Page 80 of Hot Commodity (Banks/Kincaid Family 1)

As soon as she was out of sight, he drove to Cameron's.

As irritated as he was with Olivia, Boston didn't think he could actually blame her. It was hard to watch Cameron when he was down. No woman should have to put up with a man who couldn't get over the fact he was human and hadn't been able save a manic depressive.

Boston really didn't think he should have to put up with it either. But he had no idea how to slap his friend back to reality and tell him to wake up and notice the world around him. Sienna was gone, and Olivia was here.

Olivia was better looking anyway. And she wasn't creepy-quiet like Sienna had been. Cameron was damn lucky for stumbling across Livy; he should definitely put a bigger effort into trying to keep her around, instead of moping about something that happened a full decade ago.

Boston had lost someone around the same time, and look at him. Had he turned into a bummed-out alcoholic? No. Did he worry the family by plunging into depression? Hell no. He'd picked up and carried on. And if there were some nights when he locked himself alone in a room and filled himself with aching, bitter sweet memories, jacking off until he nearly went blind, well, then no one else had to know about it.

"I'm getting real tired of picking up your sorry ass every time you stumble," Boston muttered as he parked in driveway. He cut the engine and stared up at the house for a moment. Letting out another tired sigh, he exited the car and entered the house.

"Cam?" he called into the dim interior. There weren't many lights on; he fumbled a minute before he found the wall switch.

"Hey, Banks?" he called again and frowned as he started back to his cousin's den, which was Cameron's main moping place.

But that room was dark too. Feeling a finger of concern skate up the back of his neck, Boston started up the stairs. He turned on lights as he went, glancing into every corridor he passed.

Not caring for the anxious feeling that washed through him, Boston yelled a little louder, "Damn it, Cameron. Where the hell are you hiding? I know you're here. All your cars are outside." He hoped his cousin would pop out from somewhere and say, except the one Olivia took, so he could explain that it had returned.

But no one answered. He made a frustrated growling sound. It wasn't like Cameron to use the silent treatment.

"I know she's gone," he called, not sure why he was bringing it up. They might be best friends, but neither of them discussed major personal problems. Cameron tended to drink his away, and Boston locked his so deep inside no one knew about them.

But maybe, for some reason, Cam wanted to discuss this.

"Hell, I'll even drink one with you if you want," he coaxed, thinking that would surely draw the man out.

Fear hit him when nothing happened. The house was too quiet— silent as death—so he panicked. Cameron was here; he knew it. But where was he? Starting back on the ground floor, Boston methodically went through every room.

He finally found his best friend in the master bathroom on the second floor, passed out next to the toilet. Boston smelled him first. Even as he flipped on the light, he knew what he was going to find. But he still wasn't prepared for the severity of alarm that struck him when he spotted the drunk.

Cameron looked dead. His skin was gray, and he wasn't moving at all.

"Cam!" Boston fell to his knees at Cameron's side and pressed his fingers to the cold, clammy skin on his cousin's neck, waiting to feel a pulse. When he finall

y felt a light yet slow thump, he nearly wilted in relief. "Cameron," he said steadily and shook his shoulders. "Wake up."

Cameron did move then, but only to slump limply against Boston's leg. Unable to stand the stench, Boston reached forward and flushed the toilet. But as he did so, Cameron's body heaved, and he vomited some more.

"Jesus," Boston breathed and hurried to position his unconscious friend so the outpouring was partially aimed into the toilet.

When it sounded like he was choking, Boston moved quickly to reposition him before he suffocated on bile. All the while, Cameron remained comatose. He didn't wake up once. Not when Boston used toilet paper to wipe chunks from his mouth or even when he pulled Cam into his lap and rocked him.

He'd never seen anyone so sick before. Or look so dead. It scared him. Something was horribly, awfully wrong and he instinctively knew that if he didn't get help quick, his friend wasn't going to make it through the night.

His voice shook as he gave the emergency operator Cam's address.

Gritting his teeth, Boston cradled Cameron closer and cursed. "Stupid, selfish bastard," he muttered. "Don't you dare die on me. I will never forgive you for this if you drop dead in my arms, you son of a bitch."

Though Cameron didn't respond to the muttered ravings, Boston figured he'd still gotten through. At least Cameron had stopped throwing up and wasn't in jeopardy of choking by the time paramedics arrived.

Nineteen

Cameron woke to the steady, calming beep of a heart monitor. He felt the IV next, plugged into his wrist like some kind of electrical socket to keep him running. Finally, the warm pressure of someone holding his hand entered his realm of consciousness. Knowing those comforting fingers anywhere, he managed a painful, cracked smile.

"Mom," he croaked and turned his face to the right as he opened his eyes.

"Oh, my sweet baby boy." Though tears clotted her lashes, she smiled and tightened her grip encouragingly.

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