Mr. Beast

by Nicole Elliot

  The fridge just with a thump as Grace rounded the corner.

  “Your home is lovely,” she said. “Really, it’s beautiful.”

  “Help yourself,” I said.

  I wheeled past her, ready to get to the tightened confines of my room.

  “Do you have a specific physical therapy schedule outlined?”

  “Isn’t that your job?” I asked.

  I raced myself down the hallway, trying to get out of the line of her conversation. I wasn’t interested in her or her opinions or her thought processes. I wasn’t interested in being friends or lovers or wooing her until she let me fuck her into the mattress.

  Hell, I couldn’t even do that kind of shit with the condition my body was in.

  “Where are you going?” Grace asked.

  I turned to wheel into my room and snapped my head over to her.

  “My room,” I said curtly. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

  Then I wheeled in, slammed the door behind me, and drank in the sound of silence.

  This was what I needed. Silence. I rolled my way over to the window and looked out along the city as I set my bottle of water on my bedside table. I took a bite of the apple in my hand as my eyes scanned the horizon, relishing the silence.

  This was why I enjoyed my home. This was why I paid top-dollar to live here. The noise ordinances were some of the strictest in the entire city and the security and discretion this place had a reputation for was unprecedented. No sneaked pictures of the hotel mogul in his wheelchair. No anonymous interviews with the front desk as to my bullshit attitude.

  And no one would be able to access Grace about my medical trials and tribulations.

  I heard a small pair of feet walk down the hallway before the door next to me opened. Grace was headed to her room. Probably to unpack. I could hear the slight tearing of tape as I took another bite of my apple and I could feel my skin prickling. My precious silence was dissipating with every rip of tape and every drop of a box on the floor. I gritted my teeth as I grabbed my water, then cracked it open and began to chug. The cool liquid fell down my throat and I could feel it trickling to my stomach.

  Then, I felt it.

  I set my water bottle down onto the bedside table and wheeled back from the window. I headed into my bathroom and was quickly reminded of the fact that I’d need Grace’s help. Fuck, I hated this. My wheelchair got through the doorway, but between the damn towel closet and the knobs on the bathroom drawers and shit, it was hard to maneuver myself in. I took it slowly. Carefully. Trying not to get my clothes hooked on anything.

  I sighed with relief when I parked myself in front of the toilet.

  It was a struggle, getting my pants down around my ankles. I bit down onto my lower lip so I could conceal my struggles from the woman next door. There were many things she’d be employed to do for me, but holding my dick while I peed wasn’t one of them. I settled my feet onto the floor and pushed myself up from my chair, praying to the fucking gods above that the brakes on my wheelchair would hold steady.

  I leaned my body against the edge of the bathroom counter so I could turn around and sit on the toilet. The owner and operator of the largest international luxury hotel chain, and I was peeing sitting down. I placed my elbows on my knees and put my hands in my face, waiting for my private embarrassment to be over.

  But the searing pain that shot through my hip caused me to groan out.

  “Mr. Lowell?”

  Shit.

  “Mr. Lowell, are you okay?”

  A light rapping at my door sounded and I bit back the pain as another electrical jolt shot down my leg.

  “Mr. Lowell, I’m coming in.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said.

  But I couldn’t hold back the hiss of pain as it shot up my back.

  “Yes, I am,” Grace said.

  “Stay out.”

  This woman wasn’t going to see me with my fucking pants and boxers down around my damn ankles. My cock was out, for fuck’s sake. I stood up from the toilet as fast as I could, listening to my door swing open. I bent down to grab my pants as fast as I could, but in the process I lost my balance and fell over.

  “Mr. Lowell!”

  My hands caught me against the clawfoot tub as I felt a pair of arms around my body. I tried to shrug her off as the heat of embarrassment crept into my face. She hoisted me up into the air and bent down, pulling my damn clothes up my fucking body.

  “Get off,” I said.

  “Sit down,” Grace said.

  She was in the process of buckling my pants as I sat down hard into my wheelchair. Her nostrils were flaring and her face was red. What the hell was she so upset about?

  “Get out,” I said.

  “Not until we talk,” she said.

  “I’m fine.”

  But she put her arm out in my way, propping her hand against the edge of the bathroom sink so I couldn’t move.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but so long as you’re in my care, you’ll play by my rules. This type of stuff? You don’t do on your own right now. I don’t know what kind of physical therapy program your other nurses had you on, but they’re clearly not sufficient. And if you think me catching you with your pants around your ankles is bad enough? You just wait until this hip surgery. I’ll be bathing you, Mr. Lowell. Top to bottom. So get used to it.”

  Her eyes were heated and the tone of her voice was defiant. I didn’t like it. I didn’t take orders from people. They took them from me. I knocked her arm out of the way and wheeled out of the bathroom, cursing myself as I got my shirt caught on the bathroom door. I wheeled back to the window I was sitting in front of as I heard the toilet flush behind me, then the small pitter patter of feet left my room and shut the door behind the sound.

  I didn’t know much, but I knew one thing was for sure.

  That woman was definitely not bathing me.

  Chapter Seven

  Grace

  “Give me one more.”

  “I already did,” Hayden said.

  “Then give me one more ‘one more’,” I said.

  “No.”

  “One more and then we can get you a shower.”

  “How about we do no more and you keep your hands off me?”

  Everyday he was like this. Combative. Argumentative. And always unwilling to let me help. He was paying me beyond top-dollar to keep after him and help him recuperate, yet he fought with me at every turn. It was exasperating, always trudging through his mental state. His anger. His condemnation of himself as a man.

  “Fine, how about this?” I asked. “You can give me one more, then I can leave you here on the floor until you ask me to come help. How does that sound?”

  I looked into his eyes and he huffed before he rolled his shoulder joint one last time.

  “Good,” I said. “Now, do you want a shower or do you want to sit in your own sweat until bed sores develop?”

  He shot me a look before he held out his arm for me.

  That was how I had to address him. Every single time. Stern and hard, and not at all the way I wished I could talk with him. With the type of war-like relationship we were developing, I had no hope of ever working with him on his mental state. Getting into his mindset and trying to help him see the good in things. He didn’t trust me. And I really wasn’t sure if he even enjoyed me. The more the days dragged on, the more I felt like I was here for another purpose.

  Other than to be his inconvenient nurse.

  There were days that were better than others. And by better, I meant there were days where we didn’t talk. He would sit by the large windows in his living room and stare out into the world. Refusing to join it, but pining over it when he thought I wasn’t looking. I’d go out to grocery shop and bring things into the house that would promote his healing and I would run to go get his prescriptions. I’d draw blood to make sure his levels were where they needed to be and I would even ask him how his business was doing.

  But if he
wasn’t fighting me, he was staring out of those windows. Longing for society but unwilling to go out into it.

  I’d seen it before in patients I’d served during my nursing degree. Men who found their wheelchair to be a burden, or some sort of comment on his manhood. They saw it as a weakness. A hindrance. Something to be scoffed at and mocked. In their minds, they convinced themselves that it would be a tool used to undermine them. To somehow strip them of a sense of freedom or duty or valor.

  Many times I would try to get him out of the penthouse apartment and into the sun, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with it.

  “Some sunshine might do you some good.”

  “I can feel it from here,” Hayden said.

  “If I threw the window open, you’d be able to get your daily dose of Vitamin D.”

  “No.”

  “That goes a long way in the healing process,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  “It also helps with someone’s mental state. The biggest sign of a Vitamin D deficiency is-”

  “I said… no.”

  “Irritability. And depression, but mostly irritability.”

  He slowly panned his gaze over to me and hardened his eyes on mine. There was a park right up the road I could push him to. Or watch him struggle to get himself to. Or whatever the hell he felt was necessary for him to retain some sort of manhood within his own life. But instead, all I got were these dirty looks. Looks that told me I was brazen for even addressing him the way I did. But every time, his silence and unwillingness would win out. No matter how much I thought it was in his best interest to go outside and interact with the world, I couldn’t make him do something he didn’t want to do.

  But sometimes, I wished I could.

  His anger, however, was mounting. His words were getting colder and the moments when he did feel like talking, it was more criticizing than anything. There were nights where I would sit on the edge of my bed and silently cry, wiping at my tears as his words rang out in my head.

  Don’t you have something better to do?

  Do you not have any friends to go annoy?

  What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you always asking me questions?

  My business is mine. Not yours. Stick to being a pain in the ass and I’ll stick to being a billionaire.

  His words stung more than they should’ve, and I knew that. Days that were particularly rough landed me in the bathtub in my ensuite bathroom, crying into a vat of bubbles. He was difficult and angry. And the only person he had to lash out at was me. I knew that. I understood that. I kept telling myself that.

  But it didn’t make things any easier.

  “Mr. Lowell?”

  I heard him grumbling as he wheeled into his room. He knocked what I assumed was the wheel of his chair against the corner, but I wanted to be sure. I got out of the bath and dried myself off, then pulled my nightgown over my head. Piling my hair high on top of my head, I stepped into the hallway and stood there.

  Listening to Hayden grunt with frustration.

  “Mr. Lowell? Do you need any help?”

  But all that came was silence.

  Until a massive thud resounded on the floor.

  “Mr. Lowell!”

  I dashed into his room and found him face-planted on the floor. Shirtless and struggling, I took in the sight. Hayden was trying to get out of his wheelchair and into bed, and in the process had lost his balance and fallen.

  I was going to have to get him off the floor, and he wasn’t going to like it.

  I planted my feet on either side of his body and bent down, using the muscles in my back to wrap my arms underneath his. I slid my hands along his chest, cupping his chiseled muscles before I braced my arms.

  “On the count of three,” I said. “One… two…”

  I pushed with my legs and hoisted him into the air. I helped him to his knees, then slid my hands down his body and braced. I could feel every sculpted ab he possessed as my arms clung to him, trying to get him from the floor to the bed so he could rest.

  He’d had such a long day, and I wanted him to get a good night’s sleep.

  I braced my legs and slowly lifted him into the air. I could feel him getting his feet underneath him, but his hip was still very tender. It was the part of his body we were struggling with the most, especially since his other surgery was just around the corner.

  I sat back onto the edge of his bed, spreading my legs so he was cradled between my thighs.

  I could feel him panting as my hands began their search. I massaged every muscle in his torso to check for any signs of strain or tearing. I rubbed each ab individually and tried to ignore the heat burning between my legs. I smoothed my hands over to his sides and felt the padding of muscles that flexed underneath my touch. I smoothed my fingertips up the front of his body, poking away at his godly chest as I bit back a sigh.

  But then, something odd happened.

  I went to remove my hands to check his shoulders and he stopped my movements.

  His hands wrapped around my wrists and held them steadily to his chest. My hands were splayed along his skin, feeling the heat of his body pressing against me. I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, trying to control the puckering of my nipples. This wasn’t appropriate. I had to find a way to get him to let go of me. My fingertips curled into his skin, trying to prompt him into releasing me.

  But instead, he tightened his grasp.

  “Mr. Lowell, I have to check your shoulders.”

  There were several beats of silence before his hands relinquished my wrists.

  I made quick work of checking his shoulders before I was satisfied he hadn’t hurt himself further. I scooted out from behind him and watched him lay down, battling between reaching out to help him and running out of the room. My hands were buzzing with electricity as I stood there, watching the way his strong body moved fluidly underneath the covers.

  “You can go now,” Hayden said.

  I cleared my throat, pulling myself out of my trance. I moved his wheelchair beside his bed and made sure the brakes were fully locked before I left. I reached for the doorknob and took one last look at him, watching as he shifted over to his side and blocked me out again.

  Yet my heart was still pounding against my chest.

  “Goodnight,” I said.

  And I could’ve sworn as I shut the door I heard him respond.

  Chapter Eight

  Grace

  Days passed since the incident in his room and things were changing again. But instead of things becoming more hostile, things became colder. More distant. Nothing was said about that night, but nothing was really said about anything. He no longer had an opinion on his grocery list or the types of toiletries he needed from the drug store. He no longer cared to communicate with me about when he was headed to the bathroom or taking a shower. He was alienating me, and I wasn’t sure why.

  I was essentially being paid to babysit.

  I sat there in the mornings with my cup of coffee in hand. He had the most beautiful view of the city from his breakfast nook. The skyline would light up with the morning sun as it rose high in the sky and it would cast a wonderfully warm glow along my skin. It would paint my coffee in all sorts of colors and help to wake me up, and I would smile as my skin was caressed with its warmth.

  Usually, Hayden would roll in on his wheelchair and make himself a cup of coffee. Then he would roll up to the edge of the breakfast nook with a newspaper in his lap. He’d fluff it out and be obnoxious with its noise, like he was announcing the fact that he was there specifically to ignore me and throw up a blatant wall.

  But one morning, he didn’t roll up to the breakfast nook. He didn’t come to the table with his coffee and his newspaper and his awkward ‘don’t look at me but know I’m here’ attitude. One morning, he wheeled in and got his coffee, then left. Then another morning, he wheeled in and got his coffee and went back to his room.

  Then one morning, he didn’t even wheel in for his c
offee.

  I decided to pour him a cup and go set it on his nightstand. I assumed he was sleeping. Probably worn out from his physical therapy from the other day. I was working on him with his hip as well as his shoulder, because the stronger his hip could be for surgery the better off his recuperation would be with time. He would sweat through his workouts and remove his shirts and I would have to do everything in my power to not look at him.

  But I had to admit, him not coming out for coffee made me worried.

  I poured a simple mug of the stuff and headed for his room. The door was closed and I couldn’t hear any noise, so I knocked on the door lightly. No sound emanated from the room and it made me worried. If Hayden was sleeping, I would’ve heard the sounds of his soft snoring.

  It had become a soothing sound to me the longer I stayed in his home.

  But instead, there was nothing. No sounds of his snores or the shower running or the sink faucet on. There was no grunting or shuffling of clothes or struggling with his wheelchair. I furrowed my brow and reached for the doorknob, then turned it lightly. I swung the door open as my heart slammed against my chest, but what I saw wasn’t what I expected to see.

  Hayden was just sitting there. Staring out the window of his bedroom.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lowell.”

  Silence.

  “I brought you some coffee.”

  And again… silence.

  “Would you like me to bring your newspaper to you?”

  But still, nothing other than silence.

  His body was unwavering, except for the rising and falling of his shoulders as he breathed. It was like he was in a trance, and I wondered if he could hear me. I took a step into his room and made my way for his nightstand, then set the coffee I’d poured for him down onto it.

  I expected him to make a move to take it, but he didn’t.

  Not even his fingers flinched.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  I looked down into his face as he stared out the window. In a trance-like state, with his eyes unfocused and his hair disheveled from sleep. I looked over at his bed and saw how mangled the sheets were. The fitted sheet at the corner of the bed was pulled away and one of his pillow cases was on the floor. His comforter was bunched up at the foot of his bed and his mattress was slid a little off its frame.