I quietly slip out from beneath the warm blankets and take a peek through the mini-blinds of our tour bus. I can tell it’s going to be another cold, gray day in the Midwest. I shudder and wrap my arms around my bare shoulders. I consider hopping back beneath the covers, but something sure smells good. Coffee. The heavenly scent lures me into our small kitchen. I rinse out my favorite mug, pour myself a cup and take it back into the bedroom with me. Eyeing the afghan lying across the end of our bed, I snatch it up and wrap it around my shoulders. I’ve found a new shawl.
Why anyone would want to live in this climate, I don’t know. I want to head south. I miss the towering palm trees and the warm Florida breezes. I want to wear shorts and feel the heat of the sun on my face. Heck, I just want to wear my sunglasses. I’m tired of slipping a coat, scarf and gloves on before I go outside. The days are running together now and I’m not sure when we’ll be home. I can always ask Ron. That man knows everything we’re doing, planning or even thinking about doing for the next six months.
Our bus is already parked in the back of the venue and I can see a handful of fans milling around. I smile and take a sip of the steaming brew I have sandwiched between my palms. Nick’s fans are a loyal bunch. They’ll wait outside all day just to catch a glimpse of his famous smirk or tousled blond hair. I watch them jump up and down and stomp their feet, trying to keep their uncovered limbs warm.
He’s stretched so thin already, and rarely stands outside in cold weather to sign or take pictures, but I would never discourage them. I always feel bad when I see the tears streaking down their cheeks when he passes them by on his way into the venue or back onto the bus, so I try to soften the blow. I accept handfuls of gifts and I even stay outside and talk until my lips are blue, but he’s the one they’ve come to see and they’re disappointed.
I still haven’t figured out why he loves it so much. He’s been fighting off a bug for weeks, yet every night he crawls out of bed and gives his diehard fans what they’ve paid good money to see. He sings passionately and bounces back and forth across the stage as only he can. He must reserve spurts of energy during the day while he’s semi-conscious or maybe the screaming fans give him an adrenaline rush? I’m not quite sure. All I know is that immediately after the show is over, he’s invigorated and pumped up, but a few hours later, he crashes – hard.
I turn towards my husband of three months and sink down on the edge of our bed. Even before I lay my hand across his brow, I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He’s burning up again and his light blond hair is dark and dampened with sweat.
I push aside the long strands snaking across his forehead and rest the back of my hand against his red-tinged cheek. Even with his head propped up on pillows, deep, hacking coughs shake his tall frame. He turns into me and wraps his arm around my slim waist, urging me back to bed. I slip beneath the sheets and he scoots closer to rest his head beneath my chin. I feel an odd rattle beneath my fingers when I splay them across his back. I ask him if he needs anything and he mouths ‘no.’ He’s so hoarse that talking is out of the question. He needs to save his voice for the show tonight and I know not to push him.
He falls back to sleep and I glance down at my watch and try to remember our schedule for the day. We have nothing special planned and I’m glad. Today he can rest. We’ve seen a doctor in every city and they all say the same thing. “A bad case of the flu, Mrs. Carter. He needs complete bed rest, sleep and lots of fluids.”
I always nod and smile, but Nick hasn’t rested properly in weeks. In fact, his tour schedule is so jam-packed that he hasn’t had a single day off in a month. My worst fears are that he’ll keep up the frantic pace and end up hospitalized with more than a cold. I’ve begged him to reschedule some dates, so we can go home and I can get him well, but he won’t hear of it. He refuses to disappoint his adoring fans, and truth be told, I admire his dedication.
He moans in his sleep. I reach for his hand beneath the blankets and give it a warm squeeze. It’s almost time for his medicine, so I whisper in his ear and nudge his shoulder. I slip out of bed, and once I’m sure he’s awake enough to swallow, I slip two tiny pills between his parted lips and pick up the glass of ice water I placed on the bedside table. I slide my fingers beneath his head and hold the plastic straw for him to take a drink. He takes a sip and winces as the effort to swallow brings more pain. I don’t know what else I can do to make him comfortable. I straighten the blankets on the bed and turn his pillows over to the cool side. I’ll change the sheets tonight when he takes a shower before the show. He’ll do the show. I have no doubt about that.
I notice his lips are cracked and dry, so I dip my pinky into the water and smooth a few drops of the icy liquid across his lips. His eyes flutter open briefly, and then close as I drop a kiss on the tip of his nose. Just knowing I’m there, he sleeps soundly.
We need lip balm. That reminds me, I’d better make a list for Ron. Sure, I can go to the store myself, the fans don’t pull on my clothing or yank on my hair, but it’s easier to send Ron. That way I don’t have to leave Nick and deal with twenty questions from the fans. They always seem to know when he’s under the weather and I don’t think it’s right to lie to their faces. It’s Ron’s job to keep the peace.
As the morning wears on, I can hear high-pitched squeals outside the bus and a handful of girls, asking Ron when Nick’s coming out to sign autographs. I’m sure they would be shocked to know that he has no energy to lift his head from the pillow. I boot up our laptop and check my emails. The message boards are buzzing, but no one knows how sick he really is.
Ron tells them that he’s got a bad cold and might stick his head out later, but not to count on it. He’s the best bodyguard Nick has ever had. He respects the fans and guards my husband with his life. We don’t know what we ever did without him.
I walk to the front of the bus after throwing on my rattiest sweatpants and one of Nick’s comfiest sweatshirts. I’m not wearing make-up and I wonder if I look as weary as I feel. I push back the curtain and tap on the front window to get Ron’s attention. The minute the fans notice me, they start screaming and waving.
I put a smile on my face and wave back while motioning for Ron to come inside. It takes a few minutes for him to make his way over because girls are blocking the way. I unbolt the bus door and he slowly makes his way up the stairs. The cold air takes my breath away.
“Hi, Jenna.” They all scream in unison.
“Hi, guys.” I smile at their enthusiasm. “Thanks for coming to see the show.”
“Tell Nick we love him.” A cute girl with red hair and freckles screams.
“Tell him we won’t scream if he comes out.” Another yells and rubs her gloved hands together.
“Is Nick coming out soon?” The first girl jumps up and down as if she has springs on the bottom of her shoes. “My feet are frozen.”
“Not until later, I’m afraid. He’s sleeping. Why don’t you guys go warm up?”
Eager faces turn to frowns as the door abruptly closes and I pull Ron safely inside. I draw the curtains and face him with a grim expression on my face.
He nods his head towards our bedroom at the back of the bus. “Is he any better this morning?”
“No.” I wrap my arms protectively around my waist. I feel helpless and alone, so helpless that I’ve even considered calling his mother for advice. I’m not sure I’m doing everything I can to make him get better.
“What do you need me to do, Jenn?” Ron takes out his planner and flips it open to an empty page.
“Can you check with the venue and see if they know a doctor who will come to us?”
“Another doctor?” He shakes his head. “You don’t think he can perform tonight?”
“I don’t know how.” I say softly. “He hasn’t been out of bed since after the show last night and his voice is shot. We’ll have to see what the doctor says.”
“Okay,” Ron pulls his cell phone from his pocket, “I’ll arrange for a doc to come by and we’ll move the bus away from the fans before he gets here.”
***
“Jenna,” Ron knocks briefly and steps into our bedroom, “doctor’s here.”
Relieved, I step to the end of the bed as Dr. Michael Bennett, a gray-haired, fatherly looking figure enters the room and sits down on the edge of the bed to examine Nick.
Nick’s eyes pop open as his warm cocoon is disturbed. The doctor introduces himself and proceeds to take his temperature, blood pressure and pulse. When he starts firing questions, Nick looks over to me in a panic. He doesn’t want to strain his voice before the show tonight, so I willingly answer for him.
“He’s had this fever for how long?” The doctor asks, slipping the cold bell of his stethoscope beneath the hem of Nick’s t-shirt to listen to his chest and then around to his back.
“On and off for two weeks.”
“He’s been examined by a doctor?”
“More than one.”
“Without an X-ray I can’t be sure,” he pulls the stethoscope out of his ears, “but my guess is bronchial pneumonia.”
“Pneumonia?” Jenna’s eyes widen. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“It could be,” he says feeling the glands beneath Nick’s jaw, “without the proper treatment.”
“What’s the proper treatment?”
“A hospital and IV antibiotics.”
Nick feels out of it, but he can comprehend the whole conversation going on around him. He clears his throat and licks his lips. They feel swollen and sore, but he has to put his two cents in. “No,” he strains, “ I have to sing tonight.”
“Mr. Carter,” Dr. Bennett folds his stethoscope, “on top of the pneumonia, you’re dangerously dehydrated. Singing and overexertion are not what you need. You need rest and lots of fluids.”
Nick’s eyes snap shut and he tries to block out the word hospital. That’s the last thing he needs in his opinion.
“Doctor,” Jenna pulls him to the side, “Nick will drag himself out of bed tonight no matter what you think is best for him. Is there anything you can do to make him comfortable?”
Dr. Bennett nods reluctantly. He’s treated artists before and he knows they don’t have time for hospitals, even if that’s what they need. He sits back down on the bed and opens his black bag. He knows Nick will feel better once the medicine kicks in. Within minutes, two bags of fluid are hanging from a hook on the wall above the bed – the small one is an antibiotic and the other hydrating fluids. The doctor finishes taping the tubing to Nick’s arm and meets Jenna’s worried gaze. “If he were my son, he’d be in the hospital right now.”
“I know.” She wipes away the tear trickling down her cheek. “I’ll take care of him.”
***
I sit vigil and Nick sleeps deeply as each bag slowly empties into his exhausted body. When Dr. Bennett removes the needle shortly before show time, he actually looks and feels a little bit better. His fever is down and the elephant sitting on his chest feels less intense. He takes a lukewarm shower and dresses casually in a black t-shirt and a pair of green cargo pants.
As he sits at the table sipping tea with honey and lemon, I run my fingers playfully through his damp hair and he gratefully leans in to my gentle touch. “You don’t have anything to prove, Nick. If you need to sit this one out, your fans will understand.” I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss his warm cheek.
“I know, baby,” he pulls me onto his lap, “but I have to give them what they came to hear.”
“At what cost, Nick?” I ask as I choke back more tears. “You need to take the time to get well.”
Fifteen minutes before show time, I press a kiss to his warm lips and he wraps clingy arms around me. I reluctantly leave him in Ron’s hands and take the stairs up to the balcony that hovers over the stage. The lights dim and I slip into my seat to watch the man I love do his thing.
The fans chant his name and I find myself caught up in the excitement. The venue is small and intimate, standing room only and everyone is close to the stage. Close enough that Nick can reach out and touch them if he wants to. That’s why he wanted to play smaller venues in the first place, to be close to his fans.
After the intro, he jogs onto the stage and I see a different man. He’s smiling, he’s excited and he’s ready to go. Somehow, he manages to get through the first couple songs without falling flat on his back.
He’s sweating profusely, so he dumps a bottle of water over his head and rests his hands flat on his knees for a moment. I know he’s dizzy and trying to catch his breath, but the fans think he’s adorable with his back heaving and his hair dripping wet.
He strains to hit the high notes, but the fans don’t seem to care. He lets them help with the more of the singing than usual, but they’re ecstatic each time he holds the microphone out to them. At times like this, he’s grateful they know all the words.
I smile and shake my head as he repeatedly spits mouthfuls of water into the crowd. He’s sick and now he’s spreading his germs to hundreds of innocent people. I remind myself to talk to him about that later, but I’m guessing most girls wouldn’t mind saying they caught a bug from Nick Carter.
During a break, I lean over the balcony slightly and can’t help but smile down at the crowd. A few fans I recognize from other shows see me and I wave. Nick is getting settled on a stool, and although he looks exhausted and pale, a small smile touches his lips. I don’t know how, but he can see me showing love to his fans out of the corner of his eye. I know it makes him happy that we’ve accepted each other.
As I sit alone in the balcony, I’m reminded of why he does what he does every single night. I’d be a fool not to acknowledge the love and passion he sucks from his fans. It occurs to me that he needs them as much as they need him. He doesn’t find touring grueling. He embraces the chance to perform and meet his fans. It doesn’t matter if he’s sick or not, they love him just the same.
It’s time for his encore, so I leave my seat and meet up with Ron in the wings. It’s too noisy to talk, so we stand side-by-side and wait for the last notes of ‘I Got You.’ Nick takes his final bow, blows his fans a kiss and jogs backstage. Ron lays a white towel over his head and he sinks into his bodyguard’s massive frame. Ron steadies him and I grab his hand and we make a mad dash for the bus. He makes it up the stairs with a little help and Ron steps outside to tell the fans that they can wait forever, but he’s not going to be coming outside because it’s too cold.
Inside our tiny bedroom, I peel off his sweaty clothes and turn on the shower. I guide him beneath the steaming spray and he flattens his palms against the wall to let the water beat down on his neck.
“You were amazing tonight, baby.” I say with admiration in my voice.
I choose my favorite scented shampoo and drizzle some of the gold liquid into my palm. I run the soapy mixture through his hair and he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes as my fingers massage his head and the back of his neck. When I’m finished rinsing his hair, I soap up my hands and gently smooth my fingers over his slippery skin. I’m getting soaked and wondering if I should have just taken a shower with him.
“Mmm, that feels so good.” He says softly.
He eyes me lazily beneath heavy lids, almost reading my mind, and before I can kick off my shoes, his arm snakes around my waist and I’m standing beneath the biting spray with him. He’s the sexiest man I have ever known, and sick or not, I want him.
His large hands reach forward to cup my face and I lean into his smooth palm and close my eyes. When I open them, and he’s sure he has my attention, he reaches for the hem of my silk shirt and slips it over my head. My pants and undergarments follow and we’re finally skin to skin.
Luckily we’re in a tight space, because my knees threaten to buckle as his lips brush over mine, and his tongue slowly traces back and forth across my lower lip.
I moan and throw my head back to give Nick access to my neck and cry out in pain when my head thumps against the wall. Nick tries not to laugh as I rub the swelling lump, but the familiar twinkle is back in his eye, so I laugh with him.
“You’re going to pay for that, Carter.” I tease, slapping my hands against his firm rear end.
“Bring it on, baby.” He silently mouths the words as his head dips and his lips cover my own.
Stories By Kailani
Spiral Bound Fiction
