by Whitley Gray
“You didn’t have to do this.”
Warmth shown in Remy’s blue-gray eyes as he smiled. “Ah, but I want to do this.”
Jamie nodded. Remy wanted to take care of him. But why?
Chapter Seven
Remy steered toward home at dusk with a load of groceries. The last few days had been some of the best of his life. Jamie had finally relaxed into a routine, and they now shared Remy’s bed. Brett had given up bugging Remy about meeting the blind-date guy and had retreated in a snit. Sometime this week Remy would bribe him with a fancy-schmancy coffee, and they could talk.
Remy turned onto his road. The sun had dropped behind the mountains, leaving a few salmon-colored streaks in the sky and taking most of the evening warmth with it. Streetlights flickered to life, casting pools of illumination on the sidewalks. The neighborhood kids had retreated inside. A distant roll of thunder warned of a spring shower.
As he approached the driveway, he noted a strange vehicle parked by the curb. Not just any car—a Mercedes. Huh. The grocery shopping had taken him less than an hour and he hadn’t planned on dinner guests. A romantic dinner for two, then asking Jamie to stay beyond the time he required crutches. If necessary, Remy would use the excuse of letting Jamie’s sister off the hook tomorrow. If things progressed as he hoped, extend their temporary arrangement into something more long-term.
He parked, pulled the groceries from the trunk, made his way to the side entrance, and tried the knob. Unlocked. Anxiety crept up his spine. He’d locked it when he left. Juggling the bags, he pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen. Voices came from the living room. Remy set the bags on the counter. What was going on?
Listening in wouldn’t be the way to build trust, but it was his house, and apparently the visitor was someone Jamie knew. Remy headed for the doorway, then paused and tapped a finger on his thigh. This didn’t sound like pleasant company.
“…not going back.” Jamie’s voice vibrated with tension. “It’s over.”
Was this an ex-boyfriend? A spark of jealousy flared to life in Remy’s stomach.
“That guy meant nothing to me.” A rough bass, commanding tone. “You belong at home.”
“I don’t belong to you, and that’s not my home.” There was a little more steel in Jamie’s reply. “This isn’t your house, and you’re not welcome here.”
“Shacking up already, huh?” said the deep voice. “Guess it’s better than some guy at that fleabag motel, you whore.”
“We’re done.” Jamie’s tone left no room for interpretation. “Get out.”
Enough, damn it. Remy strode into the living room. And froze. Fuck. “Vince?”
The swarthy man’s brow wrinkled and then smoothed out. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Doctor Remington Marshall, pansy ER doctor. I’ll be damned.”
Of all the bastards on the planet. His father’s favorite protégé. Hell, his father’s surrogate son, after Remy had come out. Unlike Remy, Vince had gone into orthopedics and emulated his mentor in every way—or so Remy had thought.
Vince—homophobic asshole Vince—was gay. Talk about irony. Vince must have hidden his orientation well, because no way would Rosgood Marshall III put up with a gay man as his successor. Remy’s pulse pounded. “You know him, Jamie?” You were with him? This colossal shithead?
“You better fucking believe it.” Vince sneered. “Right, Jay?”
“It’s over.” Jamie glared at Vince. “He barged his way in here. I didn’t invite him, and he’s not welcome.”
That was obvious. Jamie looked mad enough to beat Vince with the crutches. Remy turned his attention to Vince. “What are you doing here?”
“Collecting a friend.” Vince glowered at Jamie. “The orthopedic clinic needs him.”
“I can deal with him, Remy.” Jamie stood straight on his crutches and pulled out his cellphone. “Get out, Vince, before I call the police.”
Vince advanced on Jamie. “I’m taking you home.”
Jamie took an awkward step back on his crutches, juggling the phone against the handgrip. “I’m not going with you.”
“You little—”
“Jamie’s made his decision.” Remy eased toward Vince. “Leave.”
Vince snorted. “What are you? The ho-mo-sex-you-al crusader?”
This from a guy who was too deep in the closet to find his ass with his own hands? Time to take out the trash. Remy dropped his arms to his sides, balanced on his toes. “You were just going, weren’t you?”
“With him.” Vince nodded at Jamie.
“No way. I’d rather die.”
Remy shot a look at Jamie. What the hell had happened between them?
“Get over here, Jamie.” Vince gave a cruel smile. “Don’t make me punish you.”
Jamie’s sharp intake of breath told Remy everything he needed to know. “Out. Now.”
Vince strode forward, reached for Jamie.
Remy gripped Vince’s forearm, yanked, and ducked. Vince flipped and landed on his back. The air went out of the big man like a squashed inner tube. Staring down at the bully, Remy prepared for another attack. “Get up, and get out of my house.”
Vince got to his feet and dusted himself off. He glared past Remy’s shoulder at Jamie. “I’ll go. But this isn’t over, Jay.”
Jamie lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. In a firm tone he said, “It is over. Permanently.”
Remy narrowed his eyes and followed Vince to the door. After the other man had exited, he flipped the dead bolt and faced Jamie. “You okay?”
Jamie’s lips pressed together, and he scowled. “Fine. I can take care of myself.” He wobbled on his crutches and started down the hall. “You had no right to interfere.”
Interfere? Dumbfounded, Remy stared and followed his houseguest. What had just happened? “Hey. I know him. He’s a bully. I didn’t want him to hurt you.”
“I had it under control. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Remy.” Ice coated the words. Jamie disappeared into the guest room.
What…the…fuck. He’d left for an hour to get groceries, and everything went to hell in a handbasket. None of this made any sense. Remy headed for the guest room. Jamie had his duffel on the bed, throwing in toiletries and clothes. Shit. A stone formed in Remy’s chest and sank to his stomach. “You used to be with him?”
“It was finished before I moved here.” Another shirt went into the duffle.
Vince was such a beast. Fuck. Jamie’s nightmare. A cold chill ran down Remy’s back. “Did he hurt you?”
Jamie’s ice-cold gaze said it all.
Aw, man. No wonder Jamie had run. “Where are you going?”
The glare warned Remy back. “To the motel, not that it’s any of your business.”
Fisting his hands, Remy glared back. “I thought you were my business. I thought—”I thought we had something together. “I thought we were at least friends.”
“Fucking you doesn’t mean I belong to you,” Jamie shot back.
Okay, lots of undeclared baggage in that statement. “I don’t think you—forget it.” Fighting would get him nowhere. Maybe some space and time to cool off… But what if Vince was waiting at the motel? “I’ll drive you.”
“No. I’ll call a cab.”
“Jamie—”
“Back off, Remy.”
Fucking A. He gritted his teeth. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Putting away the groceries he wouldn’t be fixing. So much for a romantic dinner for two.
* * * *
Three days.
Jamie stared at the rain running down the front window. A gray day. A perfect match to his mood. He’d left Remy’s house seventy-two hours ago and spent the last seventy of those being miserable. Talk about overreacting.
“Time to change your ice pack.” Sarah picked up the soggy bag by one corner and gently settled a frozen one over Jamie’s ankle. The swelling had receded, and the hue had deepened to violet and eggplant with a touch of burgundy. Beau
tiful.
“Honey, why don’t you call him?” Sarah plopped on the sofa bed next to him. “You know you want to.”
“It wasn’t working out.” Sarah didn’t need to know about Vince, and Remy’s ride-to-the-rescue scenario. Why couldn’t a guy take charge in the bedroom and treat Jamie like an equal outside it? Not that Remy had tried to dominate Jamie between the sheets. Remy shouldn’t have butted in, even if he did know Vince. It was Jamie’s battle. He sighed. Once again, he’d chosen a pushy doctor.
Well, no more. No more.
Lightning flashed, followed by a clap of thunder. The lights flickered.
“You know, I really hate this place.” Sarah rubbed his arm. “Come stay with me and the boys. I promise the snake will stay in his heated aquarium.”
“Sarah, please. We’ve been over it. I just started a new job, and I’m settled.”
“Settled? In this dump? Honey, you need an apartment. And you haven’t been able to work.”
“I’ve got enough savings to get me through. A couple more trips to physical therapy, and I can get back to work.”
“James Ernest Sutton. Be realistic here.”
“Just give me until the end of the week. If the PT doesn’t clear me by Friday, I’ll stay with you until I can work. Deal?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Deal.”
* * * *
Remy pushed himself, splashing through puddles, rain saturating his sweatshirt. His shoes squished with every step. For the umpteenth time he glanced at his watch. Down to a six-and-a-quarter-minute mile. Terrific.
Now if only that took his mind off Jamie.
How could he fall so hard for a guy in a matter of days? A knife skewering him through the heart wouldn’t hurt more than this. Staying away had gotten him keyed up. So here he was again, running ten miles through the pouring rain. Like some lovesick teenager in a movie. He shook his head, slicked his hair off his forehead, and pounded down the pavement.
It’d been three days, but Jamie hadn’t called. Remy had called, had texted a dozen times, and then quit when he’d started to feel like a stalker. Backing off had made him crazy, but pushing wouldn’t get Remy where he wanted to go.
Vince had done a number on Jamie. And likely would have done more if Remy hadn’t come home. If Jamie had had the strength to leave that asshole in the first place, he could’ve handled a verbal confrontation. Jamie could have beat Vince with a crutch. He could have called 911. Short of a physical attack, Remy should have stood aside and kept his mouth shut, but he hadn’t. It was what it was.
Just how to fix things?
He put his head down and ran harder.
Chapter Eight
Jamie planted the cane on the concrete and hobbled to the door of Plains Physical Therapy. It had been three weeks since he’d fractured his ankle. Today, he’d bug the therapist to let him go from tripod to biped. The cane said “old and decrepit.” He didn’t need a cane. If Jamie had to gimp, he’d rather do it with dignity. Yes, folks, step right up and see the male ego in its native habitat, still intact and in denial.
Despite the fact that PT was on the same medical campus as the hospital, the chance of running into Remy was remote. So why had Jamie’s stomach tied itself into knots? Better off without some jealous doctor going all King Kong on him. In a town this size, Jamie could meet plenty of guys. It just wouldn’t be while running in the park. And never on rollerblades. A nice safe bar, maybe something with handicapped access for those with orthopedic issues. Something to look forward to.
He hit the automatic door opener, and the heavy glass door swung open. Mixed smells of plaster, lemon cleanser, and adhesive tape wafted out, accompanied by notes of New Age music. Very Zen, in a rehabilitative sort of way.
Jamie shuffled the dozen steps to the front desk.
Looking up, the receptionist gave him a sunny smile. “Here for PT, Mr. Sutton?”
“Yep. And it’s Jamie.” He returned the smile.
“I’ll let Craig know you’re here.” She swung away and picked up the phone.
Without using the cane, Jamie limped two paces and sank into a chair. Vanity rewarded him with a symphony of pain. He winced. Without the splint, he had to pay attention to those twisting motions. Maybe Craig could tape the joint, or give him a lace-up ankle boot. Maybe high-top basketball shoes? But then he’d look like an overgrown kid.
“Hey, Jamie.” Craig smiled and held the door to the therapy area. “Come on back.”
Grimacing, Jamie got to his feet. He’d wanted to forgo any walking-assist device, show the therapist how much progress he’d gained since last week, but the ache in his ankle forced him to lean on the cane as he tottered toward the back.
“Not improving?” Craig studied his progress with a clinical eye.
“It’s getting there.” With the speed of a snail on sedatives.
Craig nodded and walked next to him. “Let’s go to the table and take a look.”
A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows curved in a ninety-degree arc around mats, weight machines, and parallel bars. Nubby cranberry and gray carpet covered the floor in a random pattern of circles. A few other injured souls glanced up, grunting and sweating their way through sessions with their physical therapists. Jamie flashed them a wry grin in commiseration.
Beyond the glassed-in area, ten exam tables separated by striped curtains occupied the therapy department. Craig strolled ahead to a table at the far end, then pivoted and observed Jamie’s progress. Gritting his teeth, Jamie straightened as much as he could and tried not to limp. Jeez. He was sweating like a pig. By the time he made it to the table, he was only too ready to slide onto the paper-covered Naugahyde and lie down. Would he ever get back to his routine of running in the park?
Remy would be out there, training for the next big marathon. No, running didn’t sound so great after all. A new sport might be in order—something that wouldn’t attract Remy. Like water ballet. Beneath Jamie’s head, the pillow crackled inside its cotton pillowcase.
“Looking forward to coming back to work?” Craig asked.
“I’d much rather be here as a massage therapist than a patient,” Jamie grumbled.
“Soon.” Craig bent Jamie’s knee, then gently unlaced and removed his running shoe and sock. “Tell me if this hurts.”
“So far it’s okay.” Bearable.
Craig flexed the ankle. “How about now?”
“’S okay.” Not enough to say uncle yet. Maybe aunt.
Studying his face, Craig put more pressure on the joint.
“That’s…uncomfortable.” Yeah, about like having a scalpel buried to the hilt in his Achilles’ tendon.
“And now?”
Straight past uncle to Great Aunt Jennie’s hot-pepper pancakes. Damn, that hurt. Jamie clamped his teeth together.
“Still pretty tender.” Craig straightened Jamie’s leg and let him catch his breath. “I’m going to get the whirlpool set up and I’ll be back. Maybe a little massage to loosen you up?”
“Sure.”
“Go ahead and get ready. Back in a minute.” Craig pulled the curtain around to table to give him privacy.
My God. The throbbing in his ankle brought tears to his eyes. Was he ever going to get over this? Jamie pulled off his other shoe and sock and stripped off his warm-up pants. In his running shorts, he eased onto the table and lay down on his stomach, sighing with relief.
No way could he keep up the pretense that his ankle was all better. He’d have to figure out something else he could do at work, something that wouldn’t involve standing. Maybe Sean would let him do light duty—setting up and supervising the whirlpool would be okay for a couple of weeks. Weights clanked somewhere out in the therapy area, and a man groaned.
Returning to his old job with Baron was an option.
And deal with the possibility of Vince? No, thank you.
There was always telemarketing from his cozy rent-by-the-week motel room. Or move in with Sarah. Or return Remy’s calls. He buried his
face in his folded arms. A great bunch of alternatives.
“Ready?” Craig’s voice came from behind the curtain.
“Yeah.”
Metal rings scraped along the rod as the curtain was whisked open, and then back in place. “Okay. I’m going to start with some lotion.”
The squirt of the bottle reminded Jamie of massaging Remy. A light scent reached his nose, and his chest ached. Large hands slicked down his calf, and strong thumbs dug into the tense muscle. Jamie jumped.
“Relax.” Craig’s voice had that therapeutic note all medical professionals seemed to use as he rubbed into the knots there. “Use some visualization.”
“Trying.” Taking a deep breath, Jamie closed his eyes, pictured the sprain healing, pictured himself running, pictured giving Remy a massage. Now that wasn’t helpful.
Strong hands flexed his knee, brought his foot up. Gentle fingertips stroked along his calf to his instep, across his arch. Not painful, just relaxing. Heat radiated from the palms rubbing along the bruised tendons and ligaments. With a slow, careful motion, Jamie’s foot was lowered to the table.
Craig moved out of sight. “Okay, pal?”
“Mmm. Yeah.”
“Back in a second.” Curtain rings scraped.
A few moments later, another squirt of lotion, then more forceful strokes—along both calves this time, working up to his knees and the backs of his thighs, then beneath the edge of his shorts to the curve of his butt.
Whoa. Way above the call of duty for an injured ankle. As a massage therapist, Jamie had no illusions the attention had crossed from professional to personal. Doubtful the boss would approve. Craig really hadn’t seemed like a closet case.
“Uh, Craig?”
The hands moved from Jamie’s thighs to his shoulders. Fingertips massaged his scalp. Warm breath touched his ear.
Oh, God, this was awkward. What should he say? “Hey. I can’t—”
“I missed you.” The husky voice poured over him like sweet cream.
Jamie froze. Not his therapist. Relief warred with anger. “Remy?”
Lips nuzzled his ear.
