by Amy Cook
“I love these dimples,” he murmured, before softly dropping his forehead to meet hers. “You’re part of our family now. You were the moment I took ya in as my charge. Maybe even from the moment ya asked Pops to sell ya that motorcycle.” His head lifted and he slipped his fingers through her hair. “And now, there’s no gettin’ out of it even if ya wanted to. You’re kinda stuck with me, ’cause I ain’t lettin’ ya go now.” He enjoyed the way her misty, deep green eyes sparkled with joy, just for him.
“I kind of love everything about you, did you know that?” She whispered her confession, gaze dropping to his lips, and in that moment he recognized just how perfectly her body molded to his. His arm, currently wrapped around her, squeezed just a little tighter, his hand splaying to rest over her ribs.
“I love your rare smiles,” she murmured, one delicate finger tracing just underneath his bottom lip. “I love having you randomly show up and steal my bathroom. I love how much you love my cooking. I love feeling like I'm drowning in your eyes when you look at me. I love your sarcastic comments about anything and everything, and feeling so very safe because I know you always have my back.”
That was a whole lotta love. And it did a whole lotta crazy stuff to his insides. He stared at her for a long moment, and she blushed, biting her bottom lip, obviously embarrassed about her little speech. He couldn't help the groan that escaped his throat as he carefully set her down on her feet.
“The things ya do to me, kid. They should be illegal.” He helped her out of her jacket, circling around her and drinking in her appearance. “So should the way ya make every outfit look so distractin’ly enticin’, it’s insane.”
Amiel blushed, biting her lip and sending him a mischievous glance. Harley stepped closer, his thumb pulling her lip from her teeth.
“Stop it; you’re makin’ me wanna do entirely ungentlemanly things right now.”
“Is that so?” she asked coyly. He took her hand, that had moments ago been touching his lips, and brought it down to rest over his heart. With his jacket open, only the material of his soft t-shirt lay between her and the rhythm of his heart. He had no doubt she could feel every accelerated beat of it. He slid his fingers across the soft skin on the back of her hand, painfully reminded of how soft the skin at the back of her neck had been when he had secretly pressed his lips there earlier.
“Every time I’m near ya, every time I think of ya.” He pressed her hand more firmly over his heart. “That's what ya do to me.”
He watched as her lips parted slightly, and when her eyes rose to meet his own, his heart kicked up another notch at what he saw coming to life in their depths. Confidence. And not just any confidence: a wicked confidence he'd only seen a hint of in the past flickered back at him. It was the dawning of the kind of confidence a beautiful woman has when she realizes her effect on those around her. It warmed him deeper than any amount of sun ever could, and he knew it would become a goal from that moment on, to make that flickering grow till it rivaled the sun.
“I'll have to keep that in mind. Turn my sock-rocking down a notch,” she whispered, eyes again fluttering down to his lips. “Wouldn't want you having a heart attack or something.”
He smirked. “You can rock my socks any day of the week ya wanna, darlin’.”
She studied him for a moment, before her eyes lit with determination. Her hands slid up his chest, neck, and finally clutched deep in his hair. The baser side of him practically purred when she stood on tiptoe to lean close to his ear, lips barely brushing the skin.
“Is that a challenge, Harley?” The tip of her tongue touched his ear. The switch between his coherent thought and his Hybrid side flipped off. He shivered, twisting so that she was backed up and pressed between him and the door. One hand leaned against the doorframe, the other threaded through her soft hair. He buried his nose in it, sniffing deeply.
Heaven help him, but he thrived on her scent. How had he survived for so long without it? He drew in another deep breath of it, and she seemed to melt in his arms. His nose skimmed along her ear, till it reached the bottom of her lobe, at which point his teeth replaced it. She gasped quietly when they lightly scraped over the soft flesh, hands clutching his shoulders, drawing him closer. The combination of her scent, quiet gasps, and the cacophony of their rapid breathing had the beast within growling in approval, urging him onward. Soft kisses down her neck soon became more urgent, demanding. His lips hovered over hers, waiting. Amiel grinned, lips lightly brushing against his as she spoke.
“Kiss me, Harley.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He’d been waiting all day and night to do just that. His lips descended on hers, and for a long moment they were lost in one another, lost in the sensations brought on by touch, the feelings shared through their bond ratcheting up the pace and depth of their tryst. Finally Harley broke away, breathing deeply as he rested his head on the door at her back.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“Nothin’. Everythin’ is right. Which is why I need to cool down for a minute.”
Amiel was silent for a moment before she nodded against the crook of his neck. “Yeah, you’re right.” Her hand lifted, fanning herself. “Wow. It’s hot in here.”
Harley frowned at the slightly slurred tone to her voice, and the heat of her skin where it pressed against his. He pulled back to look into her eyes. They were dilated too small, and unfocused. He pressed a hand to her forehead.
“I think you’re comin’ down with somethin’, kid,” he mumbled, feeling the beginning of worry settling in his stomach. She shook her head.
“No, I’m fine.” She moved to walk around him, but slumped weakly against the counter less than two steps into her effort. He gripped her arm, concern etched across his features. “Okay, maybe you’re right. I do feel a bit under the weather.”
Harley scooped her up, deposited her gently on the bed and bundled her up in the blankets. She immediately snuggled down in, then changed her mind and tossed the blankets back. When she pulled them back on an instant later, Harley felt himself edging toward panic.
“What do I do?” The naked panic in his voice brought Amiel’s attention back to focus on him.
“It’s just a flu bug, Harley. Don’t look so panicked.” The small smile she offered didn’t put him at ease.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had to worry about illness, Amiel,” he reminded her helplessly. Amiel nodded.
“Oh yeah. I forgot. Superman.” She chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Guess I’m not so much like you after all, huh? Too bad the tags don’t protect me from everyday, average germs.”
Harley ran a hand through his hair, searching around the apartment, eyes restlessly looking for something, anything to fix the situation. Amiel laughed softly, holding a hand toward him.
“Since you can’t get sick, do me a favor and be my blanket. These are broken.”
Harley instantly moved to do as she asked, eager to do what he could to help. He lay on his side, body molding to her back as she wrapped his top arm around her waist. Harley snuggled as close to her as he could, and in moments she was contentedly submerged in slumber.
Harley, however, was awake for hours, his worry becoming nearly a palpable thing. He hadn’t realized, until that moment, just how much sickness bothered him. The moment he realized Amiel was ill, it was like all the bad memories from his childhood came crashing back in on him. He saw his mama sick, weak and angry. He saw Cajun fighting for his life, sometimes so weak he could barely move. He held Amiel close to him, his heart pounding rapidly in answer to his fears.
“Get better, kid,” he murmured softly into her hair. “Please get better. I can’t watch ya go through that.”
Chapter 52
Harley
“She’s not getting better.” Harley spoke in a frantic whisper, phone pressed to his ear.
“Cleans get sick, Harley. It happens,” Cajun assured him.
“But she ain’t just a Clean.” Harley ran a
hand through his hair.
“Maybe it was food poisoning. You said she started feeling ill at the party. Maybe some of the food went bad, or something. You know how Gran is about throwing out old food. Our stomachs are steel tanks by now, but Amiel isn’t used to that.”
“Maybe,” Harley mumbled. “Would she get that, though, with her genetics?”
Cajun remained silent, his lack of words a testament to the fact that he wasn’t at all sure, either. Harley sighed heavily, feeling utterly unraveled and desperate. “I don’t know, Caj. I can’t explain it. It just feels wrong.”
“That’s because she’s your woman, little brother. It hurts you to see her hurting. Anything that hurts her is going to feel wrong.”
Harley nodded, running a hand through his hair as he stopped to stare at her huddled form in the bed. “Okay. I gotta go. Cover for me at Foundation, would ya?”
“Got it. Hey Harl? She’ll be okay, mate.”
Harley nodded. “Yeah. Thanks Caj.” He closed the phone, tucking it away in his pocket. He sank into the arm chair, running both hands over his face as he thought about the last twenty-four hours of hell.
His worry had abated enough that he’d somehow managed to fall asleep that night, holding her close. At least, until she had lurched from the bed, rushing toward the bathroom. Harley had watched her go, disoriented from the abrupt departure of sleep. Climbing to his feet, he had cautiously followed. Amiel was slumped on the floor, head down, retching in the toilet, her hair cascading around her face.
“Amiel?” He crouched beside her, carefully assessing the situation. She groaned and clenched her stomach tighter. He softly pushed the hair out of her face, and her unfocused eyes met his. Her skin was cold and clammy, a sheen of sweat glittering across her pasty skin. “Ya look awful, kid.”
“Thanks,” she groaned, before diving back for the toilet. Okay, so maybe that hadn’t been the smoothest thing to say, when she obviously wasn't feeling well. Of course, he hadn't meant it in a rude way; his shock had just blurted it from his mouth before he could edit it. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he gently pulled her hair back from her face, and held it out of the way while she heaved over and over.
When she seemed to have deposited all the stomach bile she possibly could, he handed her a wad of toilet paper to wipe her face. Mumbling her thanks, mixed with a groan, she slid to the floor. He quickly cleaned up the toilet and flushed it. Washing his hands, he retrieved a wash cloth and wet it with the cold water.
“How can I help? Give me somethin’, anythin’ I can do,” he begged pathetically. She managed a moan, before flinging herself back onto the toilet. Placing the wet cloth on the counter, he held her hair back again, until she had dry heaved for several long minutes.
“Do ya want some crackers? Ya obviously don't have anythin’ left in your stomach.”
Blowing her running nose on the toilet paper he offered, she sniffed miserably before leaning back against the cabinets. She fanned herself as though she were sitting in a sauna, though her body still shook with shivers of cold. He handed her the wet cloth, and she weakly pressed it to her forehead.
“No, no food.” She shook her head before rolling back over to the toilet. “You need to leave for a minute.” She all but shoved him out the door, slamming it shut behind him. He walked toward the TV and turned it up, drowning out the sounds emitting from the bathroom, for both her and his sakes.
Forcing his frantic mind to calm down, he went down a path he hoped he’d never have to walk again. Pulling up his mental list of things to do for Cajun when he was sick, the few things that seemed to help him during his worst moments, Harley set about his tasks.
He went to the fridge, pulled out some ice cubes and began crushing them into smaller chunks in a small bowl. He grabbed a clean towel, dug around in the cabinets for a large bowl, and positioned them near the bed. A small packet of crackers joined the stash, along with a Gatorade and heat pad. Checking to ensure all was in place, Harley sat and waited.
Eventually the bathroom door clicked open, and he went to investigate. The air smelled of recently lit matches and antiviral spray, only vaguely managing to mask the lingering scent of sickness. The matches and spray sat on the floor near the crumpled Amiel, who leaned against the cabinets with a miserable pout on her pale lips.
“Thank you for the help, Harley.”
He smiled, kneeling in front of her, covertly examining her eyes. They were still unfocused, and dilated too tightly for his liking. “You’re welcome. I should have brought ya home sooner last night, taken better care of ya.”
She shook her head, frowning. “No. In fact, you should go home. You are going to get sick too. Then we'll all be screwed.”
He frowned at her lapsed memory, but offered a gentle smile. “I don't get sick anymore, remember, darlin’?” Grabbing her hand, he rubbed it, covertly checking her pulse. Fast, too fast.
“Not fair. Why didn’t I get that trait?”
She scrunched her face up in a way that shouted her annoyance of that fact. Shivering, she wrapped her arms about her chest, pulling her knees up halfway before letting them sink back down again. Apparently her stomach didn't appreciate that. She hovered over the toilet, but nothing came of it and she settled back down a few minutes later.
Knocking suddenly sounded at the main door, and Harley gave her hand one last pat before reluctantly moving away to answer it. Cajun stood on the other side of the door, and Harley was so relieved he did something he rarely did. He yanked Cajun into a full-bodied, crushing hug.
“Um… I missed you too, dear?”
Harley pulled away with a glare, but Cajun’s smirk won a small, relieved smile from Harley. No one could be around Cajun's humor and not smile. The guy was simply infectious in the humor department.
“Take this. I brought a fruit basket of medicine for you. Maybe it will help you relax before you blow a gasket.”
Harley could have hugged his brother again. Instead he grabbed the bags from Cajun’s arms and turned toward Amiel’s open door.
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” He paused. “She means everything to me.”
Cajun nodded. “I know. And hey, what are brothers for, eh?” Cajun beamed at his own perceived awesomeness and strutted away down the hall. Harley shut the door behind him and put the bags on the counter, sifting through the items. He grabbed what he needed, then headed for the bathroom.
Amiel was exactly where he had left her, appearing to doze lightly. Setting a glass of water on the floor, he pressed one hand to her forehead. It was no longer cold and clammy, but hot and damp. Her eyes opened slightly before she groaned and closed them again.
“You're supposed to be gone.”
He smirked. “Nice to know I'm wanted.”
She sighed, swallowing against the dryness in her throat.
“Ya gotta take this, kid.” He held out an Imodium pill in one hand, and the glass of water in the other. She took one glance at it and turned away, resolutely locking her jaw.
“I know ya don't wanna throw up anymore. But ya gotta at least try to keep this down.”
She grunted a no, but he pressed on. “If ya can keep this down, it’ll help stop one end of the problem, so ya can focus on stopping the other end.”
This had to be one of the weirdest conversations of his life. She glanced at him, her cheeks flushed. Whether that was from embarrassment or the fever, the idea seemed to finally get through to her. She slowly popped the pill into her mouth and sipped a dainty amount of water, just enough to wash the pill down. He took the glass, and they waited. Fifteen tense minutes passed, but when the pill and water did not immediately decide to make its re-entrance into the world, Harley took that for a good sign.
“Do ya think ya can safely move to your bed now? I have a bowl sittin’ out, just in case ya need to throw up again. I think bein’ in your warm bed will be better for ya than sittin’ on the cold, germy tiles of your bathroom.”
If there was one thing he had l
earned about Amiel, it was that she was a closet germaphobe. He smirked at the grimace on her face, before she nodded weakly and made to stand. He quickly slipped his arms around her, pulling her up into a cradling position. She laid her fevered forehead against his neck, letting him take her wherever he would. Maybe it was his freaked-out imagination, but he could swear she was lighter than the last time he had held her like this.
He laid her gently down in her blankets, pulling them up to her chin. She almost instantly fell asleep, snoring quietly with her stuffy nose. He moved to the chair then, remote in hand, though he found himself watching her blanketed form and the gentle rhythm of her breathing more than the TV. He was comforted by the sound of her breathing, that reassured him she was still alive.
Throughout the next few hours, Harley had carried Amiel back and forth to the bathroom often. However, those times had come fewer and farther between, and by the time the sun had risen, she seemed to have settled into a deep sleep.
That had brought Harley back to where he was now. He’d called Cajun again, in a momentary bout of panic when she hadn’t immediately answered his efforts to make her to drink something. Cajun had reminded him that it was normal behavior for a sick Clean, and to just let her rest.
Harley leaned back in the chair, watching the way the warm, red hues of sunrise caressed her curves beneath the blankets. Despite the fact that she was drooling on her pillow, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Harley frowned, sitting forward suddenly. A single, solitary black tear eked from Amiel’s eye, bleeding into the pillow. His heart lurched. That wasn’t normal. Harley leapt to his feet, phone at his ear once more.
“Pell, I know we said we wouldn’t call ya anymore, but I need to see ya. Now, at the warehouse. Bring your stuff.” Turning back to gaze at Amiel, Harley felt his heart crushing in on itself. This wasn’t just an ordinary flu bug, and he had the sinking feeling he was to blame.
