“Stop,” I say out loud. Most people don’t die young. I feed the cats, throw a load of laundry into the washer, then get in the car and head to The Mill House. I call Chase again, annoyed that he never set up his voicemail. The phone rings and rings and rings, but he doesn’t answer.
There are a few cars in the parking lot, and Cory, the bartender working tonight waves to me as I cut through the bar, taking the faster route to the stairs. The door to the apartment is locked. I knock, anxiety growing by the second.
“Oh, uh, hi,” I say when Jax answers the door. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and boxers, and looks like he just woke up. “Is Chase here?”
“Yeah,” he starts, and I enter the apartment. Empty beer cans and a spilled bag of chips is on the floor by the couch where Jax has been sleeping. “He’s being a pussy and says he’s not feeling well.”
“Still?”
“I know, right? Go play nurse and make him feel better. I’ll put on headphones and try not to listen.”
I pull a face but ignore him, striding through the living room to get to Chase. His bedroom door is shut, and I enter without knocking. The blinds are drawn and there’s a trashcan next to the bed.
“Chase?”
He mumbles something incoherent in response. I take off my shoes and get in bed, crawling over to him.
“Babe, you okay?” The second I touch him, I can tell he still has a fever. A high fever. “You’re burning up!” I exclaim and rip the blankets off him.
Chase starts to sit up but stops, wincing. He looks at me, blinks a few times, and then shakes his head. “Sierra? When did you get here?”
“Just now. You’re burning up, Chase. You have a fever.”
“Yeah.” His eyes flutter and he lies back down.
My chest tightens. Something is wrong. Really wrong.
“I think you should go to the doctor. You’re sick.”
“I’m tired,” he mumbles. “That’s all. Lay down with me and I’ll feel better.”
“No, you need more than a nap. You don’t own a thermometer, do you?”
Chase doesn’t respond. His eyes are closed and his breathing is slow. I put my hand on his shoulder and give him a shake. He starts to sit up and winces again, hand going to his stomach.
“Fuck,” he says hoarsely and reaches for the trashcan. I get it to him just in time for him to throw up. He groans and lays back, hand still on his stomach. “Can you bring me water?”
“Of course, I’ll get it now.” I take the garbage full of puke out with me, trying hard not to let it gross me out. Chase is really sick right now. He needs me.
I get water after the trash is cleaned out, and hurry back to the bedroom.
“Doesn’t sound too good in there,” Jax says, raising his eyebrows.
“I thought you were putting on headphones.”
“Nah. I’m not going to get laid anytime soon. I need to get my jollies somewhere.”
I roll my eyes. “Has he been like this all day?”
“Like what?”
“Kind of out of it.”
“Yeah, he has. I thought he was drunk at first. Then I remembered he didn’t drink.”
I give Jax a dead stare. “And you didn’t think anything could be seriously wrong?”
Jax shrugs. “He said he was fine.”
I shake my head and go back into the bedroom. Chase is huddled in a ball on the bed, with his hand over the right side of his abdomen. He straightens out when he sees me, not wanting to appear weak or let on that anything is actually wrong.
“Is that where it hurts?” I ask. “The lower right side?”
“Mostly.”
“I think you have appendicitis.”
“I don’t think so.” Chase sips the water. I take the glass from him and make him lay down. Gently, I press my fingers into his stomach, on the right side.
“It’ll hurt more when I let go,” I warn him. “And that means you need to get this thing taken out.” I move my hand and instantly feel bad for him. “You’ve been feeling sick for over twenty-four hours. We need to go to the hospital. Now,” I say through gritted teeth.
Chase doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t get up either.
“Chase Henson,” I say firmly. “Get your ass into the car right now or so help me God I will carry you down those stairs and put you in myself.”
Chase slowly sits up and nods, looking more and more confused. Certain he’s having emergency surgery as soon as we get to Mercy General, I grab a fresh change of clothes for him and rush out the door.
“Dude, you look terrible,” Jax says, standing from the couch. His eyes go to me. “Is he okay?”
I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure his appendix is about ready to burst if it hasn’t already. I’m taking him to the hospital.”
“I’ll drive,” Jax says. “You should sit with him in the back.”
“Good idea.”
Jax grabs his pants from the floor and puts them on, then helps Chase down the stairs. We’re halfway through the parking lot when Chase throws up again. Jax goes back inside for a water bottle and a trash bag to take with us in the car. I gently wipe his face with a tissue, and Chase looks around like he can’t quite figure out what’s happening.
That’s not a normal symptom of appendicitis. My stomach flip-flops and I grip Chase’s hand, practically dragging him to the car. My fingers shake as I pull the seatbelt over him and click it into place.
“Sierra,” Chase mumbles. “Where are we going?”
“The hospital. Close your eyes and try to relax.”
“Okay.” Chase’s eyes fall shut and his head tilts to the side. Jax is in the driver’s seat seconds later, and I hand him my keys. We speed off, making the hour-long trip in just over forty-five minutes. Chase is admitted right away, and after his blood work comes back, he’s whisked away for surgery, leaving me in the ER waiting room with Jax.
“We can go up there.” He stands and extends his hand.
“Where?”
“The post-op waiting area.”
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet. His skin is rough and a quick look lets me know he suffered a nasty burn. The thick scar tissue covers the back of his hand.
“You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“I have. And I’ve been through it with Chase before too. He’ll be all right. He’s a tough son of a bitch.”
I nod and the shock starts to leave me. Everything happened so fast in the ER, and the faces of the doctors and nurses told me everything they didn’t say: getting Chase into surgery and removing his ruptured appendix might not be enough.
“Why did Chase have surgery before?” I ask and press a button to get into an elevator.
“Broke his leg flipping over the handlebars of a four-wheeler. He refused to go to the hospital for a week and the small fracture he got in the fall turned into a nasty break. By the time he got seen the bone had to be reset.”
“I’ve seen the scar,” I say, recalling the straight surgical line on his thigh. “How long ago was it?”
“Fuck if I remember,” Jax says, getting a dirty look from the woman who’s in the elevator with us. “Five years ago? Six?”