Killer Chameleon by Chassie West Page B

any sleepwear yet. I filled a carafe of water for Janeece, who was back in the john again, and left it on her nightstand. I filled a thermos for myself, put on pajamas, and went back to bed.
    It was dark outside when the dream in which I was knocking on Duck’s door with all my worldly possessions in hand segued into reality. Someone was pounding at ours. I grabbed my robe, slid into my slippers, and hurried to answer it. The fact that Janeece hadn’t budged meant she had to be in bad shape. Normally she answered doors and phones as if she knew Mr. Right was calling and didn’t have time to waste.
    Duck was about to knock on Neva’s door when I opened ours, his expression a cross between anger and anxiety. One look at me and the anger was gone.
    â€œAw, babe, you’re sick?”
    I nodded, tempted to belabor him with a list of my ailments: sore throat, temperature, et al., but decided against it. It would take too much energy.
    â€œI thought maybe you’d changed your mind about moving in and were too chicken to tell me,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
    â€œSorry,” I croaked, surprised at how hoarse I’d become. “I should have called but I fell asleep. And I’m contagious, Duck. So’s Janeece. I think she’s sicker than I am. You should leave.”
    â€œBull.” He peeled me out of my robe, sat me on the side of the bed, and removed my slippers. “I’m immune. I never get sick.” It had been years since he’d last had a cold or the flu so I didn’t bother to argue. He looked particularly hale and hearty at the moment. The man exuded health. I wanted to snarl at him.
    He palmed my forehead and pronounced me feverish, asked if I’d eaten, what if any medication I’d taken, and in general lifted my spirits and made me downright soppy. He cared.
    â€œYou just relax,” he ordered. “Dr. Duck will take care of you. Janeece too. Where’s your key? I’m going out for supplies.”
    I wasn’t certain what his definition of supplies might be but didn’t care either. The fact that he was coming back was all that mattered. Normally when I’m sick, which isn’t often, I want to be left alone to wallow in my misery. The fact that I found myself welcoming his company showed me just how much he meant to me.
    He went to check on Janeece, left the apartment, and returned a while later laden down with cough syrup, zinc lozenges, tissues, hot soup from my favorite restaurant, ginger ale and crackers to soothe my roommate’s tummy, and a single red rose in a bud vase for each of us. If my cousin the minister were in hailing distance, I’d marry Duck on the spot in my jammies and with a tissue stuck up my nose.
    He’d also brought my laptop. “Picked it up from the shop on my way home from work,” he said, plugging it in and connecting the phone cable to the wall jack beside my bed. “It’ll give you something to play with until you feel better.” He disappeared for a moment and returned hefting one of the easy chairs from the living room.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked, the mug of soup warming my hands.
    â€œMaking sure I’m gonna be comfortable. If I’ve got to sleep sitting up, it ain’t gonna be on that director’s chair there.”
    â€œYou’re staying? All night?”
    â€œOf course. Gotta take care of my sweetie.” He settled in the chair and arranged his face with a beatific smile. I melted inside, and it had nothing to do with the hot soup or my temperature.
    He’d brought paperwork with him, so I finished the soup, popped a cough drop in my mouth, and powered up the laptop. It had been in the shop for two weeks, so I knew I’d have a hundred e-mails to delete about Viagra, weight loss products, mortgages, and miracle potions to increase my penis size. I was wrong; there were only