Touch: The Complete Series

by Cara Dee

  He grins, half lazy and half shy. "She's different."

  "She is." She's a happy little sprite with me, but she comes to life on another level with Dylan around, and that’s okay. More than okay. There's obviously more than one for her, too. "That’s because of you. She's happier when we're both by her side."

  He bites his lip and sits up, his hair pointing in every direction. "The tattoos she's gotten," he says quietly. "It's hard to understand why she would add my name."

  "I know the feeling." I smile faintly.

  "You're just too humble for your own good." He rubs his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You always were."

  I huff. "Are you talking to yourself?"

  "No. It's completely different with me," he insists. "I have a good reason to think I don’t deserve a tribute on her body."

  I sigh and sit up, too. "We're gonna talk about all that tomorrow. There're some things you need to understand. For now, humor Gabriella and pretend you wanna watch the rest of this god-fucking-awful chick flick with her. Or us. I'm really loving it."

  He laughs at my deadpan expression and agrees, although I don’t miss the flicker of nervousness at the mention of our talk tomorrow.

  "I need to go to the bathroom first."

  "I'll help you." I leave the bed as he gets ready to protest, which I'm happy to shut down. "It wasn’t a question, little pan."

  He sighs heavily, all dramatic like. Removing the pillows that keep his leg elevated, I offer him a hand and carefully get him on his feet.

  "I thought you were only supposed to boss around Littles," he mutters.

  "Pretty much what I'm doing." I pick up his bag from the floor. "Do you have PJs in here, or do you wanna borrow a T-shirt?"

  He half sits on the foot of the bed and opens his bag. "I mean Littles you're in charge of."

  Pretty much what I'm doing.

  Honesty, right? Baby steps. Easing into it. "Dylan, if you didn’t object, I'd be in charge of you, too. You know how to worry me—and probably make me go prematurely gray."

  He's surprised by that, and he falters with the bag. "Wh-what?"

  Gabriella's almost done in the kitchen, so I keep it short.

  Cupping his jaw, I kiss his forehead briefly. "Gabriella's not the only one who missed you, kid."

  *

  I treat them equally from that moment on. Knowing how reluctant Dylan's been to open up, me acting as a Daddy to both of them will give him time to adjust and think about things. Hopefully, it'll jog his memories of what we used to have when everything was great. Hopefully, he'll want it again.

  He's red-faced most of the evening, though he never complains, and he seems to like being included. Even when I tell them to pipe down or when I chastise them for eating too much candy.

  "You'll get stomachaches," I warn.

  "My tummy's fine," Gabriella sings. Next, she pats Dylan's stomach. "He's a bit hard, though." She gigglesnorts at her pun as she gets up on her knees. "Daddy, you lie in the middle instead. Scary movie time means you're our stuffie."

  Damn. When they hit the candy like there was no tomorrow, I grabbed leftovers, and now the lasagna's making it difficult to budge an inch. But I comply, and the princess rolls over me as I scoot toward the middle.

  "All right. Come on, cuddle monsters." I place two pillows behind me so I can see the flat screen even when Gabriella rests her head on my chest. Dylan hesitates, for which I can't blame him. I don’t pressure him into doing anything he's not comfortable with, so I push play on the movie and give his hand a squeeze. "That includes you unless it's too much for you, Dyl—Gabriella, I swear to Christ, it's a nipple ring, not a chew toy."

  Both she and Dylan burst out in laughter, and after replaying the ridiculousness of what I just said, I can't help but chuckle. But seriously, the girl flicks and nibbles on that barbell a tad too much.

  "I'm sorry," she wheezes behind her hand, laughing so hard she's almost in tears. "It fascinates me!"

  Dylan snickers. "Chew toy—too funny."

  "Okay, okay, simmer down, you two. The movie's started." I smile and pinch Gabriella's ass.

  She yelps and yanks the covers higher up, and Dylan settles a few inches closer than earlier.

  After that, it's ninety minutes of exorcism and general terror for Littles.

  Chapter 11

  It's nearing lunch when Dylan half hops down the stairs without his crutches the next day. I notice his T-shirt, the one the American team wore at the World Championship last year where he won his first silver. It was before he and I got together, so it was as an acquaintance I headed over to Nick and Kayla's with Mark to watch Dylan on TV.

  I turn off the lathe and wipe dust off my hands. "Morning, sleepyhead. Where are your crutches?"

  "I couldn’t bring them if I was holding the railing." He makes the last jump off the final step and lets me guide him over to my workbench. It's been cleared, so I help him up to sit on it. "You're covered in sawdust."

  "Hot, right?" I smirk and lift my T-shirt to wipe sweat off my forehead. "Did you sleep well? You gotta be hungry. I can order us something."

  "I already did." He directs his smile to my shop rather than at me, and I remember he liked spending time down here while I worked. "I ordered a bunch for us from that bagel place." That’s sweet of him. The garage door's open, country rock is spilling out from the speakers, and the sky's blue. Here's to hoping for a good day, now with the best bagels in the Bay Area. "When did Gabby leave?"

  I check the clock on the wall where I have all my chisels, gouges, and other hand tools. "About an hour ago. She's learning how to disassemble a tattoo gun and change needles today. She was excited." By excited, I mean she bounced out of here earlier.

  "It's weird picturing her in that field." He laughs softly and scratches his bed head. "So what're you workin' on?"

  "Knobs," I reply dumbly. It's the short answer. They're knobs. Hundreds of lathed knobs. People have used beds of nails for meditation and whatnot for ages; now a fetish club in Baltimore is introducing a highly uncomfortable mat with wooden knobs in various sizes to get fucked on top of. I'm the lucky, lucky designer of said contraption. "Your accent's changed a bit. It's more Southern."

  "Grandma mentioned that." He squints at the opening of the garage, the sun beaming outside. "So, um, you said you wanted to talk?"

  I chuckle and return to the lathe. "Itching to get it over with?" I get a sheepish look from him at that. "First things first, I was wondering if it's all right if I give your doctors a call later, especially the team doctor."

  His forehead creases. "Why?"

  "Because I spoke to Liam earlier this week, and I did some research." I can't speak when the lathe is on, so I throw the dozens of knobs I've done so far into a paper bag and bring them to the workbench. I can do the sanding there. "I know you're not ready to think about your future yet—career-wise—but that doesn’t mean I can't do it for you. So depending on what your docs say, maybe you can stay in sports."

  He scoots to the side as I pick out a sheet of sandpaper. "Um, I appreciate it, but my knee's fucked indefinitely unless I do a total knee replacement, and even then, I'll end up too far behind to catch up. I have more screws and junk than tissue under here." He knocks his cast lightly. "Best-case scenario, I'll be a half-ass swimmer who never makes the national team again, and my sponsors won't renew any contracts when I can't even qualify for major meets."

  Actually, hearing he can be a half-ass swimmer is enough to give me hope.

  "What would you say is key in swimming? To compete at your level, I mean." I rip off a piece of fine sandpaper and begin checking the knobs for any uneven surfaces. "Technique's gotta be important."

  "What? Well, of course it is."

  I nod. "And in the off-season, you do open-water swimming as part of your strength training, yeah?"

  He shoots me a brief, exasperated look. "What's your point, Cade?"

  I set down the paper and face him fully. "A triathlete's biggest iss
ue is generally swimming 'cause they don't put in enough hours on technique, and they tend to come from backgrounds of running and cycling."

  "Tri…" His brain catches up, and he frowns. "Are you suggesting I compete in triathlon?"

  "That’s exactly what I'm suggesting." Actually, Liam put it in my head, and I spent all morning reading up on it, 'cause once again, big football fan here. I don’t know much about other sports. "I reckon your background as a swimmer will give you a serious edge in the water. None of those fuckers would make the national team, either."

  He opens then shuts his mouth, only to open it again. The crease is back in his forehead. "That’s three sports where you don't want a mangled knee."

  I make a speed-forward motion with my finger. "Think further. You mentioned knee replacement and said it'd set you back because the recovery's too long—for swimming. Swimmers peak in their early twenties. Triathletes? Add ten years to that."

  That shuts him up, his mind spinning, and I take a step closer, my hands on his legs.

  "You're a fighter, Dylan." I lift his chin when he looks down. "But you need something to fight for. Without it, you drift. So I'm saying you have options. In a few years, you could be bringing home that Ironman Triathlon Cup or whatever it's called."

  His mouth twitches. "Ironman World Championship."

  "That’s the one. Talk about a cool fucking comeback." I step back to return to work. "A call to your docs might give you the motivation to try. Your life's not over."

  Dylan grows quiet, staring out at the street while pinching his lips, a telltale sign of his that lets me know he's miles away in his head.

  I believe in him, and America loves a comeback. If he goes public with it, I'll bet my life sponsors will be all over him to share his journey. More than that, the light in his eyes can come back. I miss it something fierce.

  A delivery guy shows up shortly after with our food, and I take care of it so the boy who's lost in thought can get some grub in his snarling stomach.

  *

  The next few hours fly by quickly. Dylan remains fairly quiet, only occasionally commenting on what I do, be it sanding the little knobs, lathing new ones, or airbrushing them black. I'll do the top coat another day 'cause I wanna wrap up as soon as possible so I can enjoy the rest of my Friday away from work.

  "Anything special you wanna do tonight?" I go over to my cleanup station in the corner to wash my hands. "We have Switch tomorrow, so maybe there's a restaurant or a bar."

  "I'm kind of limited." He adjusts his leg and checks his phone. "Gabby keeps sending me photos of Mexico."

  Limited, my ass. "She's on a mission." Wiping my hands on a towel, I move closer and make him face me. "Do you really not wanna go with us?"

  "Of course I do," he mumbles. "I just don’t wanna be in the way. I'd be no fun to have around. Last time I checked, a new couple isn't interested in babysitting someone who can't walk."

  I sigh. "Then check again." Besides, his condition will have improved in a few weeks.

  I'll leave that mission to Gabriella, though. My agenda is about making him extend his stay here. "Do you miss the lifestyle?"

  The question makes him uncomfortable, but he answers nonetheless. "Yes." It's quiet and cautious. Enough to go on.

  "So stay." I cup his cheek when he tries to hide from me. I'm so over that. "You have absolutely nothing to lose. You can try it out and let us be here for you. Reconnect with your friends, find a PT here for your rehab, bring your pup home, go see your dogs at the rescue center…"

  Dylan swallows hard, and I see a million questions he's too afraid to ask. His gaze flicks between me and empty space.

  "We don’t have to do anything you're not ready for," I murmur. "First and foremost, I—we—wanna help you get better. If you stay here as a friend we care about, or if you're comfortable enough to let me take over is up to you. Being a Daddy is nothing I can switch on and off, but I'd do my best to rein it in if it's too much."

  He exhales shakily. "You really want me around?"

  "Fuck, yes." I can't stress that enough.

  "But—" He swallows again and blinks back the glassiness. "I don’t understand. You'd be toppy with me, too?"

  His wording causes me to breathe out a laugh. "Aren't I always a toppy bastard?"

  "You know what I mean," he whispers.

  I do, and I nod. "If you'll let me."

  He trembles for a beat and pinches his lips. "Is Gabby okay with that?"

  More than. Jesus, she's ready to jump his bones. Then again, I'd be a fucking liar if I said I wasn’t on the same page. But I don’t wanna overwhelm him. I know too little about the months we spent away from each other, and I'm extra careful due to the fact that he's on medication, mainly the antidepressant. During rough times, the smallest changes can put a man through the wringer. I've been there.

  "She's very much on board." I give him his iced tea when I see him reaching for it. "I'd treat you equally, kinda like I did last night. Same rules would apply to both of you, and I'd be in charge of your recovery."

  Another reason I want to call his doctors. I need to get my facts straight so I know what he can and can't handle.

  Dylan offers a wobbly little smile. "I don’t have the strength to say no, so y'all better be sure this is what you want."

  My chest fills with relief, and I bet it shows on my face. "Thank fuck." Running a hand over my head, I get antsy to seal the deal somehow. I know what I want; I wanna kiss the ever-loving hell out of him, but I don’t know if that’s too soon.

  I open my trap to ask before I assume, though that flies out the window when he flinches in pain and begins rubbing the spot above his cast.

  "I'll get your painkillers," I tell him.

  *

  That night, my intention is to take Dylan and Gabriella out to dinner and sort of celebrate. Emphasis on intention, 'cause the result doesn’t come near celebratory.

  Dylan's leg kept him from getting any rest earlier, plus he almost fell in the shower after declining help, so he's tired and cranky. Gabriella's happy but spent after a day running ragged at the tattoo shop. Which leaves me in a 49ers steakhouse with two Littles who would rather cuddle in bed than discuss some fun plans for us now that he's sticking around.

  I shake my head in amusement and eat my burger. Gabriella's sitting next to Dylan, and she leans over to hug his arm several times and say she's thrilled about him staying, but then she's back to struggling to stay awake.

  "I have over ten years on both of you, and you're the ones yawning like it's three in the morning." Leaning back, I sip my beer and wait for their excuses.

  Okay, Dylan's got a solid one. His pain has been brutal today.

  "What can I say?" Gabriella pouts and shrugs. "My soul is ancient."

  "Or lazy." Dylan snickers and pokes her side.

  "Not true!" She scowls.

  "Is, too."

  "It's not." Gabriella lets out a cute growl. "I have CrossFit on Tuesday at six in the morning. Wanna come? I mean, you're not lazy, right?"

  He rolls his eyes. "No, but I will be in Texas then, genius."

  That makes me frown, and I set down my burger. "What? But you're staying."

  "Oh, um, yeah." He shifts in his seat. "I have to make it to my doctor's appointment for the leg brace fitting, though. And I have to speak to my grandparents about watching Devil, take care of some things, pack… Renew my prescriptions."

  That makes sense, though I don’t like the idea of being away from him now. Everything he mentions is shit I wanna take over for him.

  "I understand, but you're bringing the pup." I know how much he loves Devil.

  "Actually, I was thinking…" He hesitates, glancing between Gabriella and me. "If you want, I could go back, get everythin' taken care of, and then fly from there straight to Cabo and make it to the wedding."

  "Yes!" Gabriella fist-pumps the air, and her outburst mirrors what goes on inside me. There's no stopping the grin. "Yes, yes, yes!"

&nb
sp; Maybe I can draw some celebration outta them anyway. "Don't you dare change your mind now."

  He smiles, seemingly surprised and unable to grasp that we want him with us. "I won't, Sir."

  "Good boy."

  *

  "Here, let me." I can't sit by and watch him struggle anymore. Removing the covers, I carefully rub his thigh above the cast. His skin is itching underneath the plaster, but he says the cramping is far worse. His painkiller hasn’t kicked in yet, and massaging the tissue helps.

  My touch deepens, and I rub his thigh slowly, firmly through his pajama bottoms until I see his abs unclench. He groans through a whimper, his head landing on the pillow, and he throws an arm over his face.

  "Daddy!" Gabriella calls from the bath. "PJs, please! My fingers are pruny!"

  "In a minute, baby," I call back. "Almost done here." Watching Dylan's chest, I see his breathing evening out. The muscles in his thigh aren't as tense anymore, either. "Feeling better, kiddo?"

  He nods minutely. "A little. Thank you."

  "Let me know if you need more, okay?" I head to the closet to grab a pair of panties and a top for Gabriella.

  Once in the bathroom, I help her out of the bath and wrap a towel around her.

  "My beautiful girl. Let me see those fingers."

  She grins up at me and flashes fingers that have been in the water a long time.

  I kiss them.

  "Don’t forget to brush your teeth." It's my turn to shower, so I drop my clothes in the hamper and get in. "Have you picked out a movie to fall asleep to?"

  My showers take about five minutes, unless there's someone in here with me, so by the time she's brushed her teeth, put on her nightwear, and told me Dylan and I can pick a movie because she wants to draw on his cast, I'm done.

  I step out as she skips away to find a Sharpie, and I hear her telling Dylan he can go in now. Running a towel over my head, I put on deodorant and then leave the towel around my shoulders while I brush my own teeth.

  A blurry image of Dylan appears in the fogged-up mirror, and he stutters to a halt, clanking his crutches against the doorframe.

  "Sorry, I'll g-go later."