Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Thanks.” I roll my eyes. “Call my sister while I clean him up.”
“You got it.”
“Oh, and start a bath for Mav, too. Warm but not hot.”
“You want me to go into Frankie’s room?”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “Yes, Samson, I want you to go into her room and start the bath.”
“Fine.”
I glance over my shoulder in time to see him press his phone to his ear as he walks away.
“C’mon, bud.” I press Maverick into my chest, internally cringing at the feeling of my puke-soaked shirt sticking to my chest. “We gotta get up.”
He wraps his arms around my neck, clinging to me as I stand. I secure him to me with one hand and grab the towel Samson brought with the other, tossing it down onto the couch, hoping it will absorb some of the mess—the rest will have to wait.
“Think you can handle a bath?” I ask, striding toward his room.
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “But will you stay with me?”
“The whole time.”
Samson meets us in the hall. “Did you get ahold of Stella?”
“No.” He steps back, giving us a wide berth. “She didn’t answer.”
“Damnit.”
“Swear word,” Mav mumbles weakly.
“Gotta set you down, okay?” I ask as we step into the bathroom.
He nods and I gently place him on his feet.
“Think you can get undressed?”
“Yeah.” Another nod. “I think so.”
I check the temperature of the water; it feels okay. “Alright, in you go.”
He shuffles past me and steps into the tub. “You won’t leave, right?”
“I’m not going anywhere, bud, promise.” I wait a minute to make sure he’s okay in the tub, turn off the water, and then strip off my puke-covered shirt. “Do you know where your mama keeps washcloths?”
“Under the sink.” He’s reclining against the back of the tub with his legs straight out in front of him, with his wiggly toes poking up out of the water.
I grab two washcloths from the cabinet, one for him and one for me, and turn on the sink faucet.
“Can you wash up all by yourself?” I ask, waiting for the water to warm up.
“Yeah, O. I’m sick, not a baby.”
Smirking at his inherent sass, I grab his shower gel and place it on the side of the tub. “Here you go.”
He sets to work scrubbing himself clean, and I do the same at the sink.
The first pass of the wet cloth over my chest feels like heaven, but I make sure to keep my relief to myself; the last thing I want is for Maverick to feel bad. It’s not like he can help getting sick.
“You ready to get out?” I ask, once my chest is no longer sticky.
“Yeah.”
“Are you clean?”
“Promise.”
I start to unplug the tub, but stop and grab the towel instead. When I was his age, the sound of the water being sucked down the drain terrified me.
He climbs out of the tub and wraps the towel around his shoulders, but doesn’t make any effort to dry himself off.
“How about you tell me what drawer your pajamas are in and I’ll grab them while you dry off?”
“The second one, but my undies are in the first.”
“Got it.” Turning on my heel, I head into the bedroom toward the dresser.
By the time I make it back into the bathroom, Maverick’s mostly dry, but shivering like crazy. “You okay?” I ask, my worry coming back tenfold.
“I’m c-cold and my mouth tastes bad.”
I press my hand to his head again, he feels normal, but don’t baths skew things?
“Get dressed and I’ll get your toothbrush ready, okay?”
He nods and takes his clothes from me.
Once his teeth are clean, I hang the towel, scoop him into my arms, and carry him to the bed.
Maverick instantly rolls to his side and snuggles into the covers. “I want my mama, O.”
“I know, bud. Let me grab my phone and I’ll call her, okay?”
He tries to nod, but his movements are sluggish at best.
I check my pockets for my phone, but it’s not there—I must have dropped it in the living room.
“I’ll be right back, bud,” I murmur to Maverick, but he’s already out like a light.
I find Samson in the kitchen stuffing his face with pizza. “Seriously?”
His mouth is too full to talk, so he shrugs. “How’s Maverick?” he asks, once he swallows.
“Asleep. Feels a little warm. Did you ever get ahold of Stella?”
He shakes his head and a prickle of worry zips through me.
“I’m going to call Frankie, clean up, and change. Keep an ear on Mav for me?”
Samson nods, already tearing into another slice of pizza.
Luckily, my phone is sitting on the floor right next to the couch. I quickly wipe it down and then dial Frankie’s number. But the call goes to her voice mail.
I try her a few more times as I clean the couch and floor, but she never answers.
I’m officially freaking the fuck out. What if something happened to her?