his stomach lurch again and again, jumping beneath his shirt like some sort of small animal trapped inside. I'm sick, T.S. thought vaguely, I'm throwing up in the gutter. People walking by are watching, but what can I do? Another wave of nausea hit and he gave himself up to it.
When he was through, strong arms leaned him back into the car, against the firm leather cushions. The cool balm returned and he could feel the purr of the motor beneath him. With his stomach calm again, Lilah's murmur began to soothe his soul. "They did this to you," she was whispering angrily. "I just know it. Oh, Theodore. What an awful place. What an awful, awful party."
His lips moved. He wanted to speak. Thought formed without sound until finally a half squeak came out. "Albert?" he cried and was silent.
"Albert's not here," Lilah assured him. "Don't worry about Albert. Albert's just a friend. He helped you to the car."
"A friend," T.S. repeated, his head lolling back. The nausea was gone but now a terrible black cloud descended on his head. His temples were pounding and pulsating, and there were needles being jabbed into his eyes.
"My head," he groaned. Oh, my head."
He felt Lilah's hands on his body, patting him down. What was she doing? Had she turned into one of them?
"What?" he asked woodenly. "What are you doing?" His tongue hung to one side like a dead slab of meat. Would none of his body cooperate?
"Your handkerchief is bigger," she explained. "Here it is." She pulled it from his pocket and filled it with ice, fashioning a makeshift pack that she held up to his throbbing temples. He lay back, helpless and unable to respond. The coolness spread across his forehead, distracting him from the pain. He managed to raise an arm and grasped Lilah's hand.
"Lilah," he whispered. His eyes would not open, they were glued down. Still, he could see her sitting beside him. She was so lovely. So pure and graceful and honest and lovely. "Lilah…” His voice trailed off. He wanted to collect his thoughts, he felt it was very important that she know how he felt about her before it was too late. But there were so many things he wanted to say and he did not know where to begin. "You must think I'm awful," he whispered in agony. Now that his physical symptoms were abating some, his pride began to ache from the bruising it had suffered. He was disgraced.
"You're not awful," she whispered urgently into his ear. "You're a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man. Now, stop thinking and talking and just get better."
"You're home," she told him softly a few blocks later. She smoothed his forehead with a practiced hand.
His eyes still would not work properly, but he saw enough to be comforted. They had pulled up in front of his apartment building and there was that splendid fellow, his very own doorman, good old Mahmoud, hurrying to help him inside. The world still washed up and receded with alarming irregularity, but he could hear and feel small snatches of reality as strong arms grabbed him and he was hustled inside.
"I've never seen him like this," Mahmoud said with genuine concern. "What has happened to Mr. Hubbert?"
"Bad business of some sort," the driver, Grady, replied darkly. "Can you help me get him upstairs?"
T.S. saw Lilah in front of him, pressing an elevator button. How lovely. It was his elevator button and if he could only walk inside that little door, why he'd soon be looking at his walls. And there would be the deep and cool comfort of his bed. Sanctuary. Sanctuary was home.
It seemed like a dozen or more arms pulled and pushed him along. Hands fumbled in his pocket, male hands, and he struggled.
"Whoah! Steady as she goes," Grady boomed in his Irish brogue. T.S. fell still and his keys were extracted.
"Save me a trip downstairs," Mahmoud said with relief as he propped T.S. against the doorjamb.
"You'll definitely get a Christmas bonus for this," Lilah told him. They laughed and T.S., thinking they were laughing at him, began to struggle again. He pushed his door open and they tumbled inside.
"Easy! Easy!" Grady's strong arms closed around him and helped him to the couch. He sank back gratefully. "Mighty neat place," T.S. heard Grady say through the fog.
"I'll say," Mahmoud replied. "Mr. Hubbert here is a real stickler for order."
"I'll take it from here," Lilah interrupted the men firmly. "Grady, please come