Chapter One
Paul Gill pinched the bridge of his nose and
tried to pretend his head was throbbing because of the sunlight
glaring off the snow outside the office window.
“You’re sure you can’t duck out a bit early?”
Bobby asked. For the third time.
Paul resisted the urge to
pull the phone away from his ear to make faces at it. Bobby wanted
to spend time with him: that was a good thing. They’d been together for
almost four years and they weren’t tired of each other. They still
enjoyed each other’s company, and Bobby wanted to spend more time
with Paul. All good. Except…
“I’ve already told you ‘no’. I’ve got a
patient.”
“You’ve got that racist
asshole. He’d love it if someone else took over for you. You think he’d make a white
guy wear gloves before touching him?”
“I shouldn’t have told you about that.”
Breach of patient confidentiality? Yeah, technically, although Paul
hadn’t used any names, and it wasn’t like “racist” was a rare
enough quality to count as an identifying detail. But really, Paul
should have kept his mouth shut because any time he bitched about
work it was another opportunity for Bobby to tell him how he was
wasting his talents and his family connections on an emotionally
draining job that paid peanuts.
“He thinks you’re
unclean, Paul. He thinks
he’s going to catch something if you touch him with your bare brown
skin, and you’re putting your life on hold for him?”
“Putting my life on hold? That’s a bit
dramatic, isn’t it? I mean, as much as I love elementary school
Christmas concerts, I think I’ll be okay if I miss this one.”
“It’s a holiday concert, not Christmas. Very
cross-cultural. Saachi’s singing a song about snowmen—there are
costumes and a little dance, too. It’s going to be adorable, but
you’re too busy helping some racist asshole to see her. How’s she
going to feel about that?”
“How’s she going to feel if she only has
fifteen or twenty family members in the audience? If her uncle’s
boyfriend doesn’t show up? I’m pretty sure she’ll survive.
Honestly, the sooner that kid starts to realize she’s not the
absolute center of the universe, the easier things will be on all
of us.”
“She’s the first grandkid on both sides. We
all knew she was going to be spoiled.” And then, obviously
realizing that he wasn’t getting anywhere, Bobby moved on. “You’ll
come for dinner afterward, though? My mom’s samosas, hot and fresh…
you know you can’t resist.”
“I’ll be there for dinner. Absolutely.”
“I’ll see if I can hitch a ride up with
someone, and then we can drive back together.”
“Sounds good.”
“Have fun with your racist.”
It wasn’t about fun, of course, but Paul
didn’t bother mentioning that as he ended the call. Paul was a
physiotherapist; the racist needed physiotherapy. Well, he needed
therapy of all kinds, but physio was the sort Paul was qualified to
provide. It didn’t matter that Sean Gage was an asshole; it
mattered that he’d lost his legs and needed professional help to
regain as much mobility as possible.
So Paul reached under the counter and found a
pair of bright blue surgical gloves, then forced his face into a
smile and headed out of the office into the gym. Gage hadn’t
arrived yet, which was typical. They’d already had five sessions,
and the guy had been late for all of them. At the first, he’d taken
one look at Paul and asked for another PT; when told no one else
was available, he’d almost left. But the older woman who had
brought him—his mother, Paul had assumed—had cried and there’d been
a big emotional scene and finally Paul had offered to wear the
gloves.
He’d offered. It had been his own damn
idea to debase himself like that, and he honestly wasn’t sure
whether that made the whole situation better or worse.
“You think he’s going to
bail?” Anna asked. She was the physio assistant Paul worked with
most often, and she’d witnessed all the previous visits. “I’m
shocked every time he shows up. I mean, nobody likes doing physio—it’s hard work.
And lots of people feel sorry for themselves when they come here.
But he takes self-pity to whole new levels. Do you ever wonder why
he keeps coming back?”
Paul shrugged. He supposed part of the appeal
was the opportunity to humiliate a highly trained professional who
happened to have brown skin, and obviously there was some pretty
serious pressure coming from Mrs. Gage. But there was something
else, too. Something that could be useful, if Paul could figure out
how to harness it.
Sean Gage was stubborn. Pig-headed, even, but
Paul would try to think of it in terms of the man being
strong-willed. It was buried deep, under all the anger and
self-pity, but it was there. Paul had seen it as he’d worked Gage
through his initial assessment, figuring out how much strength was
left in his battered body, how much flexibility and balance had
been lost after months of limited activity. If Paul was gentle and
kind, Gage would shrink in on himself and act totally helpless. But
if Paul spoke dismissively and acted as if Gage was pathetic? That
was when the strength flared up.
Gage was an asshole and his
pride was probably as fragile as his mother’s smile, but it was
there, and if the only way to protect it was to prove that he could
do something Paul suggested was beyond him? Then whatever the
exercise was, it would be done.
It was hardly the first time Paul had taken
advantage of a similar dynamic. Well, he usually didn’t have the
charming overlay of aggressive racism to deal with, but even that
was a tool Paul could use. Gage might have allowed himself to seem
weak in front of someone he liked or trusted, but in front of a
brown man? Hell, no.
Useful.
As long as Paul could force himself to keep
swallowing the insults, keep letting himself ‘lose’ the
confrontations he orchestrated, he had a good tool. He’d help Sean
Gage whether the man wanted the help or not.
But every insult he pretended to ignore
chaffed just a little more than the one before it had. And now? If
the asshole didn’t even show up, and didn’t have the courtesy to
call? Paul checked his watch. Only a few minutes late. With any
other patient, it wouldn’t be a big deal, so Paul would extend the
same benefit of the doubt in Gage’s direction.
It was a bit harder to maintain his
charitable attitude when Gage rolled in a few minutes later, scowl
on his face, no hint of an apology anywhere in his demeanor. He was
only in his early twenties, with strong feautures that would
probably be fairly attractive if he’d just wipe the sneer off his
face. But that wasn’t something Paul ever expected to see.
“Let’s get this over with,” Gage growled. “I
have somewhere to be.”
“Holiday concert?” Paul
suggested sweetly. A little too
sweetly—if there was anything that got Gage’s back
up, it was the suggestion that there could be any sort of
friendliness between them.
“Christmas concert.” Gage’s gaze was a
direct challenge. Damn, he was crabbier than usual today. “You’re
in Canada now. We have Christmas
concerts here.”
“In Canada
now?” Paul smiled again.
He had to be careful he didn’t overdo it, didn’t elevate Gage’s
aggression to the point that it couldn’t be harnessed and put to
use, but he was strangely confident that he could push a little
further. Or maybe he was just sick of Gage’s bullshit. “I was born
in Canada, you know. My parents, too. All of my grandparents, and
some of my great-grandparents. The rest came over in the early
1900s. How about you? When did your people arrive?”
“My people are the ones who founded
the damn country.”
“White people, you mean? But
what about your family? Your actual relatives.” Just light and chatty, having a
little conversation. Not trying to make a point at all. No, nothing
like that. “When did they come over?”
“Too long ago to keep track of. So let’s cut
the chatter and get this over with.”
“Actually, I have somewhere to be, too. If
you’d like to reschedule, or cut this short—”
“If I wanted to reschedule, I wouldn’t
fucking be here, would I?” Gage’s chin jutted out and he stared up
at Paul, pure aggression and command. Even before he’d lost his
legs, he probably hadn’t been tall, but he’d pretty clearly always
been a fighter. A terrier, ready to take anyone on, regardless of
the odds.
Well, good. He’d need all the toughness he
could find.
“We’ll start with stretching,” Paul said, and
started for the mats, confident Gage was wheeling along behind him.
“Do you need help getting out of the chair?”
“No.”
That was a sign of progress—not physical,
likely, because it shouldn’t be too challenging for Gage to haul
himself out of his wheelchair and onto the padded bench. But the
first few sessions, Gage had insisted he couldn’t do it on his own.
So either his confidence or his resolve, or possibly both, had
improved since then. Or maybe he’d just gotten even more reluctant
to let Paul touch him, gloves or no gloves.
Whatever, as long as it worked.
“You’re doing your exercises at home?” Paul
asked as he watched Gage move.
“If you can’t fucking tell whether I’m doing
them or not, why am I bothering?”
“I see improvement, but this
is a long-term project. The results are going to come slowly.
It’s your recovery, not mine. You’re bothering with the exercises for
yourself, not for me.”
“Recovery?” Luckily Gage was
on the bench already, because if he’d still be in his chair he
might have wheeled over to take Paul on face-to-face. “You think
I’m going to recover? You think my fucking legs are going to grow
back?”
Shit. Aggravating a patient into making an
effort was one thing, but seeming to taunt him about his injury was
something totally different. Totally unacceptable. “I’m sorry—I can
see how that word wouldn’t seem appropriate. But you know what
we’re focusing on—you’re feeling more pain than you need to and we
can fix a lot of that with exercises to help your body adjust to