rolls, and I swallow hard against the nausea. “I’ve had fevers before. It’ll pass.”
GentlemanX falls silent, but his disapproval radiates through the screen. He adjusts his cuffs, the fidgety motion speaking of restrainedfrustration.
“At least promise you’ll rest after our call,” he says at last.
The room wobbles again, colors blurring at the edges of my vision. “Of course.”
“And call your friend, Saint, if it gets worse.”
I nod, the motion sending another spike of dizziness through me. The lamp light feels too bright, its warm glow becoming painful for my retinas. Sweat beads at my hairline despite the chills wracking my body.
“You need to lie down.” His command comes from far away, though the laptop sits inches from me. “Now, Elliot.”
“I’m okay.” The words slur. “Tell me more about your pregnant brother-in-law.”
“Elliot.” His concern transforms into alarm. “Your eyes are glassy. How high is your fever right now?”
The question penetrates the thickening fog in my brain. “Not sure. Might be higher.”
“End this call and go to bed. Right now.”
My fingers fumble for my water glass, determined to prove I’m fine. “After we finish our call.”
“Dammit, Elliot!” His hand slams down on his table, the impact vibrating through my speakers. “This isn’t a negotiation. You need medical attention.”
His vehemence startles me.
“Okay, we’ll go to the bed.” I plant my palms on the table to push myself up, and the world tilts as I rise.
Colors smear across my vision, swirling and bleeding together. The floor beneath me drops away, gravity shifting sideways, and my legs buckle, refusing to support my weight.
“Elliot?” GentlemanX’s shout echoes, as if coming from the bottom of a well. “Elliot!”
A roaring fills my ears, drowning out his words. My body slips out of alignment, both weightless and leaden. The last thing I register is the table edge rushing toward my face, and then?—
Nothing.
5
Consciousness returns in fragments of disjointed sensations floating in darkness.
Soft cotton beneath my fingers. The distant hum of traffic outside my window. A cool cloth covering my eyes and forehead. A throbbing ache on the side of my head. The scent of unfamiliar cologne mingled with the medicinal sting of mentholated ointment. My tongue feels swollen, my throat parched as desert sand.
Second comes the realization I’m not alone.
“Saint?” I ask in foggy confusion.
I don’t remember calling him to come take care of me, though, and he doesn’t wear cologne. My heart accelerates as panic surges through me, and I reach upto pull away the cloth blocking my vision, needing to identify who’s in my apartment.
A large, warm hand catches my wrist mid-motion, holding it with gentle but unmovable pressure.
“Don’t,” comes a deep rumble beside me. “Your fever’s still high. The cloth is helping.”
I freeze. That’s not Saint, though the man is just as familiar to me. I’ve just never heard him in person. He’s always been separated from me by my laptop screen.
