I’m moving fast on a singular thought—get the hell out of that bedroom before I do something stupid.
How the hell a woman can be so sick and look as hot as she does is unnatural. Her hair wild and loose, just how I’d imagine it looks after marathon sex. Her cheeks pink with fever, lips swollen, watery eyes shining. Fuck.
And when did white cotton panties become sexy? The way they hung low on her narrow hips, pulled taught between her hipbones, screaming for my lips to run along the seam. Her white tank top rode up above her belly button when she wiggled free from her robe. Chilled from fever, her nipples raked across the thin and very see-through fabric. Pink and perfect.
My dick throbs behind my zipper. Only a sick bastard would consider having sex with a woman in Layla’s condition. Come on, man. Rise above it.
“I think it’s ready,” Axelle says from the stove. “Mmm, smells really good.”
“It is.” I grab a couple bowls. “Family recipe.” I ladle some homemade noodle soup into the bowls, handing one to her. “Here. It’s great for hangovers.”
Her eyes go wide on me. “I’m not—”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Eat.”
She looks down at her soup, stirs it a couple times, and then moves to the kitchen table to eat.
I grab the new carton of orange juice from the fridge and fill a small glass. Advil and NyQuil in hand, I start for the hallway.
“Is she pissed?”
Axelle’s soft-spoken question has me turning back.
“You know, at me?”
“No. She’s worried.”
She nods, her eyes still glued to her soup. “She doesn’t get it.”
If anyone understands the rebellious nature of a sixteen-year-old, it’s Layla. Her story about how Axelle got here proves that. “So? Explain it. Make her get it.”
She nods again, and I move down the hall to Layla’s room. I don’t know how much Layla’s shared with Axelle about the night she became pregnant, but something tells me her daughter may find herself in the same situation if these two don’t tackle their shit soon. It’s not my business, but if I were the man in their lives, I’d lock their asses in a room, sit guard at the door, and make sure they settled the crap between them.
Stepping up to the bed, I watch her sleep. She’s curled up in a tight ball, the thin sheet doing little to mask the gentle curve of her hip. Her hair’s tossed around her face, eyelids closed, and lips parted.
Beautiful.
I set the soup and juice on her bedside table and sit on the edge of the bed. “Mouse?”
Her eyes flutter open.
“Can you sit up for me?”
She nods and scoots up. I put some pillows against the headboard and she leans against them.
Placing the bowl in her lap, she holds it with two hands.
“Noodle soup. Eat.”
I watch her bring a bite to her lips and blow on it before sliding the spoon between her lips. Stop being a perv, asshole.
“Mmm, really good.” A weak smile pulls at her lips.
“Yeah. It works, too. My mom swears by it.”
Her eyes move from the soup to my face. She raises her eyebrows.
“She made it for us when we were kids. My brother and I would pretend to be sick just so she’d make it.”
Tender eyes fix on mine, listening. I nod for her to keep eating, and she spoons another bite into her mouth.
“It would piss my dad off to no end to see his sons moaning like we were on death’s doorstep for our mom’s attention. She knew we were faking, but she always gave us what we wanted. Setting us up in front of the TV with pillows and blankets, serving us soup like we were invalids.” Warmth spreads throughout my chest.
“She sounds cool.”
My smile falls, and my pleasant thoughts turn sour. “I guess.” I pop pills from their foiled cases, avoiding her eyes. “She tried, but when my dad finally had enough of her making pussies out of his sons, he put her in her place.” I bite down hard and feel my jaw tick. All those years I watched helplessly while my mom was belittled and berated for being a mother to her boys. I’d fuck up just to get him to turn his anger from her to me. I thought that we were on the same team, that we’d have each other’s backs against my dad. But when it came down to it, she crumbled beneath his iron fist and gave away my biggest secret.
“Blake? You okay?”
Her weak voice drags me back from my thoughts. I nod and drop some pills next to her juice. “Fine.”
She stares at me through narrowed eyes as if there’s a question she’s contemplating, but instead, she takes another bite. “So, you made this for me?”
“Sure. It’s good and… you know, you’re sick.” I shrug one shoulder, a little worried that my cooking might come off as seriously desperate and pathetic. “I take it you and Axelle haven’t spoken since last night.”
Dropping her spoon into her bowl, she shakes her head.
I tell her about my brief convo with Axelle in the kitchen. “She’s a good kid. Don’t be too hard on her.”