Page 80 of Bad Saint
“Can you open your eyes?” He has a head injury, and even though he’s tired, I don’t think he should sleep.
“Will in a minute,” he sleepily says.
“Saint…”
“Sleep,” he interrupts. It appears his bossiness knows no bounds—conscious or unconscious. The fact he’s talking and knows who I am are good signs. I will just watch him like a hawk.
I attempt to move, but he leaves me speechless when he reaches for my hand and links his fingers through mine. With my mouth agape, I peer down at our union. It looks so foreign, yet it doesn’t.
“The chicken?” he drowsily asks. Harriet Pot Pies clucks.
“She’s, she’s okay,” I reply, my words slow as I can’t believe he reached for me.
Saint’s heavy breathing indicates he’s fallen asleep, but his grip never wavers from mine.
Saint has slept for what feels like hours. I’ve watched him the entire time, ensuring he’s warm and comfortable.
I got as snug as I could, but the fact he wouldn’t let my hand go had me contorting my body so I could lean against the wall. I sat watching him, studying this mysterious man like I’d just stumbled across a new species.
I don’t understand him. I never have. But I can’t deny that his actions tonight have done something to me. I have always felt some inexplicable connection to him, but now, it feels different. It feels like something has changed.
I have never met anyone like him before. He is dark and brooding and most definitely not one of the good guys, so why does he continue doing virtuous things? Yes, he’s a downright asshole most of the time, but when he’s not, he’s something…else.
I want to know him, all of him because I don’t understand the feelings he evokes in me. I am losing myself, piece by piece, to Saint, and I don’t even care.
Sighing, I stretch my neck from side to side as my entire body aches. I don’t want to wake him, but the fact he’s been out cold for so long worries me. Running my thumb over the back of his knuckles lightly, I whisper, “Saint, wake up.”
No response.
“Saint,” I say, a little louder this time, but still, nothing.
Panic seizes me, and I gently brush the hair from his brow. When I do, however, I yank my hand back because he’s burning up. “Saint! Can you hear me?”
Oh, god.Nothing.
I feel for a pulse and find a shallow and weak one. His skin almost burns mine when I touch his cheeks. He has a fever. I don’t understand how that’s possible. I didn’t see any cuts on his body which were infected. Maybe it’s a virus? He didn’t complain about feeling unwell.
Hunting through the first-aid kit, I reach for some Tylenol and a bottle of water. He is out cold, so I have no idea how I’m going to administer this. I decide to crush it up and mix it in with the water. “Saint, I need you to open your eyes.”
His unresponsiveness has my heart racing.
When he doesn’t move, I position myself behind him and prop him up so he’s half sitting. He’s floppy, so I’m sure to be quick as I settle in behind him and cradle his dead weight against my chest. Reaching over his shoulder, I press the bottle to his lips.
“Drink. Please.”
His T-shirt is stuck to him, and I wonder if it’s the rain or sweat because the heat coming from his body is almost unbearable. When the water trickles down his lips, I know this is useless. I can’t force it down his throat in fear he’ll choke to death.
I can’t believe this is happening.
I manage to maneuver him onto his back and take vigil by his side. “Please don’t die,” I whisper, reaching for his hand.
“Zoey…”
I freeze, unsure what to say or do. In his delirious state, he is calling for her.
I quash down these feelings which resemble jealousy because they have no right to be there.
“Shh,” I coo, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay.” He stops talking and drifts back off into his delirium. Harriet Pot Pie sits near me, and we both guard our savior.