by JC Wallace
I always won.
“Fine,” I muttered.
Wendy stepped closer to the gurney, eyebrows rising, a hand to her ear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.” God, she could be such a snot sometimes.
“Fine. I’ll work with whoever you manage to find,” I gritted out.
I was already planning how I would frighten the next one off.
****
Chapter 2
I rose tentatively from my bed and then shambled across the bedroom into the bathroom, my back threatening to seize again but obeying for the moment. The spasms came from nerve damage in my back, exacerbated by stress, lack of sleep, eating poorly, and of course, a lack of regular therapy. Lately, the spasms had become more frequent, more painful. And having such a large house— thirty-six hundred square feet— to navigate didn’t help.
The house only served as a daily reminder of the weaknesses I couldn’t overcome. I couldn’t traverse stairs anymore, severely limiting my access to over half the house. Last time I’d been on the second floor, I’d crawled up the stairs in a moment of determination and bravado. Those had quickly been replaced by humiliation when my pain had prevented me from getting back down. That had required a demeaning, lecture-filled call to Wendy, and two of my former friends Josh and Mike to carry me back to the second floor. That was the last time I’d seen either of them.
“Fuck it!” I shouted, my anger settling in already. A day without anger was as likely as a day without pain.
I focused on getting washed up and brushing my teeth. Then I shaved by feel since my mirror was long gone, a victim of my hatred for my appearance. It was bad enough I had to look at my body, once toned and fit, now a wasteland of sagging muscles. I didn’t need reminders of the zigzagged, jagged scars on the left side of my face. I had hoped they would disappear from my memory over time if I ignored them. No such luck.
By the time I had coffee brewing, I was exhausted. Sitting at the massive, granite-topped island, I grabbed my box of pills, counting out the dozen or so for my morning dose. Pain meds, muscle relaxers, antiseizure (I’d had several in the month after my accident, but not since), and pills to counteract the side effects of the former. My bitterness rose like a serpent threatening to strike.
Without an outlet, the relentless rage would double on itself and cause me even more pain. In the past, I’d taken care of my stress, my ire, and my self-hate through extreme exercise and sports. From football, hockey, and baseball in high school through college, then intramural leagues, I’d been unstoppable. When I’d needed more, yearning to test the endurance of my body, I’d started rock and then ice climbing. The thrill of hanging from a sheet of ice a thousand feet from the ground was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. After two years of training, I’d conquered Lhotse, the fourth highest mountain in the world, just nine months before my accident. Plans of K2 and Everest died in my Maserati on a dark night in May of the previous year.
Clenching my fists, I closed my eyes, fighting to regulate my breathing. If I didn’t, I’d end up in the same mess as yesterday. In my box of pills, I had Ativan and Valium and antidepressants, but I refused to take them. I deserved my anger, needed it to survive.
The ringing of the doorbell startled me. Looking at the clock, I frowned. The therapist my sister had found wasn’t due until one. I flicked on the computer monitor and pulled up the camera for the front door. I’d wired the house and property with security cameras, along with an intercom system. I wasn’t walking all the way to the door only to find some Mormon missionary spouting about the good Lord. He’d done fuck-all for me.
A young man who looked like a teen in his father’s suit glanced nervously around as he waited for the door to open. One of my father’s new lackeys no doubt. Probably fresh out of law school, he’d drawn the short straw and been sent to the dragon’s den. While I loved to play games with the fresh meat— I’d sent many running to their cars and peeling away— I didn’t have the energy. The way the man was twitching, he’d no doubt heard the stories.
I hit the button for the intercom. “Leave it in the box.”
The man jumped, and his head swiveled around, searching. Annoyed, I repeated my direction with greater force. The man complied and booked it off the porch. What had been placed in that box was just what I needed to take my mind off of my upcoming appointment.
Sitting at the massive dining room table, I opened the thick manila envelope. Spread across the table in neat piles were hundreds of documents supporting my civil case. For over five months, since I’d been well enough to think past the pain, I’d been collecting information and formulating strategies. Using several junior lawyers and paralegals from my firm, I had directed them in interviewing and collecting evidence against the man who’d hit my Maserati with his truck. That case had kept me going, kept me sane, kept me living, knowing that the man who was responsible for destroying my body, taking my life away, would pay.
As I sifted through the legal papers, a bright orange sticky note caught my eye. My father’s handwriting was scrawled in bold black letters.
Three heart attacks, congestive heart failure and still driving?
My breath caught in my throat. Negligence and poor fucking decision making was what had cost me everything? I clutched my head, squeezing my eyes shut. I could see the headlights of the F-250 swerving into my lane, giving me only seconds to react, as I yanked the wheel to the right.
Why to the right? Why not to the left? To the fucking left. Maybe I wouldn’t have endured the cuts to my face if my driver’s side door hadn’t been hit straight on by the massive vehicle.
The doorbell startled me again, my heart slamming into overdrive. I was sweating, shaking and in the midst of a cloud of panic. Deep breaths. I wasn’t in my car… not in my car, not in my car… home… I’m home… And some asshole was laying on the doorbell. Familiar anger replaced the panic.
“Hold your fucking horses!” Luckily, the front door was only a few feet outside of the dining room. “Fucking asshole,” I muttered.
Reaching the door, I wiped my forehead on my shirtsleeve. I seethed. My rage from the revelation about the man who’d hit me comingled with the annoyance of someone trying to infiltrate my self-imposed prison. Pounding the code into the keypad, the lock clicked and I yanked the door open, knowing the fury that was on my face. But I didn’t care.
“What?”
A short, strawberry-blond man opened his mouth, eyes wide for a moment, gaze frozen. I raised a brow, my jaw clenched. Something about this man was familiar, something… But the way the man stared at me was fucking annoying, and I lost the memory of who he could be.
“Mr. Breaux, I’m—”
“Did you get enough of the freak show? Do you want me to take my shirt off so you can see some more?” I growled, trying to slam the door.
The man threw up his hand, and the door bounced open. I growled again, and the man stood taller, a determined expression replacing his gape.
“Mr. Breaux, I’m the rehabilitation therapist. Your sister, Wendy, set up the appointment. I’m… um—”
I stepped forward, using our slight height difference for intimidation. The pain in my back throbbed as I straightened my spine, catching my breath, and forcing my expression to hide my agony. When I was mere inches from the man, I scowled. A light breeze tickled my nose, and the smell of vanilla and something musky grabbed my attention. My total attention. Almond shaped eyes, amber, with flecks of light, a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his slim nose, pale skin, and the lower half of his face covered with ginger scruff. He smiled at me while I had taken the moment to get lost in the attractive face, fit body and…
Fucking dimples.
“Jacob Divine.” The man shoved his hand toward me for a handshake. I glared at the offending gesture. “We have a one o’clock appointment.”
I was momentarily at a loss for words until I caught sight of his smug grin.
“Yeah, today isn’t a good day. So I’ll call yo
u when I’m ready.”
Again, I was blocked from closing the door. Actually the door was pushed from my grip and Jacob Divine— Divine? Where had I—?
High school. Holy shit, it was Jacob and he was… stepping into my house?
“What the fuck?”
I watched as he stepped into my entryway, eyes on the two story ceiling and walkway around the second floor. He carried a battered, brown-leather messenger bag over his shoulder. In one hand, he held a hard, black case.
“Man, this place is just… wow! How long have you lived here?”
I slammed the door and the noise echoed through the room. I winced as a sharp pain stabbed through my pelvis.
Jacob turned with another look of surprise. I didn’t like him in my home, didn’t like the arrogance of the man who had just barged into my life. Didn’t like how my cock responded to that familiar slim body, now-wide shoulders, those dimples.
Jacob Divine.
“Are you hard of hearing?” I asked, stalking to him. I didn’t care if we’d gone to high school together.
Jacob looked as if he were thinking then said, “No.” Then he was back to gaping as he looked around the room. “Where should we do this? Living room? Through here?” He pointed and without waiting for an answer left the hallway.
I cocked my head, stunned with the small man’s behavior. When my thoughts caught up, I followed, ire filling my chest, my head. I was going to grab the man and throw him out when I halted at the entry to the living room.
Jacob had stripped off his black jacket. A white, button-up shirt tucked into a pair of dark blue jeans placed his ass on display. I gritted my teeth and looked away. It had been over a year since I’d felt anything resembling arousal or desire. I still got morning wood, but the thought that I could ever be intimate with another person died when I looked at the damage to my body. My face. I couldn’t let this man who would make me vulnerable stay in my home. It felt like an invasion. It felt like I had been stripped bare.
“I don’t want to do this right now.” I’d meant it to come out with more force than it had.
Jacob set his bags down and then pulled a file folder from the messenger bag. He stood, narrowing his dark eyes at me, then smirked. “Wendy said you’d say that. I’m sorry about your accident. I’m not sure if you remember me from high school. We would have graduated the same year if I hadn’t—”
“I seem to remember a Jacob Divine,” I said lying through my teeth.
His affect changed immediately to one of disappointment but only for a moment. How could I forget him? He’d followed me around like a lovesick puppy for three years. But I had been too busy being the best at everything to want anything to do with him. Well, part of that was true. I had wanted him but…
“Good. It’s nice to see you again.” He opened the file he was holding and scanned something inside. “Your doctor sent your records… MRI and CAT scan results, current list of meds.” He paused and shook his head, frowning.
“What?” I wanted to slug the interloper. I wanted to do something else to him, too, which in turn made me want to slug him even more.
Jacob looked up as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Oh, the medications you’re on. Some of them can cause muscle spasms, which seem to be your biggest issue due to the nerve damage.”
I didn’t know what to say. I took the meds the doctors prescribed. No one had ever given me any indication they could cause the exact issues I was suffering from. I could only shrug.
“Your last MRI looks like it was over four months ago?”
I nodded. What was wrong with me? Why was this man still in my house? By then, he should have been long gone, chased away by my caustic tongue.
“You need another one. I’ll call your doctor to order one and then discuss your meds and—”
“No! Just… Just stop!” Right then, a spasm clenched at my back. I held my breath, eyes down, breathing through my nose.
Jacob stepped up before me, his tan loafers in my line of vision.
“Spasm?” The voice was low, gentle, soothing, and so familiar.
I nodded sharply. I should lie down, but the tightening spasm froze me in place.
“Hold still.”
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that direction, but if I opened my mouth, I might scream. Jacob left the room. The front door opened, and I thought he’d left. A rise of sickening panic hit me, and I wanted to shout to him, beg for help. Fuck my weak side, and I didn’t have the energy to shove it away.
My legs shook, nausea grew, and sweat coated my skin. The door slammed, and Jacob returned with a large, black vinyl square, and I knew it was a portable massage table. Within a minute, he had the table set up right next to me. Again, Jacob stood before me. I waited for his direction, because the pain had stolen my ability to think.
Jacob cupped my face. I started but didn’t move. The warm touch, gentle and caring, stung my eyes.
“Paul?” Jacob placed his thumbs under my chin and slowly lifted my head.
When my eyes met his, I sucked in a sharp inhale. Thrown back into the dark of my Maserati, pain flooding every cell, and those amber eyes. Latex-gloved hands cradling my face, holding my muscles and broken bones within my torn skin.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s going to be okay,” Jacob whispered, an echo from the past. “I promise.”
Past and present comingled and I wasn’t sure what was true, what was reality, what was a memory. I panted, eyes locked on those from the past.
“You… It’s… You were…” My breaths came hard and deep, my pain morphing into that huge cloud around my body, touching every fiber of me. But I was safe…
Jacob nodded. “I was there.”
****
Chapter 3
I was safe once again with the man with the amber eyes and… I fucking hated it.
I didn’t want to feel safe with this man. I jerked my head back from his hands. Jacob looked surprised but then dropped his arms. “Can you lie down on the table? I can help if you need me to.”
I shook my head. I could do this myself. I didn’t need help from anyone… even if he was the person who’d saved me after my accident and whose nameless face and touch had gotten me through the last horrific year. If he was anyone who mattered, it wouldn’t have taken him a year to show up. He was no one to me.
“I got it,” I growled, the anger rushing back.
No matter how much I hurt, I would get on that table on my own.
“Lie on your stomach, please.”
Luckily, I didn’t whimper or cry out in pain, but once I was on my stomach, my back clenched again.
“Okay, I’m going to pull up your shirt and feel around your back. Is that okay?”
I nodded, the feeling of vulnerability all-encompassing as my shirt was gently raised. When fingertips swiped over my skin, I shuddered and sucked in a breath. Even though the pain was overwhelming, the sensation of that touch couldn’t be ignored.
“I’m going to press on the area around your incision. So it will be uncomfortable.”
Painful, is what he meant. I knew the drill. Tons of doctors, physical therapists, massage therapists, probably even the fucking janitor, had touched me. And each time my skin had crawled because I knew that, with the damage to my body, no one would ever voluntarily touch me again. Yeah, I was feeling pretty fucking sorry for myself, and it wasn’t going to change anytime soon.
I nodded sharply and drew in a deep breath, holding it. His fingers were gentle, no doubt taking into account my current pain level which was around a seven. And now a man I’d been attracted to in high school— a very hot man— the man whose memory from the night of my accident had brought me safety over the last year, was touching me. He had been the paramedic who’d held my face together, had stayed with me until we reached the hospital, and wouldn’t let me believe I was going to die.
Unbelievable.
“I thought you were a rehab therapist,” I said in an acc
using tone.
He paused. “I am. I’m also a paramedic.” He continued his massage. “Your records indicate both sensory and motor damage.” He paused and ran his hand over my hips and I shivered. “Are you cold?”
My face flushed with heat. “No,” I muttered and his fingers continued their journey over my skin. When they reached the area of my spine, the pain flared and I tensed, sucking in a breath.
“That hurt?”
“Yes,” I gritted out.
“You definitely have some neuropathy since I’m barely touching your skin. The types of nerve damage you have can cause sensitivity, numbness or tingling, prickling or a burning sensation. That’s the sensory damage. The motor nerve damage causes weakness and fasciculation, which is just a fancy name for twitching.” He moved to the center of my back, and I felt when he ran his fingers over the incision from my surgery. I jumped. The line was sensitive as hell.
“Sorry. We can work on decreasing the sensitivity of the scar.” There was a pause. “Any scars you have,” he added, no doubt referring to the ones on my face. The intimacy we were sharing and his reference to the foul scars marring my face lit a fuse inside of me.
“No,” I said adamantly, wanting to get away from the vulnerability he was causing.
He sighed. “The muscles on this side of your lower back are as hard as a rock. I’m going to work them. It’s going to hurt, but try not to tense or fight me. Focus on something that relaxes you. Part of this therapy will be psychological, using your mind to regain control of your muscles, to avoid the tensing.”
It hurt like hell, and I tensed and fought back, involuntarily.
“Relax,” he said in a gentle voice. “Focus on the muscles. Imagine them relaxing… releasing their tension.” His voice was melodic and comforting and so fucking sexy. I exhaled and closed my eyes. “Visualize your muscles here—” he dug his fingers in, and I flinched, “—and imagine them releasing their grip. Stress is a great factor in muscle spasms despite the cause of the damage.”
