Page 2 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes
“Soup.” He picks up the TV remote and sets it on the bed next to my box of tissues. “I know your throat hurts, but you need to make sure you have something to eat.”
I stare at him. “I really love you,” I say hoarsely.
“Don’t get too excited, it’s just tomato cup-a-soup.” He smiles.
I reach up and trace his cheeks, aware that my hands must feel hot and dry against his skin but unable to stop myself from touching him. “Danny,” I whisper, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you. It’s been so long since I had anyone to look after me.”
As if it wasn’t hard enough to swallow already, my throat now aches with the need to cry. Feeling foolishly sentimental as well as like utter crap, I look away, blinking back the hot tears. Stupid flu. It feels like my eyes are boiling in their sockets. The last thing I need is to end up being an overemotional blubbering mess because my incredibly thoughtful boyfriend made me packet soup and stuck it in a flask so I wouldn’t have to drag myself out of bed.
“Hey.” Danny’s fingertips catch my jaw and turns my face so my eyes meet his. “I love you too, and I spend most of my time wondering what I did to deserve you too, so how about we just agree we got lucky?”
I nod, wishing I could press my lips to his, even in a light, fleeting kiss, but I won’t. The last thing he needs is to catch my germs. Listening to the renewed hammering of the storm, I turn my gaze briefly to watch the torrential rain rattle the glass in the old window frame.
I frown. “Be careful today.” My voice cracks and dips.
“I will.” Danny leans in and drops a kiss to my forehead. “Love you, Tris.”
“Love you too, Danny.”
He fusses over me a little more, handing me my cup of tea as he smooths the bedcovers. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”
I give a little wheezing huff of a laugh. “I’ll be fine, go to work. Say hi to Maddie for me.”
Giving me one last look, he turns and heads out of the room. Moments later, I hear the front door of the flat open and then close behind him.
I reach for my glasses and slide them on, the familiar weight of them adding an uncomfortable pressure on the bridge of my stuffy nose. Blowing on my tea to cool it slightly, I pick up the remote from the bed next to me and switch the TV on, settling on the weather forecast.
My brows raise slightly, and I feel sorry for the woman on the screen. She looks no older than an intern, and rather than let her report the weather from the comfort of a studio in front of a green screen, some idiot has sent her out into the howling rain.
She’s trying valiantly to hold on to a huge golfing umbrella with BBC Weather printed on it, but the wind whipping her soaked hair into her mascara-smudged eyes and tugging at her drenched raincoat is working just as hard to turn the umbrella inside out. In fact, the wind is so strong I honestly wouldn’t be surprised to see her take off like Mary Poppins and fly across the London skyline.
Bless her heart, as she hangs onto her brolly for dear life with one hand, she’s got a death grip on her microphone with the other. With the banks of the Thames and London Bridge as a backdrop, she shouts into the microphone to be heard above the howl of the wind.
“Storm Nigel has caused utter chaos to public transport since several lines on the DLR have flooded. The Met Office has issued an amber weather alert for the Greater London area and advises Londoners to stay in and not to travel unless necessary.
Experts are at a loss on how to explain the unusual weather pattern, which seems to be firmly settled over the city with no signs of moving or dissipating. In addition, downed lines have yet to be restored after last night’s unprecedented lightning storm, leaving many homes and businesses still without power.
With heavy rainfall and wind speeds of up to sixty miles per hour forecast over the next twenty-four hours, one thing’s for certain. Storm Nigel is far from done with the city of London.”
“Storm Nigel? Seriously? Who the hell comes up with these names?” A familiar voice interrupts, and I can almost hear her roll her eyes.
I look up and snort as I’m taking a sip of my tea, which causes a small wave to slosh over the edge of the mug. I pull it away and wipe the drips of tea from my chin with my other hand.
Dusty stands at the foot of the bed wearing a very, very short white PVC nurse’s outfit, white stockings, and white patent platform Mary Janes. Her fingernails and lips are fire-engine red, and a little white cap with a red cross on it perches on top of her blonde hair.
“Darling, are you okay?” She coos in concern as I start coughing again.
“That depends,” I wheeze, trying to catch my breath.
“On what?”
“On where you’re planning on sticking that.” I eye the thin thermometer in her hand.
She laughs and crawls onto the bed. Lying beside me with her head propped on her hand, she sticks the thermometer in my mouth.
“It’s a real thermometer. I found it in the back of the cupboard while Detective Sexy-pants was rummaging through your Lemsips.”
“Whhehrhehhavvvybe?”