Authors: Chantilly White
Her wool-blend, long-sleeved dress in forest green skimmed
her torso in form-fitting perfection. With her hair piled on top of her head, the
keyhole back and plunging neckline showed enough skin to entice, and the full,
swirly skirt ended just above her knees. She'd paired it with her favorite
knee-high black boots in deference to the coolness of the night. Tiny gold
Celtic love knots glowed in her ears.
"Ready?" Scott asked, and she followed him to his
car.
An aerospace engineer, Scott's dinner conversation could be
scintillating when he talked about anything other than work, which tended to
make Allison's eyes glaze over. Happily, he was in the mood to discuss sports,
so they spent most of their time debating the prospects for the teams in the
upcoming Super Bowl and the likely moves of various free agents during the off
season.
Allison dipped another bite of lobster in melted butter and
considered her companion. The low lighting gleamed in Scott's liquid brown
eyes. He wasn't as muscular as Ben, and at six-feet tall, Allison topped him by
several inches in her boots, but he had strong, aristocratic features, a
sensual mouth, and wicked hands that knew their way around a woman's body.
She'd enjoyed those hands several times. And she knew his
'whatever' on the phone had referenced another round of. . . hands. She hadn't
decided if said hands were on the agenda for the evening or not, but she hadn't
discounted the possibility. Yet.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
After dinner, Scott took her to an indie film showing at Cal
State Fullerton. The movie didn't hold her attention, which gave her far too
much time to think about Ben, whose face didn't seem to want to vacate her
mental real estate, even after nearly a week of zero contact. She didn't want a
guy who wouldn't even give her the courtesy of a phone call taking up that
space. Damn it. As the movie progressed, she found her irritation with the him
growing.
In fact, it was making her sick to her stomach. No simple
lunch date had ever churned her up the way he had and then left her without a
backward glance or second thought. How could she have been so wrong? The Kelly
Family Intuition. Right.
Scott's thumb rubbing the inside of her palm increased her
irritation instead of soothing. She pulled her fingers away to rub both damp
hands along the skirt of her dress. She didn't feel like being touched.
How long was this fricking movie, anyway? And why was it so
hot in here? Sweat beaded her upper lip and brow, and her stomach rolled in a
greasy ball. She couldn't sit still. Swallowing heavily, she prayed for the
film to end.
Leaning over to her, Scott whispered, "Are you all
right?"
Lips clamped tightly shut, she nodded briefly, trying to
banish Ben and her queasy belly from her thoughts.
Finally, the credits rolled, and they made their way out to
the fresh night air. Allison breathed deeply, feeling instantly better out of
the overheated theater. When Scott took her hand again, she didn't let go.
They chatted about the movie on the short drive
home—or rather, Scott talked and Allison pretended to listen, her mind
still full of Ben. Headlights flashed across her vision, making her head hurt.
Her annoyance with Ben and the motion of the car wasn't helping her stomach,
but Scott hinted heavily at wanting to come inside. She decided she might just
let him. The movie hadn't been as long as she'd thought, and she clearly still
needed a distraction. She hadn't had a good. . . distraction since before her
party on New Year's Eve. It was still shy of nine-thirty when Scott pulled into
her driveway.
He came around to open her car door—Ben wasn't the
only gentleman around—and pulled her to her feet by both hands. Wrapping
his arm around her waist on the way up the walk, she found herself grateful for
the support. Her muscles seemed watery, unaccountably weak. She must be more
tired than she'd realized.
Scott backed her into the front door and leaned in for a
kiss, but she pressed her hand against his chest.
"Wait," she said, swallowing.
There was so much saliva in her mouth suddenly, and not from
sexual anticipation. The sick oiliness had returned, coursing through her belly
in a vile undulation not unlike a bout of seasickness she'd experienced as a
child.
"Come on, babe," Scott said, brushing his hands
into her hair and loosening the up-do she'd spent forty minutes arranging
earlier that evening. He tried to kiss her again, but she evaded his mouth.
"No, I-I'm sorry, Scott. I'm not feeling well."
Dropping his hands to rub her arms up and down, he leaned
back to study her face. "Are you sure?"
She wished he'd stop touching her. Stepping out of his arms,
she nodded carefully. She breathed shallowly, in through her nose, out through
her mouth. "Yes, I'm sorry. Another time, okay?"
"'K." He dropped a kiss on her damp forehead.
"Feel better."
"Thanks."
Scott turned to leave. Over his shoulder, Allison watched
the orange hippie bus pull into Sally's driveway. A surge of anger momentarily
conquered the queasiness. Ben stepped out of the vehicle looking right at her
and lifted his hand in a friendly wave, just as if he hadn't kept her waiting
for six whole days.
Hmph.
Perfect timing. Maybe she'd march right over and give Mr.
Ben Turner a piece of her mind. She waved Scott on his way, never taking her
eyes off Ben, though she could hardly make out his features in the pitch-black
night, his face barely illuminated by the streetlight at the edge of Sally's
driveway.
No, she wouldn't have to go to him. Ben was on the move,
coming straight toward her. The nausea rolled back on a surge of nerves. What
should she say? What should she do? What if he tried to kiss her? Her stomach
lurched with the thought, and her body broke out in a full sweat. What was
wrong with her? She'd never had anticipation—either of an impending fight
or of impending sex—make her feel so ill with nerves.
"Hey," he said when he'd reached her.
"Hey," she said, her voice coming out in a
tremulous whisper that embarrassed her right down to her toes. Clearing her
throat, she pressed a hand to her roiling belly. Tried again. "Hey."
Rocking back on his heels, he scanned her top to bottom.
"Nice dress. Date?"
"Uh-huh."
Oh, good, Allison, way to sock it to him.
All the words she'd planned to hurl at him had
mysteriously vanished.
Cocking his head to one side, Ben peered at her in the glow
of her porch light. Its white glare sent a piercing shaft through her brain.
Everything seemed over-bright, painful, and she was cold suddenly, shaking with
it, but sweat ran down her back and between her breasts.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "You look a little
green around the gills."
"Mmm," she managed. "Fine. I—"
Oh. Oh, God. No. No-no-no-no-no. . .
"Allison—" he began, but she waved a hand to
cut him off.
"Listen, I'm, uh, pretty tired, and. . ."
She stopped, clapping a hand to her mouth. Her belly
cramped, a vicious twist that almost made her cry out. She needed him to leave,
now, needed to make an escape, because she was suddenly, desperately certain of
one terrible fact. She was about to be very sick.
Half turning toward her door, she gasped, "I'm sorry,
I—"
"Allison?"
But it was too late. The nausea she'd first noted in the
movie theater slammed full-force through her body, and she staggered, nearly falling
as she lurched to the nearest shrub beside her door. She propped both hands
against the side of the house for support and was hideously, violently ill.
Tremors wracked her body and bile burned her throat and
finally she understood.
Not nerves. Or anger. Food poisoning.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Whoa," Ben said, leaping back out of the way.
"Uh, hey. Um."
Not sure what to do, he stood helplessly for a moment,
watching her slender body heave before his brain kicked in. Returning to her
side, he placed a hand on her back and gently brushed her hair, loosened from
its clip, away from her face.
"God," she gasped between ragged breaths,
"don't touch me."
"Shhh. It's okay, I've got you. Don't worry."
"Go away, Ben! I—"
Another bout of sickness cut her off, but he ignored her
words regardless. He waited until there was a lull in the action, making sure
she could stand on her own. Mind leaping ahead, he surveyed the scene. Her bag
was on the ground by the door. He picked it up and pawed through it—why
did women carry so much crap?—until he found her keys. Unlocking her
door, he placed her bag inside, made sure there was no alarm to turn off, then
went back to her. Head hanging, supported only by her hands on the wall, she
shook with the after-effects of emptying her stomach.
"All finished?" he asked, keeping his voice low
and gentle.
A moan was his only response. He grimaced, feeling for her.
She coughed and gagged and spit the nastiness from her mouth.
Rubbing a hand lightly on her back, he said, "Can you
walk?"
"Of course I can walk," she croaked. Her teeth
were starting to chatter.
Pushing against the wall, she straightened a bit, still
hunched protectively over what he imagined was a fiercely aching stomach. Her
face awash with tears, she took one wobbly step. Her knees buckled, but he was
there, lifting her off her feet and into his arms. She didn't even protest,
which worried him more than the vomiting.
Instead, she hung limply, her head against his chest as he
maneuvered them through her front door and kicked it shut with his foot. The
heat coming off her baked through the layers of both their clothing.
Fever.
"Room?" he asked.
Allison lifted a hand that shook to point vaguely down the
hallway. Her house, a small rambler, didn't have that many choices to pick from,
so he found it on the second try.
Shouldering her door all the way open, he stepped inside and
placed her carefully on the edge of her bed. Arms clasped around her middle,
she swayed slightly, her head down and eyes closed. Her lush, mobile mouth
pulled in a grimace at the corners.
"Ah, do you have a trashcan or a bucket somewhere? Just
in case?"
"Garage," she whispered, but in the next moment
she lurched shakily to her feet and tottered toward the bathroom in her
high-heeled boots.
Ben followed her stumbling progress, his hands held out to
catch her in case she fell. She collapsed at the side of the toilet, barely
making it before the cycle started all over again. All he could do was hold her
hair and wait.
Finished, for the moment at least, she rested her head
against the bowl and rasped, "Please go away. I don't want you here."
"I know, baby," he said, keeping his voice as
gentle as his touch as he stroked her forehead. "But I can't leave you
like this. Just pretend I'm not here. I'll take care of you. It's okay. You
don't have to worry about anything."
Her lips trembled and weak tears threaded down her cheeks,
but she closed her eyes on a groan and didn't speak any more.
Kneeling beside her, he said, "Let me get your boots
off."
Her shoes were spattered in muck and had tracked some of it
across her bedroom floor in her hurry to get to the bathroom. He dealt with the
boots first, carefully unzipping their length and pulling them off her legs.
She half-dozed where she sat, so he took the chance to do some clean up, taking
her boots out to the garage and finding her cleaning supplies so he could deal
with her bedroom carpet. He found her bucket, as well, and placed it beside her
bed for later.
Once those small chores were handled, he got snoopier,
locating and digging through her medicine chest. He grabbed her thermometer,
some aspirin, and filled a sport bottle with water, all the while taking note
of her living space. Comfortable and clean without being psycho about it, that
was his impression. A small clutch of fresh flowers, he assumed from her
garden, sat in a vase on her kitchen table, and a pile of books huddled on the
counter, waiting to be read. The colors in each room suited her—rich,
deep, vibrant. No wimpy pastels for Allison.
Her bedroom particularly appealed to him. Dark wood
furniture, sapphire and emerald fabrics on the bed, windows and rocking chair,
hints of scarlet and canary yellow for contrast. It should have made the room
seem dark and cave-like, but instead it felt both warm and soothing.
Leaving the supplies on her night table, he went back to the
bathroom to find her on the tail end of yet another episode of illness.
Crying in earnest now, pale as the white-painted ceremonial
faces he'd seen on tribesmen during his travels, she wiped her mouth with the
back of her hand and refused to look at him when he called her name softly. She
was shivering violently, but when he put his hand to her forehead, her skin
blazed with heat.
"Okay, honey, let's get you comfortable," he
murmured.
With a wet wash cloth, he wiped her face as gently as he
would a baby's, taking care around her lips, which already looked dry and
cracked. He cleaned the tendrils of hair that had gotten in the way the best he
could, not wanting to risk getting her entire head wet when she still shivered
so hard.
Too weak to fight him, she stared dully at the opposite wall
while he tended her. Her nightgown hung on the back of the bathroom door, a
welcome surprise—he'd expected something silky and frothy from Victoria's
Secret. Instead, he found heavy red flannel with reindeer frolicking all over
it and the words 'I Don't Give A Buck' stitched across the front.
Getting her into it was another matter. He stood looking
down at her, the gown in his hands, and schooled himself to see her naked
without reacting. As ill as she was it shouldn't be hard, but. . .