Love Him Wild

by E M Lindsey

  He’d been beautiful when he was an awkward, lanky teen with forehead acne and a flat ass. He was beautiful now, with the hours he spent on his feet and at the gym. Ronan wanted to drop to his knees and put his mouth to every single inch of him until Parker cried, and begged, and promised he would never leave.

  “Come on,” Parker said, holding out a hand. “I’m fucking serious about the wedding thing.”

  Ronan had no doubt, and he grabbed Parker’s hand, attempting to pull himself up. The movement caused his head to spin a little, a throbbing pain in the back of his head momentarily whiting out his vision. He panted and tried to use his legs to heave himself up, but they refused to respond.

  “I’m not fucking kidding,” Parker told him with a frown. He tightened his grip on Ronan’s hand. “We can have fuck-fest two-thousand-eight when we get back. Well, after my shift. Well, after my shift and food and a shower.”

  Ronan grit his teeth. “I…”

  Parker dropped his hand and frowned. “Ronan.”

  “I can’t…my legs won’t move.” The admission sounded hollow, his voice echoing like he was speaking from another room. His head was still pounding, the room rocking a little. Ronan held his breath and at best managed to get his foot to twitch.

  Parker realized he wasn’t kidding after seconds, and he dropped to his knees. His hand yanked the blankets back, and he dragged his fingers along Ronan’s hip, squeezing alternately on his thighs, calves, and the bottoms of his feet. “Can you feel this?”

  “Not really. I…it’s…it’s like they’re asleep,” Ronan admitted. “It’s happened before, but not this bad.”

  Parker’s eyes were hooded and worried. “How long has this been going on?”

  Ronan winced at the inevitable anger and disappointment Parker would throw at him, because he’d known this wasn’t normal. He’d known it wasn’t just him being tired, or being sore, or having spent too much time on the ATV.

  “Answer me,” Parker snapped. His hand spasmed around Ronan’s ankle, but he barely felt it.

  “A year? Maybe two, but I’m serious, it’s never been this bad before.”

  Parker licked his lips, then rose and dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re going to the hospital.”

  “No,” he started to argue, pushing himself halfway up.

  Parker spun and fixed him with a stare. “Don’t. Do not argue with me right now.”

  Ronan swallowed, then nodded. “What um… What do you think it is?”

  Maybe it was the tone in his voice, or the fact that Parker simply loved him, but he softened and dropped back down to his knees, grabbing Ronan’s hand in his. “I don’t know. I can come up with at least five things off the top of my head, and only two of them terrify me.”

  “Oh well, that’s reassuring,” Ronan grumbled.

  Parker’s mouth twitched into something like a smile. “Okay. We’re going to get dressed. I’m going to haul your come-covered ass to the fucking ER where everyone knows me, and they’re going to fix you. Got it?”

  Ronan nodded. He wasn’t quite sure how they were going to accomplish that feat considering he could barely sit up, but the fire in Parker’s eyes said it would happen. And Ronan believed him—Ronan always believed him. He wasn’t sure Parker had the fight to keep whatever this was at bay, but if anyone could do it, it was him.

  Ronan was terrified. He’d been to the ER enough times to know it wasn’t like TV, but he had expected them to poke and prod him, to put in an IV and take some blood. He expected a piss test and maybe an MRI, and then some stone-faced doctor to tell him the truth.

  Cancer. It had to be cancer.

  Some sort of thing that was slowly eating his spine or his brain from the inside out. It would be almost poetic, in a way, that he finally got his head out of his ass long enough to finally show up for Parker, only to die six months later.

  Parker refused to speculate on what it was, though, and it was clear he struggled to sit back and let the other staff take over Ronan’s care. Ronan was given a solution in his IV that made him feel like he was going to piss his pants, and then put in a machine with loud thumping which made his headache worse, and that hour would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  They admitted him before a single doctor read a single result, and Parker went home to get some things before camping out on the uncomfortable lounge chair near his bed. They watched cartoons, and Parker sweet-talked the kitchen staff into giving Ronan food that hadn’t come from the little roadside motel menu, and he introduced Ronan to all the nursing staff who all very clearly adored him. It put him at ease, somewhat. He still couldn’t move his legs, and his headache was so bad he couldn’t see straight, and he still didn’t know what was going on.

  And he still didn’t rest. He was in pain by the next morning, though the feeling in his feet had started to return, but it wasn’t enough to get up on his own, not even to take a piss. He was frustrated, but mostly, he was desperately terrified, because he wasn’t ready to die yet. He wasn’t ready to lose this.

  “I have a shift in twenty minutes,” Parker said, thirty-one hours after he’d been admitted. He hovered over Ronan’s bed and kept their lips a hair’s breadth apart. “I’m going to check on you as often as I can.”

  Ronan nodded, scared to be away from him, but glad he could have a moment to himself to figure out what all of this meant. “Did you call Fitz?”

  Parker pulled back and gave him a stern look. “No. I should, but…not until we hear something.”

  It was enough. Ronan kissed him long and slow, then let him walk out the door, and he turned as far onto his side as the tubes and his IV would allow. The drugs made him itchy and tired, but the worry and ache in his head kept him from sleep. Everything felt surreal and confusing, and he wondered if there would be any sort of future to look forward to.

  It was an hour before he had an answer to that. He’d been seeing a very tall, very posh doctor from India who was from the neurology department, and Ronan liked him. He liked his matter-of-fact nature, the way he didn’t pull punches, but he didn’t let them land too hard.

  He showed up with two cups in his hand and handed one off to Ronan before grabbing a chair to sit. “The staff had a little party for one of the nurses today who was retiring, and there was a smoothie station. That one is peach and banana.”

  Ronan had never had a smoothie in his life, but he took it with a level of gratitude he hadn’t expected. “Is this like taking a kid for ice cream after you have to put their dog down?”

  Dr. Patil laughed. “No. This is me playing nice with Dr. Alling’s fiancé because I’m hoping we might work together again one day. He’s a pain in my ass, but he’d be a good addition to this hospital if he wants to be. And all the nurses love him.”

  Ronan wasn’t surprised to hear it, and his face softened into a grin. “He’s always been like that.”

  Dr. Patil chuckled. “I have no doubt. I also have some conclusive results for you, Mr. Hedrek.”

  Ronan’s heart jumped into his throat, and he had trouble swallowing his mouthful of smoothie. He managed it, after a moment, then cleared his throat. “Okay.”

  “Have you ever heard of Multiple Sclerosis?”

  His eyes closed. He had. Of course, he had. Everyone had seen those late-night telethons as a kid, and on little signs at the cash register at the supermarket collecting donations with pictures of people sitting in wheelchairs. Help cure MS, they read, because at the moment there was no cure. He felt like he was standing outside of his body for a second as he tried to rip back through his memories for anyone who had survived it. “Didn’t that…that scientist guy have it? The one with the robot voice?”

  Dr. Patil chuckled. “Stephen Hawking? No, that was not MS.”

  Ronan let out a shaking breath, but it wasn’t really relief. “Am I…is this going to…will I die?”

  “You’re not going to die. Not from this,” the doctor said, and Ronan let his breath out all in a rush. “How
ever, it’s important to begin treatment as soon as possible. There is no cure, and right now, I suspect you have one of the rarer diagnoses of this disease.”

  Ronan laughed—he couldn’t help it. Because of course he did, of course he fucking would. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” the doctor said and folded his hands over his knee, looking serious now, which scared the shit out of Ronan, “that you won’t get better. You’ll get worse, in fact. We found lesions on your brain, and two lower down on your spinal cord. Those are what’s causing your vertigo symptoms and leg paralysis.”

  Ronan felt like he was choking for a minute. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you’re going to recover from this flare, but not entirely. I want to start you on a couple of treatments today and keep you here another few nights to see how your body responds. After that, I’m going to set you up with a couple of specialists who can help. And physical therapy.”

  “Right,” Ronan breathed out. “I’m a park ranger.”

  At that, Dr. Patil brightened, leaning forward. “Is that so? With the uniform and living in the woods and everything?”

  Ronan laughed again, this time softer, kinder. “Yeah. Even the stupid hat.”

  Dr. Patil chuckled. “I wanted to be Robin Hood when I was little, because I thought it meant I could live in the woods. My mother suggested a park ranger, but that was before I got into Duke.”

  Ronan grinned. “That’s where Parker went.”

  “I know.” Dr. Patil shifted his chair closer and laid his hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry that I don’t have better news for you, Mr. Hedrek. This won’t be easy, but it also won’t be impossible. Your life is going to change, but you have a really good partner for this kind of thing.”

  Ronan choked on a laugh, turning his face away. He knew the shock of it hadn’t set in yet—that it wouldn’t be long before the truth threatened to suffocate him. But for now, he needed to stay level-headed. “What do I do?”

  “We’re going to go over treatment options tomorrow, and then we’re going to get you fitted for orthotics and crutches to help when your legs are struggling. I’m going to order some PT to get you on your feet, and then you’ll have some occupational therapy to learn how to use a wheelchair.”

  Ronan’s face felt numb. “A wheelchair?”

  Dr. Patil’s smile looked like a mockery in response to Ronan’s crashing fear. “There will be days you won’t be able to walk, and that will help you get around. It’s not meant to scare you—it’s not going to ruin your life, Ronan. Okay?”

  Ronan licked his lips, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to just agree with him. “And then?”

  “And then, you put one day ahead of the other,” Dr. Patil said. He pushed to his feet. “You eat ice cream and drink smoothies and don’t skip your medication or your exercises. And when it feels like it’s too hard…keep going.”

  Ronan nodded, then reached for the doctor’s arm when he started to walk away. “I was going to get married.”

  “Good. Get married,” Dr. Patil said. “Have the wedding of your dreams and an amazing honeymoon. I’ll page Dr. Alling and send him to your room so you two can plan that.”

  Ronan wanted to tell him not to, but in truth, he needed his friend. His fiancé. His lover. His everything. “Okay,” he whispered. “Uh…you can tell him, though? My head just really hurts still, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to remember all of that.”

  “I can tell him,” the doctor said, and then he slipped out of the room.

  Parker arrived ten minutes later, face even more pale than normal. He didn’t say anything, he simply pulled his prosthetic off, tossing it onto the chair, then crawled onto the bed and wrapped himself around Ronan’s body so tight, he could feel him everywhere.

  “You’re still going to fucking marry me.”

  Ronan closed his eyes, and though he wanted to cry, he laughed instead. “Yeah. I might not walk down the aisle if you want to do it soon, though.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if you pub-crawl down the aisle,” Parker told him. He took Ronan’s chin in his hand and turned his face so they were nose to nose. “In three days, I’m going to fucking marry you. I’m going to take you to a hotel in the shitty hospital wheelchair they’ll issue you until we can get one of those fancy badass ones.”

  “Okay,” Ronan whispered.

  “I’m gonna fuck you in it.”

  Ronan laughed. “Okay. He said I’ll walk. Sometimes. I think.”

  “Yes. And sometimes you won’t.” Parker went quiet. “How do you feel?”

  “Fucking terrified,” Ronan admitted, and it felt like a relief this time, to acknowledge just how much this all was. “Angry. In love. Determined to keep my job and figure out a way I can fuck you, because that last night at your apartment wasn’t enough.”

  Parker grinned, wicked and hungry, and he kissed Ronan, fucking his mouth with long, slow strokes of his tongue. “It will never be enough. But we’ve got this. Yes?”

  “Yes. We’ve got this,” Ronan said. “I want to sleep though.”

  “So sleep. I won’t leave until someone’s screaming my name.”

  Ronan knew he should encourage his fiancé to get back to work, but right then, it didn’t matter. Like the doctor said, one day in front of another. Their wedding waited, and the rest of Parker’s residency. Then Cherry Creek after that. And the rest would be what it was.

  Chapter Eight

  Jonas was a winter child, born weeks after Christmas in a spontaneous heat wave that had ripped across the Arizona desert. His mother loved the story of how he’d come into the world. How she was with her mother shopping, a long month before he was due. He was her first, and she and his father had been over the moon because the grainy little ultrasound had given enough information to tell Peter and Alexandra Woods that they were having a boy.

  He was supposed to be due in late February, but that sweltering January morning in front of the Hallmark Store marked the start of Jonas’ life. It was probably an omen, he thought, years later. Everything about him was unexpected—from his birth down to the thatch of black curls on his head and the dark fuzz that covered his arms and shoulders. He was nothing like Peter Woods—tall and lanky and blond. He was nothing like his mother, with her fair strawberry blonde hair and freckles, but Peter had held him up with pride, and there was photographic evidence that for the first three years of his life Jonas was loved. Desperately.

  He had albums of photos with his father holding his hand, carrying him on his shoulders, and smiling at the camera like the world couldn’t get better. It was a far cry from the man Jonas had grown up with though, and sometimes he would lie awake in his bed and stare at those albums he’d stolen off the living room shelf and wonder where it all went wrong.

  He was three when his brothers were born—eleven minutes apart—with their bald heads and round cheeks. It was probably the first time Peter had seen himself in his offspring, and it was the reason Jonas had been so easily relegated to the spare the moment the boys were brought home in their matching bassinettes.

  Jonas missed his parents after that, but that soon grew to be a constant companion—that loneliness crushing his lungs whenever he woke up with a nightmare and no one rushed in to comfort him. He was a normal boy, for whatever normal meant, not standing out too far at his stuffy private school with their starched collars and stern-faced teachers who didn’t tolerate misbehaving. Of course, going against the grain had always terrified Jonas beyond all reason.

  His father had made it clear from his earliest tangible memories that nothing Jonas ever did would be good enough to earn praise and respect, but other people noticed. His friends noticed when he was good at things, and his teachers heaped praise on him when he scored highest on tests and never scored lower than a ninety percent. It became something of an addiction, in the strangest way. It was like a hug after being touched starved, and he craved it.

  He craved his parents too, though
, even if he knew that they’d never bother. His mother was detached from all of her children, and his father had eyes for the twins and no one else. Jonas haunted the hallways of their sprawling Scottsdale home like a ghost. In summers, he’d escape into the heat, taking his bike deep into the scrubbed desert and hack holes into creosote bushes so he could lie on the soft sand away from fallen cholla and breathe in the scent of rain under a piercing blue sky.

  Sometimes he’d escape to a friend’s house, but it left him gasping for air as he was forced to watch parents who gave a shit. Jonas was rich. His father owned an investment company he knew nothing about except that they owned a lot of buildings and that Peter was always busy. It paid for their lifestyle though—his nice clothes and good shoes and piano lessons.

  It was the only outward sign that he existed to them, but as he reached middle school, Jonas realized he preferred it that way.

  “I’m going to go to college somewhere that it rains,” he declared one night when it was just him and his mother. Peter had taken the boys to the movies, and Jonas stayed home to finish his science project. He was studying chemical reactions on different types of cloth, and he had his work spread over the kitchen table for the three long hours before his father came home to sneer at him about not wanting to see his face.

  His mother had asked—sitting at the counter with a glass of wine in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. She watched him for long minutes before her voice rose over the quiet din of the blasting AC. “I never liked the rain.”

  He didn’t laugh, but he wanted to. “I just want to be anywhere that isn’t here.”

  What he meant was, he wanted to be around people who didn’t mind that he was different. Who didn’t stare at him when his olive skin and black curls stood sharp against his brothers’ blond hair and blue eyes and dentist-perfect grins. He wanted to live in a small, cozy home where people touched him because they wanted to give him comfort. He wanted to live somewhere that smiles were out of kindness and not manipulation.