Chapter 25 Mickey
Benji starts with my hands. The calluses are thicker than they were in Tallahassee, from the wheel rims and the parallel bar grips. His thumbs work into my palm and the contact, skin on skin, runs heat up my arm.
Then my chest. His palms flat against my pecs, the cream slick between us, and his hands move in slow circles from center to shoulders.
My ribs. He traces the line of each one.
The hollow below my collarbone where his fingers pressed ten minutes ago, and when he touches that spot again my breathing changes and we both pretend not to notice.
My neck. His thumbs in the hollow of my throat where the pulse is going too fast. His fingers behind my ears, into my hair, and I tip my head back into his hands and the low sound comes again from my chest.
Then he goes to the floor. He kneels between my footrests.
He unlaces my sneakers, peels the socks down without hesitation, and wraps his hands around my right foot.
I still can’t feel it. His thumbs work the same slow circles he’s been doing since the first night in Tallahassee, and I watch his face while he does it.
The concentration. His mouth pulling slightly to the left.
He’s tending a part of me that can’t thank him for it. My eyes fill. I don’t try to stop it. What I wouldn’t give to feel his hands on my feet one fucking time.
He works both feet, then up through my calves. His hands on muscle that’s going softer from disuse. He holds my left calf in both hands and looks up at me and his face is wet too. Neither of us wipes our faces.
“How far up your leg can I go this time?” he asks quietly. “Can I go above the knee?”
My heart slams against my ribs. “You can go higher,” I say.
His hands slide above my knee. Onto my left thigh. His palm flattens against the quad, spreading cream over the skin, and his fingers press into the muscle with slow, firm pressure.
I watch his hands on the part of my body that lives somewhere between what I was and what I am, the place where the doctors say maybe.
His hands are on my thigh. God, I want to feel them so badly.
He moves to the right thigh. Both hands now, one on each leg, his thumbs tracing the line of muscle above my knees.
Him between my legs on the floor with his hands on my thighs is doing something to the upper half of my body. My pulse is pounding in my throat.
He sees all of it. His eyes come up from my thighs to my chest to my face. His thumbs make one more pass above my knees. Then he lowers my feet gently to the footrests. He caps the bottle and stays on the floor, looking up at me.
I reach for him. The lean forward is hard but my core muscles hold. I take his hand and press my lips against his knuckles.
“How long are you staying in Jacksonville?” I ask. “How much time do I have with you?”
“I booked a cheap hotel room for a couple of nights,” he says. “Ten minutes from here. A Holiday Inn that got three and a half stars and exactly one review that says the pool is questionable but the beds are clean.”
“Hold on,” I say, dropping his hand and wheeling to the closet. My wallet is in the suitcase Tex packed for me when I transferred. I haven’t opened my wallet since I got here because there’s been nothing to buy and nowhere to go. I pull out my credit card and hold it out to him.
“Take this.”
He looks at the card. “Mickey, no.”
“You’ve driven countless miles to visit me and you’ve brought food every time. And now you’re booking hotel rooms. Take the card, Benji, and give it to them at the hotel to charge.”
“I don’t need your...”
“I know you don’t need it. I need to give it. This is the least I can do. Please. Let me pay for the hotel, your gas and all the food. Please.”
The “please” does it. Not the argument, not the logic.
“I don’t want to take your card,” he says.
“Benji, I need to do this, okay? Let me.”
He sighs, takes the card and tucks it into his back pocket. “What does your schedule look like here?” he asks. “I don’t want to get in the way of the rehab.”
“Mornings are PT with Jason. That runs till about eleven, eleven-thirty. Then lunch. Afternoons are occupational therapy with Leah and sometimes group. I’m usually done by five.”
“How about lunch tomorrow?” he asks. “I can come at noon and bring food. We’ll eat, then I leave and you do the afternoon sessions. I can come back when you’re finished and stay until they kick me out. I can do whatever doesn’t interfere with your rehab.”
“Lunch definitely works for me.”
“I’m beginning to think you only like me for the food,” he teases.
“And the coffee. I’ll check out the local area and find the very best coffee for you.
When I come at noon, you can tell me how many push-ups you did and I’ll be impressed.
I can tell you’ve been doing a lot by the buildup in your muscles.
” His eyes drop to my chest. “I’m staring again,” he says.
“Can’t help it. I’m becoming obsessed. You would think I’ve never seen muscles before. ”
I look at the clock on the wall. It’s almost eight. I take his hand and bring it to my lips one more time. Now that I’ve made the first move to touch him, I can’t stop. “Stay a little longer,” I say against his skin. “I don’t want you to go.”
“You know me. I’ll always stay until they kick me out.”
“I’m looking forward to the day when they don’t,” I say. “When there’s no visiting hours and no one coming to open the door.”
Benji leans forward and smiles at me. “Can you imagine?” he whispers. “The door locked and only us. We could talk until the sun comes up and no one could say a word about it.”
“I wasn’t thinking about talking,” I say.
His breath hitches, and his eyes go wide. “Oh, is that right, Officer Weaver? Give me the time and place, and I’ll be there. You’re flirting with me and I love it.”
I move my thumb across the back of his hand. “See that you do.”
The nurse knocks at ten past eight. “Visiting hours are over,” she says. “Time to wrap it up.”
I reluctantly let go of his hand and he uncurls from the chair with a heavy sigh. He slings his bag over his shoulder and stands in the doorway.
“Goodnight, Mickey.”
“Goodnight, Benji. Text me when you get settled in.”
Then he’s gone and the nurse, Gloria, comes back to help me into bed. She’s good at her job. She sets the brakes, positions the board, talks me through the pivot. I do most of the work myself. My arms shake at the end but they hold.
After she leaves, I lie on my back and replay every second of the last four hours.
The way he looked up at me from the floor between my legs and the question in his voice when he asked how far he could go.
I said higher. When he touched my neck, I felt it all the way into my shoulders.
And when his hands moved above my knees, I felt a flicker low in my body that scared the hell out of me.
I’ve had moments at night where I thought maybe sensation was trying to come back. A little warmth. Pressure. Enough to make me wonder if my body was trying to wake up below the injury line.
Tonight was the first time it felt real.
I haven’t told anyone about it yet. Not Jason. Not the doctors.
Because if I say it out loud and it disappears tomorrow, I don’t know what that would do to me.