by Lexie Ray
“Don’t talk about things you don’t know about,” I said, too sick to put any real heat to my tone. “Just because Chance might’ve told you what happened…doesn’t mean you know anything about it.”
“I would know more if you talked about it.”
I wished she would leave well enough alone. The pills were a salve on an open wound, even if I had to take more and more every day. Who cared if I overdid it someday? Couldn’t that be my decision? It was so easy for everyone else to say how important it was for me to get better, but they weren’t the ones trapped inside this body. They had no idea what it felt like to live without a limb they’d had all their lives, to replay what had happened over and over again in their minds, to have to live with the fact that good people, people better than me, had died as a result of my mistake. No one understood that but me, and I should be allowed to do what I wanted to grapple with it.
“Yes, it’s Hadley. Yes. Fine, thank you. I need you to refer all of my current patients to others in the office. Yes, even the regular ones. Yes, even him. Indefinitely, I’m afraid. I’ll check in with you every week. This case requires me to be on site. Thank you.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, looking at Hadley as she put her phone away.
“What was that? Did you just quit your job?”
“Quit my job? Of course not.”
“You just got rid of all your patients. I heard you say it, right now, on the phone.”
“All my patients?” She threw her head back and laughed. “All but one, I’m afraid.”
“What?”
“This is a lot more involved than I thought it would be,” she explained. “Your brother told me the situation was bad, but I think I came in here a little overconfident. You’re going to require all of my attention, and I’m going to have to move in here to oversee your recovery.”
“You can’t just move in with us.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t even slept with you yet.”
Hadley sniffed at me. “You’re in no shape.”
“It was a bad joke.”
“The worst.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” I said as my stomach rolled and sweat came off me in fat drops.
“I do,” she said. “And if something goes sideways, I have admitting privileges at a hospital—perks of being well connected.”
“What could go sideways?”
She smiled at me. “Every goddamn thing, especially if you’re not committed to this.”
It just didn’t seem like something you should smile at.
I slept, and without the pills, I dreamed. That was another reason I tried for intoxication at bedtime—it limited the journeys my brain attempted to take while I was asleep.
Without the pills, my brain loved to go back to Afghanistan.
I thought my entire body would’ve been appreciative of being back in Texas, but that just wasn’t the case. Maybe the fact that I’d left my leg in Afghanistan was part of the reason my brain liked to revisit it so often. It liked being reunited with its missing part, if only in slumber.
I dreamed of the barracks, of the crush of bodies inside the tents, the anticipation of the patrol.
I dreamed of the mess, of laughing and eating shit food and laughing about that. It wasn’t all bad in Afghanistan. If we weren’t on patrol, weren’t doing PT, weren’t worrying that a significant portion of the population would like nothing more than to put a gun against our heads and blow us away, it might’ve been like a big party. I had good friends.
I dreamed of the Humvee, of taking it apart and putting it together again, over and over again, making it run smoother and smoother each time. I wanted it to run smooth, wanted there to be no problems when we were out on patrol. The last thing you wanted was for there to be something wrong with the Humvee. We accompanied Afghan patrols, and we conducted patrols of our own, always searching out the trouble and secretly hoping we wouldn’t find it.
I dreamed of maps, of forks in the roads, of left and right, of bad decisions.
I dreamed of the steering wheel, gripping it in my gloved hands, worn from my sweat and nerves, but responsive to my every command. I didn’t as much as wrench around curves in the roads as I flicked it, bending the vehicle to my will. I was a good driver—everyone said so—and it was something I took pride in. I could get my team out of the base and back again in one piece. It didn’t matter if we were taking hairpin curves up in the mountains or dodging playing children in the cities. I was good. As long as I was holding that steering wheel.
I dreamed of luck and the absence of it, of rituals we all performed to keep ourselves and others safe, of talismans and charms, of routines started again if just a single step went wrong. I put my right boot on before my left one, tying it completely before even putting the other on, and maybe that was why I lost my left leg, because I didn’t pay enough attention to it. Maybe if I had put both boots on and then tied them, or at least varied my routine, but the routine wasn’t something you messed with. The routine was something that kept you safe, that kept everything safe.
Until it didn’t.
I dreamed of that day it didn’t, too, as I always did when I didn’t take enough pills, didn’t drink enough to drown that it didn’t. What had gone wrong? I’d done the boots, we had the charms, I looked at the map, I squeezed the steering wheel, Ortiz knocked on my helmet, everything was fine. The sun was shining, the children were friendly, and then everything just went to shit.
The luck ran out.
The boom stuck with me. I heard it everywhere, in places it wasn’t supposed to be, in the tractor backfiring, in the sudden revving of an engine, in a door slammed. The boom came to me when I least expected it, sending me into a cold sweat, afraid of what I’d done, what I’d caused.
The boom ripped the vehicle apart. It didn’t care that the undercarriage was armored, didn’t care that we were all wearing armor, didn’t care that we’d all completed our rituals before leaving the barracks, had secured ourselves against harm.
It was an improvised explosive device, a strong and shitty one, and it blew the Humvee apart. I was luckier than Ortiz—maybe—because he went flying in several different directions. Luckier than others who didn’t survive the blast. Luckier than the Marines who’d come after us to get us out of there and ran into a firefight, some of them dying.
But not lucky enough. If I’d been lucky enough, I wouldn’t have picked that road; I would’ve gone a different route and carried my team and myself to safety.
I dreamed of those things, and those were the worst dreams of all. Of Ortiz laughing and alive in the mess, joking about the food, about just what he was looking forward to eating when he got back stateside, and all of his recipes included his girlfriend. Of my leg still attached, my muscles and tendons still intact, of walking and running and laughing like nothing could ever be wrong. Of being able to put the Humvee back together again.
Those were the worst to dream of, because I always woke up to find myself trying to believe in their lies and ending up disappointed. So many people had died because I’d taken a wrong turn.
I took a break from dreaming to resurface in painful reality, shaking so hard as I vomited into a garbage can held in front of my face that some of it missed its target.
“He doesn’t look okay.”
“Because he’s not okay right now. This is just part of the process.”
“If I’d known it was this bad, I would’ve called for help sooner.”
“It has to get a little worse before it can start getting better. I can report the doctor who kept prescribing him these things. This is how people get into heroin, you know.”
I retreated from reality once more, however unwillingly, hating the way my brothers and Hadley were discussing me as I sprawled across the bed, hating the things I saw play across my mind while I was sleeping.
Wrong turns.
Booms.
Rituals.
Boots.
<
br /> Right.
Left.
All of it wrong.
I rolled over and inhaled sharply. Hadley was lying there, one of her arms pillowing her head, her lips parted slightly, sleeping. What was she doing? I wanted to roll back and fish around the bedside table for my phone to check the time, but I didn’t want to disturb her. She was different when she was asleep. Softer. She’d borrowed a T-shirt from one of my brothers, it seemed like, but sprawled out on top of the covers, I could see she’d simply shucked her trousers off, preferring to sleep in her panties. She was gorgeous, unconventionally so, curves and dips in all the right places. It was nice to just quietly appreciate her for a moment when she wasn’t lambasting me about something. She smelled good even in her rumpled, sleepy state. It was a welcome break from being so sick to being able to gaze on something so wonderful.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?” she asked, her voice filled with slumber, her eyes still closed, startling me. “Are you thirsty?”
“Um, no. I think I’m okay for now.”
“Then stop staring at me and get some sleep. We start exercises in the morning.”
“Exercises?”
“Mm-hm.” She never once opened her eyes, and she didn’t even make a move to cover her exposed panties. “You need to get in shape. And then you’re going to walk on two legs again.”
“I only have one leg.”
“I appreciate that you’re coming to terms with that fact, but I’m very tired. If you want to talk about it, you can talk about it while you’re doing sit-ups tomorrow.”
She finished that admonishment, turned onto her back, and started snoring gently. I thought she was faking it and poked at her, but she didn’t even flinch. Hadley was so exhausted she was sleeping in the same bed with me, panties and all, and she didn’t even care that I was so close to her.
With a sinking realization, I suddenly understood why she was so tired. She’d probably been at my side and attentive for as long as it took to see me through the detox. Of course she was drained. I’d sucked every drop she’d had to offer me dry. I was just using people, and Hadley was the latest in a long line. I was already using up my brothers’ resources, and I’d robbed Hadley of her probably cushy apartment and office job. She was slumming it here with me on the ranch, trying to see me past my own hang-ups. Why was she sacrificing so much for me? Why was I so important to her?
Hadley sighed in her sleep and rolled over again, this time tossing her arm over my body and her leg over where mine used to be. She drew her knee up to my crotch, and I held my breath, wondering if she would wake up again. It had been a really long time since I’d been so close to anyone physically. I didn’t really know what to do with myself. It was stranger still that her leg was in the spot mine should’ve been, neatly nestled against my thigh and cock. Goddammit—I was overthinking things. Because I was overthinking it, my brain and body were going into overdrive. Pretty lady, pretty close, time for an erection.
I got harder even faster when I realized she was braless beneath that shapeless cotton, that softness pressing against my chest. Why was this happening to me? I would shrivel up and die of shame if she woke up right now, so I tried to stay as still as possible even as my cock stood at attention.
One good thing out of this was the fact that I knew my cock was working. It had stirred in the shower when Hadley was first helping me, and it was making its presence known again, as Hadley draped herself over me.
Okay, fine. I was attracted to her. She was attractive. Anyone would find her pleasing to the eye.
And even as I tried to reason away this boner, I knew it was something else. Something more. She’d given up her life indefinitely to help me. There was a lot more to her than just a pretty face. Could there be something there?
“I love you,” she murmured, then jerked awake. “Sorry. Was I talking in my sleep?”
I was wide-eyed and terrified. She’d just told me she loved me. “Just a little bit.”
“I do that sometimes,” she said, and then she flung herself back over without commenting on her sleeping practically on top of me. “So do you, you know.”
She started snoring again, leaving me with a hard-on, a near-heart attack from terror, and a growing dread about what I’d been yammering about in my sleep.
Just like that…detox was done and the real work began.
Chapter 4
The rehab was so brutal and so all-consuming that it deserved a music montage—some real “Eye of the Tiger” bullshit. I wasn’t running up flights of stairs and cheering for myself though. I was trailing Hadley around, following her orders, trying to get my balance, build my stamina, and get my life back in order.
“Be honest about your pain,” she said. “I expect great things, but I need to understand what your limitations are now that you’re off the pills.”
Even her mentioning the pills made me shudder. I’d been in and out of consciousness for nearly a week. I had no desire to repeat that experience no matter how much pain the rehab put me through. I’d come out on the other side of it even skinnier than before, unable to hold down any kind of food and precious few liquids. I was sucking down a sports drink—even now—at the direction of Hadley.
“We’re going to start off slow,” she said. “You’re even weaker than when I first got here. But you’re still going to be working hard.”
“Okay.”
“Hunter.”
“Yes.”
“I need you to be committed to this.”
“I’m committed,” I said, even if I felt hesitant about it. I was sober, that was for sure, but I was doubtful about just what kind of impact Hadley was actually going to have on my quality of life. Growing my leg back was out of the question, as was a time machine. Getting back my independence and my sense of normalcy seemed just as preposterous.
Still, I was impressed with the level of Hadley’s commitment. She saw me through the detox, she’d moved in to the house temporarily, and she seemed to have everything in order.
“Okay, then,” she said, though she didn’t look completely convinced or satisfied with my affirmation. “First thing’s first. You’re going to clean Chance’s bedroom from top to bottom, laundry included, and move back into your room upstairs.”
“I thought you said we were starting easy.”
“We could do some calisthenics, if you’d prefer, but I think you’ve vomited enough for one week, don’t you?”
“Fine.”
“We’re behind, anyway, if you’ll remember,” Hadley reasoned, putting her hands on her hips. “You were supposed to do all of this the first day we met.”
It had only been a week, but it seemed like a million years ago…Hadley in the shower, the way my brothers had ganged up on me. I felt like a different person on the other side of that, but I didn’t harbor any illusions that things were going to get better. I was going to get through whatever chores Hadley had in mind for me just to get her out of here so Chance could redirect the money he was spending on her back to the ranch.
We moved back to the bedroom—Hadley had just finished stuffing me with as much breakfast as I could manage—and surveyed the damage. I hadn’t cleaned it since I’d taken it over from Chance, and it was righteously filthy. I’d been stealing clothes from the rest of my brothers to avoid washing my own. I bent down laboriously, using the crutches for balance, and gathered up all of the discarded clothes around the room.
“Two crutches make it easier, doesn’t it?” Hadley asked, munching on an apple. She’d brought me a new pair with less wear and tear than the single crutch I’d been taking my frustrations out on when she’d taken a break during the end of my detox to make the run back into Dallas to get a few things for her extended stay at the ranch.
“I wouldn’t call it easier,” I said. “This still sucks. Why am I even doing this? If we had a housekeeper, I wouldn’t be busting my balls doing all this crap.”
“First of all, your family can’t afford a housekeeper
. They’re paying me.” Hadley took another bite of her apple as if she hadn’t just delivered a devastating blow to my ego. “Second of all, do you really want to be waited on like an invalid the rest of your life? Third of all, if you want to at least attempt normalcy again, you’d better figure out how you’re going to do it on one leg.”
“You really need to work on your bedside manner,” I said, sweating already, just from getting all of the laundry into the basket.
“Do you want me to lie to you?”
“No.”
“Then get used to me. I’m blunt, but I won’t blow wind up your skirt.”
“How the hell am I supposed to get this basket to the laundry room?” I asked. “I need both hands to carry it, but I need both hands for the crutches.”
“Make it work, Marine. Find a solution to your problem. That’s all a part of resuming normalcy. You have chores you need to do, things you should be contributing to the ranch to make your brothers’ lives a little bit easier while you’re out of commission. Figure out how to do them within your new boundaries.”
I tried to balance myself on one crutch and carry the basket in one hand, but the damn thing was too heavy, spilling out the clothes I’d worked so hard to put in it in the first place. I cursed a blue streak.
“Be patient with yourself,” Hadley said, watching me. “The person you used to be knew how to do this his way, but the person you are now needs to find a new way. Maybe someday you’ll be strong enough to do it like that, or you’ll be comfortable with a prosthetic leg and won’t rely on the crutches, but right now all of these elements need to come together so you can do your chores.”
I put everything back in the basket and set it on the floor. Using the crutches for balance, I shoved at the basket with my foot, pushing it across the floor a few inches. I scooted closer and did it again.
