Beckers

Taylor constricted the muscles in his throat, swallowing down each bout of nausea that had cursed him on the elevator ride to the parking lot, resorting to rubbing the pressure point on his wrist until he was able to reach ground level and head out to his truck. He jogged quickly, hardly making it to his truck when he choked on the acids bittering his tongue, braced his hand on the front bumper and vomited in the bushes. He finished, and coughed and spit the remains, gripped his cramping abdomen and lowered himself onto the curb beside his car. He was shaking, his blood sugar had dropped and the nerves of the previous conversation caught up