CHAPTER 5
Chris
This shit isn’t going to work. I did TENS therapy after my surgery, but that was before I broke the hardware in my lumbar when I thought I could move a new refrigerator into my house to save a few bucks on delivery fees. Whatever. At least there are no co-pays for alumni here.
The new guy’s fingers are at least softer than whoever started working on me earlier.
I can tell he’s younger than the last man by the sound of his smooth, skittish voice.
I have half a mind to beg him to just massage my back with those agile fingers, but I’ve found I like being touched less and less over the years.
It’s like living in skin and a body that aren’t your own.
My mind is thirty-seven, while the shell it inhabits feels seventy.
After my idiocy last week, I’ve decided to stick to the comfort of my own hand, my heated massage recliner, and muscle rub gel. Wild nights ahead of me. Yay.
“You’re set for ten minutes. I’ll leave you be. Just holler if you need anything. Okay?” the guy rattles off, his steps heading toward the privacy curtain.
There’s something pleasant about his voice that relaxes me, making me mind less that I’m stuck lying on my stomach, the worst thing for back pain. On that note, however, I know I’m not going to want to wait here if he’s breezing away to fuck off and forget about me.
“What’s your name?” I call, my lips half smashed against the therapy table.
“Remy.”
The name sticks out like a carnival game sign popping up after a ball hits the target. Remy. Really? Of all the names. There’s a soft waft of air and a rustling sound from the curtain, telling me he’s slipped through.
I’ve only heard that name once before. It brings back a flood of memories.
Satisfying, hot memories that make my belly burn deep down in the pit of it.
A wash of heat runs up my neck and into my cheeks, remembering the sound of it on my own lips.
Remy. I guess it’s not entirely true that I’ve only heard it once before.
I remember saying it many times like a prayer that was pulled from my throat as I released into a beautiful, firm, lithe body that hugged me to the point of delirium.
Shit. Wrong thing to think right now. Somehow, the blood flow to my cock doesn’t seem to mind my uncomfortable position at the moment.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to focus on the little tingles from the leads around my spine, willing them to work magic. The memory of the man’s fingertips, however, and the sound of his voice hover like a distraction.
‘Um…all right. I-I’m going to start at a low level and work my way up.’
Am I clouded by old memories, or did he sound nervous the way Remy used to? My Remy, who always seemed so irresistibly drunk at the sight of me.
Okay, so he wasn’t exactly my Remy. We never made it into anything it wasn’t.
He was just there and willing whenever I wanted.
The perfect arrangement to get me through the stress of college and a budding football career.
So fucking perfect. My first drug, if you will.
One that never left my insides crawling afterward.
Two years of the blissful sensation of walking on air and feeling like I could take on whatever was next. Maybe in that regard, he was my Remy.
Huffing a laugh, I silently gloat over the fact that I don’t think he sought out any extracurricular activities aside from me the entire time.
We had an agreement to show each other new test results if we ever hooked up with anyone else, but he never did.
I don’t get much to gloat about these days, so the memory is good for my ego.
Sometimes, when I need to jerk off to forget about the pain, I pretend I’m back there in his room.
Agile, limber, strong as an ox, with him on his knees looking up at me the way he used to.
Him under me, moaning the sexiest sounds no porn has ever been able to replicate earnestly.
Snorting, I turn my neck and bury my face deeper into my forearms. He wouldn’t fucking look at me like that now.
I wonder what happened to him? He was roommates with that obnoxious guy from my journalism class who always showed up in pajama pants and had something snarky to say that had the professor sighing, an exasperated noise, while everyone laughed like minions.
Remy only had bio with me that I had to take as a requirement, while he ate it up because he was going to become a physical thera—A… therapist. A physical therapist.
The confident, unaffected voice when the therapist entered the room, the peculiar shift to skittishness, and rushed speech after I told him my name.
The way he rushed out of here. It can’t be, but…
what are the odds there would be another Remy who’s a physical therapist at a center connected to the college we both attended?
Was it him?
Hell, it’s got to be.
That heat in my belly returns, expounded upon by a live-wire charge that tightens my mid-section. It’s not a rogue current from the TENS unit. It’s a delayed reaction to knowing whose hands were just on me.
Oh, God. That means he saw me.
Remy saw me. Like this. Like me now.
The machine lets out a monotone beep, signaling the end of the treatment course.
My pulse kicks up, galloping away from me, snaking tension around my lungs.
He’ll come back in, and I’ll have to get up.
He’ll have to see me crawl off this table like a drunk grizzly bear.
Hear me grunting and my joints cracking as though I’ve been in extended hibernation.
I can feel my love handles sticking to the vinyl fabric of the therapy table.
Love handles that weren’t there fifteen years ago.
Fuck.
Fingers twitching, my mind races for a way to escape. Why though? Why do I care?
He’s probably married or in a committed relationship with someone by now. That’s what happens to nice guys like him. That’s what happens to everyone but me. He could probably care less about recognizing me, if he even remembers.
My stomach swirls. A sour sensation creeps up my throat. I can taste the reason for my panic, clarity in the form of stomach bile. He was a nice guy, and I…was a total asshole.
Suddenly, those longing looks he used to give me that I’ve lived off during wet dreams over the years don’t feel like something I can gloat over.
Not when he’s minutes from being in the same room as me, face to face.
It all comes back to me—the hearts in his eyes, the way he used to nibble his lower lip, and how he’d stutter when he’d get too flustered.
The way he’d look at me like he wanted to kiss me all night was just a bit too on the far side of intimacy for me at the time, and yet always so tempting I had to rush out his window to stop myself from giving in.
I think I knew it then, but what did I do?
I repaid the closest thing I’ve ever received to devotion with frenetic dickings and reveled in the way my bossy bedroom commands could bring him to his knees.
There is no way I’m letting him see me like this after the way my cocky, amped-up-on-adrenaline ass used to talk to him.
No way. I’d rather live with the delusions of my memories than see an ounce of disappointment in his eyes.
The memories are all I’ve got. I’ll be damned if life is going to take those away from me, too.
Reaching around behind me, I yank the cables off the leads. Only half of the sticky patches come loose, but I don’t care. I can pry the rest off when I get home.
Peeling myself off the table, I ease to the side until my feet touch the floor, and I grunt from the stiffness after lying down for so long.
Spinning around, I locate my shirt where I discarded it on a chair and tug it over my head.
Shoving my arms into my zip-up, I flip the hood up and peek through the slit in the curtain.
If there’s a check-out process, they can figure that out after I’m long gone.
Hustling through the center, I keep my head down.
Hood pulled low, I probably look like I’m evading capture after a robbery.
With each heavy step, my footfalls reverberate not just the pain of my weight to my worn-out joints but a message of shame.
I did this to myself. Both my accident and how I’m fleeing right now from a reunion with my college hookup.
Shoving through the door, the smell of chlorine from the therapy pool across the hallway that leads to the exit stings my eyes. Did he know it was me? If he didn’t, will he find out later when he’s going through records?
Why the fuck did I wear these bummy old jogging pants and let my ass get so fat?
Gale really needs to stop letting me eat Rice Krispies Treats.
It’s one of the few non-chocolate snack foods I enjoy that aren’t harmful to dogs.
It doesn’t seem as funny now, blaming her when I reach in and feel the bottom of the box while we binge-watch TV together.
How have I not noticed the feeling of my ass jiggling when I walk until this moment?
Glancing up, so I don’t end this walk of shame by running into someone or the exit door, I stop in my tracks. My sneakers squeak to a halt, ass fucking jiggling from the force like I haven’t been mocked enough by my life choices today. It is Remy. Definitely my Remy.
My God, was he always this handsome?
His arms fill the sleeves of his blue button-up, tucked neatly into his khakis.
My eyes rake over the lines of his torso—slim, yet solid, with more meat on him than I remember.
Sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his forearms are speckled with hair that I imagine would be soft to the touch.
My mouth waters watching his throat undulate, remembering how it felt under my mouth.
I used to graze my lips across his jaw, which is now covered in a light layer of dark stubble that adds a sexiness to the years he’s acquired.
He scrubs his hand across his forehead. It’s oddly fascinating to see that his bangs don’t fall into his face the way they used to, back when guys all had longer, messier hair.
They’re shorter, combed back. Both stylish and yet unassuming, with flecks of blonde like they’ve been kissed by the sunlight from time outdoors.
Head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, he blows out a breath like he’s trying to calm himself.
The distress on his face pierces the bubble of my mini fantasy. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Is he…out here because of me?
Part of me wants the floor to swallow me up, knowing that would mean he was dreading having to face me. Who in the hell wants to leave that kind of impression on someone? But if he’s out here having a moment because of me, does that mean…
Turning, he takes a step, and those blue eyes of his damn near pierce me to my soul. “Chris,” he blurts, sounding breathless, like he hit a brick wall.
My mouth moves, but nothing comes out. Nothing goes in either. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“Remy?” I croak like an inquiry even though I know damn well and good he’s real and standing right in front of me.
He lets out a puff of air, as though he’s suspended in the same disbelief. “Yeah.”
The view of him head-on is just as good as his profile.
Better even with those bewildered eyes on me.
Maybe I’m just imagining things, but they scan me from head to toe like he’s done so many times before.
Something instinctual kicks in, making me want to take a step forward, back him up against the wall, and claim him the way I used to.
Press my chest and pelvis against his. Breathe him in and find out if he still has a hint of that sweet scent that used to cling to his skin underneath his cologne.
Run my lips down his neck and suck on the base of his throat to hear him whimper those sounds that made my nuts draw up.
God, how am I just now remembering that little detail?
I knew him once. Or at least my body knew his.
Would it still be the same? Would his still know mine?
“Are…are you done?”
My gaze snaps to his, feeling caught. “What?”
“I mean, I can see that you’re done. Is…everything all right? I’m sorry I didn’t disconnect you. I lost track of the time.”
His words register, humbling me more than the idea of getting caught ogling him. Right. I’m just a patient. He’s not here waiting for a fuck or to drool over my broken body, thirty-pounds-heavier ass, and useless, doesn’t-always-work-right cock.
“Yeah.”
Everything is not all right, but I don’t know what else to say.
Looking past him, it would only be a few short, awkward steps to go around him and get to the door, but despite the urge to flee, I have questions.
So many questions. Things I need to know before I bolt and piece back together a new version of my wank fantasy fodder to get me through the next fifteen years.
“You work here?”
“Yeah,” he answers with a breathless laugh, stuffing a hand into his pocket.
Cringing internally, I shift in place. Of course, he fucking works here. Man, I’m smooth.
“I was at BAMC for about twelve years,” he elaborates, “but when I heard they were opening this center, I thought it might be a nice change.”
He’s been in San Antonio for twelve years? This whole time?
Shit. We could have…
Could have what? What the hell am I saying?
I spent most of my savings on a house in a decent neighborhood that put me smack in the middle of all the colleges in the area, so I could easily get to all the games.
I doubt there would have been any appeal in an unemployed guy on disability who was just coming off a pain pill addiction and spent his time sitting in the bleachers like a lost puppy.
“Um…did you want to schedule another session?”
“What?”
“For your back,” he says delicately, gesturing to me.
My back. My back, which he just saw. My back, which makes it obvious to anyone that I can’t play football and haven’t for a very long time. Does he know what happened?
Hell, the whole world knew. I was all over the national news for two weeks and then forgotten. Of course, he probably does.
There is no way to even fake the bravado I had back then that was so appealing to him. Dropping my gaze, I shake my head and shuffle around him.
“No.”
“Well, I… If you…” he stammers behind me as I reach for the door handle, but then blurts, “Take care!”
Take care. There’s a polite brush off if I’ve ever heard one.
It’s official. Whatever appeal he once found in me has worn off.
Maybe he was only stammering because he was worried some ex-NFL player he used to screw, who got drunk at a fancy party he didn’t fit in at, and then smashed his car into a guardrail, would make things awkward.
I push outside and tromp across the parking lot to my truck, hating myself a little more than I thought was possible.