by L. A. Witt
Michael came into the living room and pulled the ottoman up next to the couch. He sat on it, and at the edge of my peripheral vision, a wrapper tore. Just like before, the sound made me think of a different kind of wrapper tearing, but I didn’t let that thought linger.
Dream on, Jason.
Hell, even if I’d had a shot at Michael, it was out of the question tonight with him or anyone else. No way when I hurt this bad.
His hand warmed between my shoulder blades, and I nearly arched into him like a cat, searching for the relief I knew was coming. His touch had become synonymous with both unrelieved arousal and very relieved pain, and I only cared about one of those tonight.
The plastic tube touched my skin, and I closed my eyes.
Michael tapped the needle. It stung briefly, the pain gone before I’d really noticed it. Same with the second and third. A fourth, not far from the base of my neck, went in without incident, but from that pinpoint sting, a warm, dull ache slowly radiated. I tilted my head to stretch my neck, pulling at the aggravated muscle.
“Is that painful?” he asked.
“Aches.”
“Give it a minute. Tell me if it gets worse.”
It didn’t get worse. It didn’t go away completely, but it wasn’t bad. A little annoying if anything. And after the night I’d had, a little annoying was hardly the end of the world.
He gathered up the wrappers and dropped them into the wastebasket next to the couch before returning to the ottoman. “Mind if I ask about something? Just… out of curiosity?”
I rested my chin on my arm. “Go ahead.”
“Why are you running the club on your own? You said you had a business partner but don’t any longer. What happened there?”
I took a breath, closing my eyes as renewed tension crept into neck and shoulder. “Rico pretty much handled the financial side while I dealt with the marketing, running the actual club, things like that. We had some cash flow problems, but we’d been working on finding ways to get ourselves back in the black. I thought we were doing okay at that point. Money was coming in, overhead was under control.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t show up at the club one night.” I swallowed the lump that tried to rise in my throat. “I found him in his garage. You know, I always thought that was something Hollywood made up, but no, there he was. Slumped over the wheel of his car with the engine still running.”
“My God,” Michael breathed. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
I sighed. “Rico fucking loved that car. He always joked about being buried in it. I guess when he realized he was going to lose it and everything else, he decided it was a fitting place for, um….”
“Jesus.”
I took a breath. “I found out after he died that he’d been taking out all kinds of loans. Used his house as collateral, his car, anything he could get his hands on, and poured that money into the club. From the sound of it, he realized he’d dug himself into too deep of a hole to dig himself out.”
Michael was quiet for a moment. “I guess that answers my other question, then.”
“What other question?”
He hesitated. “With as much as the club takes out of you, between stressing you out and draining your finances—”
“Why haven’t I closed it?”
“Yeah. I’m guessing I know why now?”
“Yes and no.” I sighed. “It’s partly pride. We both put a lot of work into getting Lights Out off the ground. I’m too stubborn to give up on it until there’s absolutely no hope.” I paused. “And, yeah, Rico’s part of it too.”
Michael’s warm fingertips met my skin, probably adjusting one of the needles. A faint ache radiated from where he made contact, so that must have been it. When he lifted his hand away, he spoke again.
“It’s probably not my place to suggest anything one way or the other,” he said, his tone gentle, “but I think he’d understand if you did. If you closed the club, I mean. I can’t imagine he’d want you to struggle so hard to keep it going that your quality of life went out the window.”
“No, I suppose he wouldn’t.” I sighed. “Maybe if things get worse, I’ll consider it.” I turned my head enough to look at him. “But hey, maybe the cash flow will get better one of these days.”
He smiled. “Believe me, my business and I are banking on that too.” He stood slowly. “I’m going to leave these in for a little while. Try to relax, all right?”
“Will do.”
He left the room, and I closed my eyes. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to relax, not when I’d been in so much pain—hey, it doesn’t hurt as much now—and thinking about Rico’s death. But the longer I lay there, the more the tension melted out of my whole body, and the more the pain dissipated, fading from glowing red to dull gray. Still there, still unpleasant, but no longer something that made leaning against a sharp corner seem like a rational solution.
Some time passed. A few minutes? Ten? Twenty. Fuck if I knew.
Movement next to the couch dragged me out of the half asleep state I’d slipped into.
“How do you feel?” Michael’s voice was low and soothing.
“Better,” I murmured.
“Good.” He rested his hand on my shoulder, and the warmth of his skin against mine drew a contented sigh from me. “They’re probably ready to come out, then.” He removed a needle, then dabbed the spot gently with a cloth.
“Bleeding?”
“A little.” He dabbed it again before setting the cloth aside. “Happens occasionally.”
Apparently that was the only one. He removed the rest without incident and then held my arm gently, steadying me—and unsteadying me, but he didn’t need to know that—as I sat up. The room listed, and when I was fully upright, I rested my elbows on my knees and rubbed my temples as I took a few slow breaths.
I cautiously tilted my head to each side and rolled my shoulders. “Oh man. That feels so much better.”
“Hopefully that’ll let you sleep.”
“I’m sure it will.”
“If you’re in any pain tomorrow, let me know.”
“Will do.” I smiled as I met his eyes. “And thank you.”
“Anytime.”
We both stood. He started to head for the stairs but hesitated, turning back toward me. “You, um, didn’t mind me asking about… you know….”
“Rico?”
He nodded.
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “Probably doesn’t hurt to talk about it once in a while.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” He shifted his weight. “But I didn’t want to pry into anything too personal, you know?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“All right,” he said. “Well, if ever I do step on a nerve, say so.”
“I will,” I said.
We exchanged tired smiles, and then he continued up the stairs.
I stood in the living room for a moment, just enjoying the fact that I didn’t hurt so badly now. The only really annoying part was the burning strip where the corner of the wall must have bitten into my back. There would be a bruise tomorrow, possibly some raw skin that I’d forget about until I got into the shower, but the excruciating muscle spasms had relaxed.
I went back upstairs and slept like the dead.
Chapter 10
THE FOLLOWING day I slept well into the middle of the afternoon, as I often did after the weekend chaos at the club. Then it was errands, a couple of beers with Seth at one of the bars down the road from his tattoo shop, and home well after dark.
I pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and was headed upstairs to relax for a while, but when I walked past the slider, I did a double take.
Michael was out on the deck, barefoot and shirtless—and fucking hot—as always. He was oblivious to me, his forearms resting on the railing and his head tilted upward as if he was watching the stars.
I thought about leaving him to his thoughts, but… I couldn’t help myself. Some
thing tugged at me, nudging me toward the sliding glass door.
That would be lust, Jason. And some serious wishful thinking.
Probably. Oh well.
I went to the slider, and when I opened it, he glanced over his shoulder.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked.
There was just enough light to illuminate his smile. “Not at all.”
I shut the door behind me and strolled across the deck. Folding my arms on the railing, I leaned over it and held my water bottle between my hands.
“You’ve got a gorgeous view out here,” he said, his voice low as if he thought he might scare away all the stars if he spoke too loudly.
“You should see it in the wintertime.” I kept my voice quiet too. “Come out here after a good snow when there’s a full moon, and it’s spectacular.”
“Minus the part where it’s wintertime in Colorado, right?” he said.
I laughed, and somehow, God knew how, I resisted the urge to stare at him, focusing my gaze on Orion’s Belt instead of Michael’s. “I didn’t say to come out here without a shirt on.”
“What fun is that? Shirts are overrated.”
On you, they certainly are.
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “We’ll see what tune you’re singing when it’s freezing cold and snowing.”
He shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to stay indoors, then.”
Which means I’ll have to come out here to cool off.
He turned his head. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Not too bad for once.” I smiled. “Which I guess I can thank you for.”
“Anytime. And hey, if gets as bad as it did the other night, don’t hesitate to wake me up.”
I sipped my water and set the bottle on the railing. “I appreciate the offer, but I doubt I’d ever actually pester you in the middle of the night unless the house was on fire.”
“Well, the offer’s open. Better that than spending the night bruising the hell out of yourself with a sharp corner.”
Heat rushed into my cheeks. “I suppose that’s true.”
“If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one who does it.”
“I’m not?”
He shook his head. “A lot of my chronic pain patients do things like that. Someone described it to me once as banging your head against a brick wall because it feels so good when you stop.”
“Put it that way,” I muttered, “it sounds even more ridiculous.”
“Not really, if you think about it. When you’re in that much pain, you’ll take anything you can get, even if it only gives you that momentary illusion of relief.”
“That sounds about right. At least I’m not crazy.”
“I didn’t say that.”
We both laughed.
“Seriously, though,” I said. “Sometimes that seems like the lesser of two evils.”
“Better than painkillers?”
I nodded. “You would not believe how many nights I’ve stood in my kitchen having a staring contest with a bottle of pills. I really, really don’t want to take them, and I’m scared to death of getting hooked on them, but sometimes….”
“I can understand that.”
“You can?” I eyed him in the darkness. “I figured you’d be vehemently opposed to any kind of drugs.”
“I am.” He glanced at me before turning his attention toward the mountains again. “Yes, my training tells me that painkillers do more damage than good, but with the pain you’ve been in for the last five years, I can’t exactly begrudge you taking whatever relief you can find.”
“Good,” I said with a smirk, “because I’d probably have to tell you to go fuck yourself if you did.”
He laughed. “Understood. But hopefully you won’t need all that shit anymore.”
“Here’s hoping.”
We both fell silent for a few minutes before Michael said, “So how long have you lived here?”
“The house? Or Tucker Springs?”
“Both, now that you mention it.”
“I’ve lived in Tucker Springs all my life,” I said. “Well, I was born in Montana, but my parents moved here when I was three, so I’ve been here as long as I can remember. As for the house, I’ve had it for a few years now. My ex and I bought it a little while after the economy went tits up. Got a great deal on it.” I sighed. “Just didn’t think I’d be paying it on my own.”
“Best-laid plans,” Michael said.
“Exactly.” I absently reached up to rub my shoulder, which wasn’t hurting yet, but the night was still young. “Even without Wes, I probably could have done fine on my own if not for the club. Whenever the business is in the red, the money has to come from somewhere. If I can’t get a loan, it comes out of my profits. And if I’m not profiting, well, it comes out of my pocket.”
“I know the feeling,” Michael muttered. “Every time I think I’m getting ahead, something new comes up. If I can get out of my student loans, I’ll be in better shape, but with minimum payments? Not happening anytime soon.”
“God, no shit. I just paid mine off about two years ago. If I still had those, I’d be royally fucked now.”
“They’re good for that. So why didn’t you sell the house? Seems like it’d be better for your stress level if you were out from under the place.”
“I keep thinking it might be easier to sell it, but the value is in the toilet, so it’d be a short sale, which takes for-fucking-ever to process, assuming it even goes through. That, and I’d have to force the sale without my ex’s signature, which means coming up with—on my own—enough to cover all the nickel-and-diming they do when you’re trying to sell a house.”
“I can imagine.” He glanced at me. “How does that work, anyway? Splitting up with someone when you’re not married but own a house together?”
“How does it work?” I laughed dryly. “It’s a pain in the ass, believe me.”
“Did you buy him out, or what?”
I shook my head. “He’d just as soon let the house go into foreclosure. He already let the bank repo his car, and his credit’s trashed, so he has no reason to try to keep up with the mortgage.”
“Any way to remove his name?”
“Besides forcing a sale? If I can get his approval, I can refinance it, but I highly doubt the bank’s going to approve me for anything like that. Not without a cosigner whose credit is way better than mine.”
“Think he’d sign off on it?”
“If I could get ahold of him, maybe.” I sighed, shaking my head. “But he won’t return my calls, emails, any of that. He’s pretty much done with me.”
Michael was quiet for a long moment. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said softly, “what happened with you two?”
I didn’t answer right away. My mind wandered back to the night Wes had called time on our relationship. It amazed me how something like that could still hurt even months after the fact. If he walked through my front door, I’d show him right back out, but the way things ended still stung.
I took a breath. “Wes thought I was a workaholic. Especially after I lost… after the club became my sole responsibility. And, I mean, he was probably right. I neglected the shit out of our relationship because I was trying to keep my business from going under. And trying not to keel over from being in pain all the time.” Bitterness seeped into my voice as I said, “So he found someone who didn’t have chronic pain but did have enough money that neither of them have to work at all, never mind long hours.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
He glanced at me, grimacing sympathetically. “I can relate to the workaholic thing. That’s what my ex-wife thought about me too.”
“She thought it?” I asked. “Or you are one?”
“Maybe a little of both. I was throwing myself into my work, spending way too long at the clinic every day—like, every day—instead of spending time with her.” He sighed. “She thought I was obsessed with my work and didn’t care about our marriage. Truthfull
y, I was throwing myself into my work to avoid our marriage.”
“Really?”
He nodded slowly, gazing out at the dark mountains. “In hindsight, I was a jerk to her, and I know that. At the time, I was just afraid to face her and all the reasons we hadn’t been getting along.” He laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. “Guess it was easier to avoid our problems, even if that made things exponentially worse.”
“God, I know how that goes. Making your own hours is convenient for avoiding relationship issues, isn’t it?”
“Very.” He looked up at the sky again. “So how long has it been? Since you and your ex split, I mean?”
“Six months. Seems longer sometimes, though.”
“Miss him?”
“Not really.” I paused. “Okay, that sounded a bit bitchier than it should have. Sometimes, yes, but most of the time?” I brought my water bottle up. “It’s just as well he’s gone.”
Michael released an amused huff of breath. “I know how that goes.”
“Things didn’t end so well with your ex-wife?”
“Oh, it wasn’t that bad. We get along all right, all things considered. But… we’d been disconnected for so long, and neither of us was ever really sure why. Still aren’t. So I’d say the divorce was long overdue.”
“Seems like most breakups are.”
We both laughed dryly and then fell silent. The stars and mountains alternately gave me something to focus on, but my mind concentrated solely on Michael. I swore my left side, the side closest to him, tingled, while the right was cool from the empty air beside me. Three weeks living together, and I still couldn’t keep my blood pressure in check when I was around him.
“My folks called earlier today,” he said out of the blue. “You know, checking in, wanting to talk to Dylan.” He drummed his fingers on the railing, and that was when I realized his casual posture had changed to that of a man wound up and bordering on agitated.
“Oh?” I said. “How, um… how did that go?”
“It was interesting,” he said, more to himself than to me. “They weren’t too sure about me moving their grandson in with ‘some man.’”
