CHAPTER 14
Remy
What was I expecting? That he’d be sitting on my front porch, waiting for me? Turning off the ignition, I lean against the steering wheel of my car, still unable to tear my gaze away from my front steps as though doing so will manifest Chris.
He said he’d be here this morning, but never showed. He could have forgotten. Something could have come up that prevented him from making it. Maybe he just slept in. The possibilities have crossed my mind all day.
It’s the bleaker possibilities that have my stomach queasy.
What if something happened to him? When he showed up at the center that day for therapy, he said it was because he’d fallen off his porch.
He could be hurt. He seemed melancholy when he was leaving yesterday.
I hadn’t stopped to consider that seeing an old college classmate, who went on to have a successful career, might make the sting of his collapsed dreams more pronounced.
What if he drove to a bar for what he calls ‘liquid medication’ and broke his rule about not driving?
“Shit,” I whisper, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
On the drive over to his house, I tell myself that it’s probably nothing and that I’ll end up looking like a fool for just showing up again.
It would be worth it for the peace of mind it will bring me.
He said no one called after he got in his accident.
I can see now that it’s not always safe to assume a person has plenty of people to check on them.
His truck is in his driveway in one piece. That rules out one theory, thank goodness. I don’t think he’d survive another car wreck. Hurrying to the door, I don’t bother checking his backyard. The gate is closed, and everything is still wet from the rain we had yesterday.
My knock is answered by a beat of silence and then a low woof.
Good old Gale, his protector. I won’t be appeased, however, until I know it’s not a bark of distress.
I’ve never had a dog, so I don’t know how to distinguish signs of distress from an excited bark that someone is at the door.
She keeps barking, though, and now I’m worried that I’m learning what a K-9 cry for help sounds like.
Trying the knob, the door is unlocked and opens for me. She stops as soon as I peek my head inside, licking her lips and wagging her tail.
“Gale,” Chris’s voice calls from deeper in the house, sounding groggy. “Knock it off.”
Closing the door behind me, I spot him down the hall through the open door of his bedroom. One arm slung over his eyes, bare-chested in nothing but a pair of blue jeans, there’s an open book lying at his side. A blue ice pack peeks out from underneath his back.
“Chris?” I call back. “Are you all right?”
Jerking, his arm comes down, and he glances over at me in surprise. “Remy?”
“Hey.” I give him an awkward wave as I slowly close the distance, feeling like an intruder now that I know he’s alive and well.
“I got worried when you didn’t show up this morning and…
well, it looks like maybe I was right to do so.
Wild night on the town?” I joke, hoping to take some of the spotlight off the fact that I just barged into his house uninvited.
He presses a hand on the mattress and starts to sit up. It’s a short-lived effort. He makes a hissing noise and grimaces, clutching his back with his other hand.
“Hey, just stay there. You’re clearly in bed for a reason.
” I rush over, no longer giving a damn about an invitation.
Stopping by the bed, I give him a quick survey but don’t see any signs of new injuries.
Gale hops up on the bed like she thinks a party is starting, her weight shifting the mattress and making him wince. “What did you do?
When his flash of pain passes, he lets out a haggard breath of relief, gripping her leg like he’s silently begging her to hold still. Flicking his gaze up to mine, his expression has a chastened appearance. He sighs, lowers himself back onto his pillow, and scrubs a hand down his face.
“I’ve been working on my abs on my crunch bar after our workouts every day.
I guess I overdid it a little. Add in the spillover from the hurricane going on in the Gulf, and it didn’t make for a very wise combo.
I’m done with the other kind of wild nights, though.
I haven’t had a drop since that night at the bar.
Getting to sleep isn’t worth becoming an alcoholic in the process. ”
I hadn’t even considered that the weather might be impacting him today. Jumping to conclusions about him has probably made me look like I suck at my job. Still, I’m glad to hear it was only Mother Nature and ambition that laid him up. I thought he was looking a little slimmer.
“You’ve been cheating on me, huh?” I tease, hoping some humor will alleviate his frustration.
Peering out from behind his hand, he snorts. “With myself.”
Lying in his bed like this, hair askew, dark circles under his eyes, and a book by his side, he looks like a big kid who’s mournful that he can’t go outside to play.
I don’t want to stick a feather in my cap, but it’s kind of cool if I motivated him, even though he’s a damn fool for going about it all wrong.
It smells of Mentholatum in his room. The piquant odor overpowers his wonderful Chris scent. The tube of muscle ache rub and a handheld massager on his nightstand topple any reservations I had about violating his space, especially when he adds remorsefully, “I’m sorry I stood you up.”
Stepping forward, I wave my hands and ease my hip onto his mattress. “Roll over.”
Gale flops down onto the mattress, causing Chris to let out a grunt. Her body twists, all four of her legs extending into the air as she looks over at me with what can only be described as a hopeful doggy smile.
“Are you talking to me or Gale?” Chris deadpans.
I hiccup a laugh at both of them and motion again. “Now you.” His expression turns reluctant, so I add, “Can you handle being on your stomach for a few minutes? I can try to make you feel better.”
Judging by the way he cocks a brow, that seemed to pique his interest. “You can actually scratch my belly just like this.”
The bit of adorable flirting has me fighting a smile, considering how his face looks like he thinks he’s pushing his luck. It’s sweet and humble, not a rushing waterfall that will drown me.
“Yeah, but you can’t get a free massage that way.”
“You want to massage me?”
“No, I want you to listen and stop being a grumpy asshole.”
He lets out an amused sound, but a veil of wariness shutters his face again. Pursing his lips, he gestures to where his back is pressed against his mattress. “It’s not pretty,” he warns.
“You’ve never been pretty.”
The little bark of laughter he lets out is a beautiful sound.
When he realizes my deadpan expression means I’m serious, he sighs.
Shaking his head, he digs his elbow into the mattress and turns onto his side.
I hear something in his back make an unnatural popping sound, almost like a dull clanking noise if someone were to drop a bolt on a hardwood floor a room away.
He gives no comment or reaction other than a stifled huff.
Jesus, it must be his broken hardware. I can’t stand the thought that any wrong turn could potentially paralyze him.
“On your side is fine, if that’s better for you,” I insist, dreading the thought of him having to twist everything back around when we’re done.
“Yeah, the side is good.”
I wait until he gets comfortable, hugging his pillow with one arm underneath his head.
There’s a bottle of lotion among the remedies on his nightstand, but oil would be better so my fingers don’t skid against his flesh and cause him any more pain than he’s already in.
Eyeing his nightstand drawer, I hope to the gods of men that he’ll have the alternative I’m hoping for.
Tugging it open, I suppress a sad laugh at the sight of more ointments, a gay men’s magazine that I know Jamie has had articles featured in, several individually wrapped Rice Krispies Treats, and one very small bottle of lube that’s nearly empty. That will do.
“Are you…in my drawer?” He tenses.
And now I want to laugh because mine is much more incriminating than his. “Just looking for something.”
Flipping the cap, I dribble some of the liquid onto his skin and use my hand to stop it from flowing down onto his sheets. He stiffens again under my touch.
“Sorry. Is it cold?”
“Is that…lube?”
“How about we think of it as a massage oil alternative?”
The choked sound he lets out is cut off by a low groan when I apply pressure to the tight muscles on each side of his spine.
I wish I had a magic eraser to remove the red and white scarring on his back and the event that caused them, but I’ll settle for that sound.
Circling over the cords in his back, I make slow sweeps toward his sides, drawing away the tension.
His breathing deepens, his body relaxing a fraction like he’s no longer fighting the idea of letting me pamper him.
“That feels good,” he whispers, his voice tight.
“See? Lube for the win. You’ll be ‘Mighty’ again in no time.” The grunt he makes doesn’t sound like it’s from relief. Eyes closed, lines form around the corner of his mouth. I think I hit a nerve, and not one in his back. “I guess no one probably calls you that anymore.”
“If they did, I’d ask them not to. It was a stupid fucking name.”
“You didn’t like it? I thought you used to have a keychain with—” I’m quick to cut myself off when he glances back at me in surprise.
Face burning, I shift my attention to his back, grateful for the dim lighting in here.
“It was just something I noticed,” I add to cover my tracks, but now I’m curious.
“So…when all your fans were chanting your nickname, that’s why you were out there scowling?
And here I thought it was just your game face. ”