Lingus by Mariana Zapata

  My yawn sounded like something out of The Lion King. "Yesterday. She's fine; she's having a sex marathon with Calum."

  I think Zoey chuckled, but I was so out of it, she could have been braying like a donkey for all I knew. "Oh, okay. Go back to sleep then."

  "Okay, bye Zo." I tried to say, but yawned instead.

  "Bye!" she chirped out before ending the call.

  I had a headache which could only be blamed on how tired and sleepy I was, but all I could think about was the sick man I left across town. It wasn't even eight in the morning, and I was wondering if he was conscious enough to call into work to say that he was sick. There were times that I really hated how stubborn I was because once the idea that I should call in for him popped into my head, I had to do it or else it'd bother me the rest of the day. I wouldn't want him to get fired, I reasoned with myself. After doing a quick search on my browser with one eye open, I called the law office he worked at and left a voicemail explaining that Tristan King was very sick and couldn't make it in.

  I shot a quick message to Tristan. There was no use in coming over if he was dead.

  Are you alive?

  About two minutes later, I saw 'Magellan' pop up on the screen while I was still in a half dream, barely awake stage.

  I wish I wasn't.

  I snorted at his dumb antics and gradually crawled out of bed, showering, and getting dressed to go visit quite possibly the most annoying sick person on the planet. He whined more than I did even as a kid, which hadn't escaped me, but how could I avoid that handsome face? The handsome face that also needed to use the largest kinds of condoms made.

  I waged an internal battle from the Starbucks drive-thru window all the way to his house, debating whether I should've tried to sneak a peek at his mighty scepter or not.

  My phone chimed when I was only a few minutes away from getting to Tristan's house, and sure enough, 'Magellan' appeared on the screen again.

  Are you pro assisted euthanasia?

  Oh lord.

  I waited to reply until I was parked in front of his house. It was one of the nicest and well kept homes in the neighborhood with a really nice front lawn and lots of pretty flowers. I wondered if Tristan mowed his own lawn? He probably did, and then there was the possibility that if he did, he didn't wear a shirt. That would explain the neighbor he was worried about yesterday. I was a little surprised that he lived in a house and not a condo or an apartment. Maybe I'd ask him about it later, but by the text messages he sent me, he wasn't feeling any better than yesterday.

  I whipped out my phone and sent him a reply with a snort.

  No puss but I am pro involuntary euthanasia.

  Tristan's key was now attached to the rest of my keychain so I unlocked the door, and then kicked my shoes off to run upstairs and check on the whiney, too-hot baby with the flu. The door was cracked and all I could see were long, bare legs and the smooth, creamy flesh of his back sprawled over the bed. His head was buried beneath the pillow, and only the long strands of hair at the nape of his neck escaped the cover.

  "Hey," I said softly.

  He let out a muffled noise but didn't move an inch.

  "Tristan."

  Another muffled noise.

  "Tristan," I said again, in a sing-song voice.

  I finally stepped closer to the bed and swallowed in every inch of his pale skin. He had muscles I didn't even think existed; there was a ripple on his back when he breathed, and there were these two small dimples right above the elastic of his dark boxer briefs. That ass...

  "Get up. Have you taken your temperature and your Theraflu?" I asked, tearing my thoughts away from the round curves of his butt.

  He made another strange noise against the mattress in response but didn't move.

  "C'mon, Tristan." This time I poked him in the ribs and he tensed at the contact. "I need you to get up."

  Finally, he rolled over lazily and pulled the pillow away from his face. He was so pale and sickly looking, his green eyes looked even more dull than they did the day before. A pitiful whimper slipped out of his dry, chapped lips. "Kill me now," he moaned.

  I pressed my hand against his forehead, noticing how ridiculously hot it was. Measuring his temperature with the thermometer, I noticed that he managed to drink all of the Gatorade I'd left on the nightstand while I waited for the small tool to beep. It read 102.5 across the small display. FIfteen minutes later, he'd managed to shower, brush his teeth, and take more Theraflu. He put on some lounge pants and an undershirt before following me downstairs, where I forced him to eat two slices of toast while he made a big fuss because he was, "not hungry."

  "Calum hasn't called me back," he said in a voice laced with exhaustion, before sipping the glass of water I left out.

  "I think he's still with Nicole," I explained, and he nodded with a weary smirk.

  "I hope she doesn't break him."

  I snorted and took a bite out of the toast I made for myself. After all, I paid for the bread, right? "His career might be over after Nikki."

  Tristan smiled, but it wasn't the same as his usual smiles because he was sick. His right hand moved up to reach for his head, but dropped to the side after a second with a sigh. "I hate being sick."

  "I know, why don't you go lay down?"

  "No energy," he mumbled.

  I put up a finger for him to give me a second while I ran upstairs for his comforter, sheet, and pillow. Folding the huge comforter in thirds, I made him a couch palate on the big, heather sofa he had in the living room. It was wider than any normal sofa I'd ever seen, but something told me that we probably didn't shop in the same places. "Tristan!" I called out to him.

  He shuffled out of the kitchen, wide shoulders slumped and body tense with discomfort. He stopped behind the couch and looked at the way the couch had been set up, giving me a tiny, crooked smile. "Can I put my head on your lap?" he asked so sweetly that I couldn't find it in me to make a smartass comment.

  "If you want," I told him, taking the pillow off the couch to set on my lap.

  In a speed that was much faster than it should have been, he shuffled around the couch and plopped down, facing up with his head on the pillow that rested on my thighs. "Thanks, Kat," he cooed, looking straight up at me. "Will you rub my head for me?"

  I couldn't help but snicker. "Are you serious?"

  He nodded, looking sheepish. "My mom would always do that for me."

  I rolled my eyes like I was annoyed but it was pretty cute. I started running my left hand through the wet locks of hair, slowly, and brushed my fingertips against his scalp. "Your parents live in Miami?" I asked.

  He nodded in response before his eyes screwed shut. "Are you from here?" I asked another question. He shook his head.

  "We lived in Chicago until I was about fourteen, then my dad got a job transfer," he explained, quietly. "Are you from here?"

  I knew he was probably not exactly crazy about wanting to talk, so I did most of the talking myself like the night before. I explained how my family lived in Gainesville. We talked quietly for minutes, asking each other questions about our families. I learned that he was an only child just like I was. He also had an imaginary friend named Mickey until he was nine. I didn't bother asking where he got the name Mickey from, even though I really wanted to laugh. Soon enough, he'd fallen asleep with a relaxed look on his face. Exhausted and so warm with body heat, I felt myself nodding off and fighting the urge to close my eyes.

  A quiet chuckle pulled me out of my dream state; my neck hurt from how I'd been positioned and my legs were asleep. I opened my eyes and looked down to see two green orbs looking at me in amusement.

  "What?"

  He chuckled again. "You snore."

  "You're a liar." I snorted.

  "I don't lie, you snore like a tiny, baby chainsaw. It's cute," He told me with a straight face.

  "Shut up."

  He cracked a tired smile. "You should look into voice-over work, if someone ever makes a movie with a li
ttle chainsaw you could cover it, hands down."

  I snorted again. "I'm going to hock up a phlegm into your Theraflu."

  "I could use the protein," the smartass said with a wink.

  Chapter 21

  "You," Zoey emphasized by pointing at me with her fork. "Spent three days at Tristan's house taking care of him because he had the flu?"

  I pointed my fork tines in her direction. "Yes."

  It'd been four days since Tristan had come down with the flu. After three days, he finally began to feel better despite still being weak. I had to explain that he'd probably be fatigued for a while since he'd hardly eaten anything besides soup, toast, and crackers at my insistence. He was really sweet and thanked me every couple of hours when I stayed with him. We watched TV and talked in the few hours when he was feeling about a six out of ten on the sick scale.

  Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I told him I had plans and wouldn't be coming over. I did have plans; Zoey and I had a set date every Thursday morning for hot yoga class. Then we'd eat lunch afterward — and by lunch I meant we stuffed our faces with the most fattening thing we could find — because that damned yoga class made us almost pass out each time. I'd tried convincing her to just stick to a regular yoga class in the past, but she would start going on long rants about how the heat cleaned out our systems, and a million other benefits you could get out of being in a one hundred and fifteen degree room for over an hour.

  "Hmm," she mumbled, spearing her fries with a fork and shoving about five of them into her mouth at once. "You still want to get up close and personal with his joystick?"

  "I never said I wanted to," I tried to explain, knowing it was futile. "He's already told me about a million times that he wants to be friends, how he doesn't want a girlfriend because of the porn, how I'm such a good friend, blah blah blah. We're friends. There won't be any test drives going on for this old clunker," I said, pointing at myself.

  Zoey scowled, chewing a huge bite of cheeseburger. "That's stupid," she literally spit out. Bits of hamburger bun splattered across the table, and I grimaced. "I mean, I get why he wouldn't want a girlfriend, and it's admirable that he's honest with you but still. Maybe he's trying to convince himself that both of you are friends by saying it so much?"

  "Doubt it," I shrugged. He seemed to treat me the way I always imagined an older brother would treat a younger sibling. With my luck, the next thing he'd tell me would be that I was endearing. Ugh. "I don't know, Zo. I like him a lot, but what am I going to do? Seduce him and then get him to fuck me? Then a week later he goes and fucks five other girls? I couldn't do that. Maybe if I didn't like him it'd be possible, but I do like him."

  "If he wants to be friends, then you be the best freaking friend he's ever had."

  Another Josh. Oh lord.

  "What does that even mean?" I asked her before cutting up the last bit of my chicken fried steak.

  She rolled her bright gray eyes while chewing. "That means just be you. You're beautiful on the inside and the outside, Kat. Just don't wear those fugly clothes I hate around him."

  "Does that mean I can't wear my—"

  "Yes! I've been telling you for years to burn those awful jeans. They look like something you stole from your pregnant mom twenty-six years ago."

  I faked a gasp in horror; I loved those jeans. The material was super worn-in and more comfortable than cashmere, but they were pretty hideous. I wore them at home mostly.

  Sometimes on grocery store runs.

  I even wore them to go run other errands every once in a while.

  Okay, I wore them pretty much every chance I got. "I'm not burning them, I'll just... avoid wearing them more than usual."

  Zoey frowned at me over the bun of her burger. "Fine. Look, all I'm saying is this: I think you've gotten so comfortable having me, Nicole, and Josh in your life that you've quit allowing other people in because you're fine. Now, Tristan walks into your life, and I'm beyond happy that you're letting him in, but I don't want you to just give up and let him join the ranks with me and the other sluts, Kat. You want him? Get him. The Kat I know is no wuss. He chose to talk to you out of those thousand other people at the convention for some reason, and I'm going to guess it wasn't because you have nice hair, bitch."

  Well, when she put it like that it made a whole lot of sense. I'd asked myself plenty of times why Tristan chose me to talk to, follow, and try to befriend out of everyone he came across. Especially when he told me that very few people knew his two identities, I questioned it. I started to feel better about not just myself but about being optimistic in the situation, but the problem was still the same.

  "Zo, what am I going to do though even if he does like me? I don't want a boyfriend who does porn, and he practically refuses to talk to me about that."

  She looked pensive for a moment and then nodded. "I think it's a good sign he doesn't want to talk to you about boning other chicks," she said with all the eloquence that is Zoey Quinn. "I don't know, Booger. What do you do when you get the porn star?" I knew that out of everyone, Zoey would be the only one to truly understand the situation I was in. She knew the pros and cons of being in the adult film industry but most importantly, she loved me. Zoey would never put me in a situation that would hurt me physically or emotionally. "I'd punch him in the gut if I found out he was with other girls at the same time he was with you. I guess you're, not literally, screwed."

  "I am screwed." The harsh reality of it was beyond disappointing. I knew that I was already the tiniest bit attached to Tristan, and if we were to get together, it wouldn't be casual and meaningless. At least for me. While I didn't consider myself a prude, I was not one for one night stands unlike my friends. I guessed I'd just have to weigh what was more important to me— a giant cock or a friendship that seemed as easy as breathing minus the sexual tension on my behalf. Fuck.

  I think she recognized the look on my face as a positive because Zoey smiled and winked. "You might not be very tall—"

  "Zoey you're practically a midget," I threw back at her.

  She chose to ignore me. "Your abs might not be ripped—"

  "That's rude." Sure I didn't look like a bodybuilder, but I mean, I was fit. My stomach was flat... unless you counted the two days before my period, and the four days during it.

  "You definitely don't have the biggest boobs or ass—"

  I had to snort that time because she was getting downright insulting. "Uh—"

  "But what you have is perfect, Kat. Your personality is second only to mine. Any guy would be lucky to have you, and you know that. So just be his friend like he wants but show him those perky little Cs," she pointed at my boobs, and then palmed her own tiny, little mosquito-bite boobies, pushing up against the sports bra she had on— more for looks more than support, let me tell you. "Are better than any of those rock-hard, fake titties he's had in his mouth before. You hear me? I don't want you to change for anyone, regardless of how good his skills are orally."

  I knew she wasn't telling me to go for anything with Tristan, but I felt like she was supporting me on my journey to be a good friend to him. Maybe he'd fall madly in love with me and then quit porn. Ha. Well, whatever. I'd been asked out on dates, I always just said no, because I had no interest in dating since my last boyfriend. I was happy with the way my life is going; between my dad, my friends, work, and my drawer of toys, I couldn't ask for more.

  "You're the best, Zo. "

  She looked at me with wide eyes, "Of course I am." Snapping her fingers all of a sudden, she continued, "I forgot to say that you don't really have a nice tan, but I mean, tans are kind of overrated. I like your shade of peachy colored skin."

  "Zoey?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm going to punch you in the vag when we walk out of the restaurant."

  Chapter 22

  I'd just finished showering when my phone chimed from its spot on the counter. My first guess was that it was Josh, because I hadn't heard from him in a couple of days. When I went to r
each for my phone, 'Magellan' showed up on the screen instead.

  Come over. I'm bored.

  I finished drying off before responding.

  Then you'll just be bored with me there.

  Less than a minute later, my phone chimed again.

  I'm never bored with you. Come over. I'll order a pizza and think about letting you choose a movie.

  I really didn't have anything planned for the rest of the day, besides vegging out in front of the television and trying to get some writing done.

  Meat lovers pizza and I choose the movie. Deal?

  Deal

  I got dressed, opting for a stretchy pair of shorts and a tank top before feeding my cat, Matlock, and heading out. My lower back was hurting just a little, but I figured it was from overdoing it at yoga. After so much driving to his house, the trip across town didn't seem as long as it did the first three times. The now familiar gray house stood out from its neighbors, and when I pulled over to park in front of it like I'd done each other time, I spied a middle-aged woman standing on the porch next door. She was wearing shorts that were just as short as mine, but her top was cut lower than the one I had on. She stood there and stared while I jogged up to Tristan's front door.