Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I don’t have three weeks to get over this stupid groin pull, never mind six. I don’t even have two . UC’s going on tour in fourteen days, and I damn well have to be there.
My reaction draws all my band members and most of the crew and roadies over to us. In all the hubbub, I lose sight of Jenna. Probably for the best.
“What’s up?” Río pipes up.
I turn my head away, which spurs Luke to tell the group. “Jenna thinks our boy Bennett has a stage two groin pull, with a three- to six-week recovery time frame.”
My eyes rise to the ceiling. This cannot be happening, so close to our re-emergence. I won’t let it.
Coop shakes his head. “Dude. We need you before then.”
“I know.” I force my gaze to my bandmates. “I know. I’m sure Jenna was wrong. Luke here will take me to a doctor tomorrow and I’ll get checked out properly. There’s nothing to worry about.”
As the frontman for UC, I can’t sit and let the music go on around me. I need to be running around the stage hyping the crowd. Jenna has to be wrong .
One of the new roadies who handles lighting leans over and whispers in my ear. “I know how you could get over your injury quickly.”
Hope sparks. “Really? How?”
He makes the peace sign, brings it to his mouth and sticks his tongue out. “You could do the physical therapist. Bet you’d be perfect in no time.”
“Fuck no!” I push him away from me. With an even louder volume, I tell him and anyone listening, “I’m not doing Jenna, and neither is anyone related to the band. Do Not Fuck list, remember?”
007, who’s been sporting a sourpuss since Jenna was brought into this mess, adds his own two cents. “That woman is off-limits. She’s not a part of this tour or our band, and has nothing to do with us.” As Darren’s best friend, 007 took his death the hardest. Irrationally and without another outlet, it seems like he’s transferred his anger from Darren’s overdose onto Jenna.
I point at our bassist. “What he said.”
Luke hops into our group, which is wound so tight you could bounce a quarter off it. “All right, now. I’ve got limos ready to take us to the afterparty where we’re going to mingle with some Hollywood elites, influencers, and reporters. Remember, we could be photographed at any time, so be on your best behavior.” He directs his last sentence to Río who raises his hands like he’s innocent.
No matter what shit’s going on, these guys are a good bunch to have at your back. At a distance, of course.
While the rest of the entourage streams through the green room, a woman’s arms steal around my neck. “Bennett.”
I get a whiff of raspberry and gardenia perfume, and know immediately who has me wrapped in her arms. Turning, I kiss her cheek. “We’re all beyond thrilled with how your movie turned out, Quinn.”
I let her go and she steps away. Next to her, Callum, dressed in his homeland’s tuxedo—meaning a kilt—reaches out to shake my hand.
I raise my chin toward Quinn. “You got a keeper. ”
He wraps his arm around her. “Don’t I know it. We’re actually going to Scotland to do a film about my family soon.”
“You’re in amazing hands.” I mean all this praise, and more. I direct my next comment to Quinn. “The way you captured our struggles didn’t feel intrusive. You showed our progress like it really was. The absolute reason why you’re going to win an Oscar.”
Quinn giggles. This lightness in her is new—and a welcome facet of her personality. I’d bet my left nut Callum had something to do with bringing it out. “I don’t know about an award, but I’m thrilled you liked the finished product.” She cranes her neck. “Have you seen Jenna anywhere? Someone from your team pulled her away and I haven’t seen her since.”
I swallow. “Yeah. Well, that was for me.” I point to my leg. “I managed to pull a muscle and a roadie brought her to check me out.”
Her boyfriend asks, “Is everything okay?”
I sigh. I can be real with these two. “I’m hoping Jenna’s diagnosis is wrong, Callum. She said I’ll need six weeks to heal and we’re going on tour in two. Luke’s taking me to a doctor tomorrow.”
Quinn hugs me again. “I hope everything gets fixed up for you. Rumor has it your upcoming tour is going to include stadiums. I have no doubt but that you’ll be in tip-top shape for it.”
“Thanks. This is so surreal.” I tap my thigh. “I’m sure I’ll be fine soon. To answer your earlier question, though, Jenna disappeared after checking me out and I think she snuck out the side door of the green room.”
“At least I got her to sit through the movie. If you see her again, please let her know I’m in her corner. She seems very fragile.”
Fragile .
Quinn’s analysis lingers long after she and Callum are pulled away. She’s spot-on. Not that it matters to me how Darren’s girlfriend is faring. Not. At. All.
At nine the next morning, I’m poked and prodded and pushed in all directions by the doctor before being whisked away for x-rays and an MRI. Approaching the monstrosity of a machine, I ask if this is necessary and am assured it is. Sighing, I get into it and pretend to be in a recording studio. At least it’s over relatively quickly, and soon enough I’m sitting in the doctor’s office again.
Luke checks his watch, and I resist the urge to know how long we’ve spent in this building. All I want to hear is take two more Advil and everything will be fine. However, the throbbing in my thigh warns me of a different result.
“How’s it feeling, B?”
“A little worse since the last time you asked me, considering I’ve now been through a shitload more tests. Felt like Jenna did at least five. Do you really think all this fuss is necessary?” My left foot, attached to my good leg, taps the floor. I try to switch to the other side, but the throbbing stops me. A deep sigh comes out of my soul.
Our manager cracks his knuckles. “Listen, I’ve been doing some calculations. We’ve already sold out the early part of the tour, and the thought of rescheduling it gives me hives. If you’re not up to performing, though, we don’t have much of a choice. I can get my assistant on it—probably add three more to help her.
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m not letting UC down. I’ll be fine to tour, just you wait.” Without the band, I would be nothing. I send up a prayer I’m right. When have my prayers ever been answered ? I add, “Maybe we can put a chair off to the side if I need to take a break.”
The doctor returns, carrying a huge stack of papers. He sits behind his desk and I want to throttle my diagnosis out of him. Stop stalling, man, and tell me the verdict!
“I’ve reviewed all your tests. The good news is you’re in fantastic shape, which is a definite plus.”
“He hits the gym at least six times a week,” Luke supplies.
I don’t let my gaze wander from the doctor, who seems somewhat impressed with my workout regimen. I have my reasons for doing this, none of which are his business. With deliberate redirection, I ask, “So what do you think, doc? When will it stop hurting me?”
The doctor rubs his nose. “The tests show you have a groin pull, Mr. Hardy.”
“Bennett,” I correct him. Again. “That’s what Jenna said. She diagnosed it as a grade two pull, with a three-to-six-week recovery time. Thing is, I’m scheduled to go out on tour in two weeks.”
The doctor’s brows pull together. “Well, this Jenna was half-right. Is she a doctor?”
“No,” Luke supplies. “Physical therapist.”
“Ah,” the doctor says. “Good instincts. She was almost spot on, except for the grade.”
I perk up. I knew it—this will all be over in a much shorter timeframe than Jenna predicted. I rub my hands on my thighs, careful to avoid my injury. “Great. I’ll be fine in no time, right?”
The doctor shakes his head. “Unfortunately, that’s not the direction this is going. You actually have a low-level grade three pull. It doesn’t require surgery.”
Surgery? No. Fucking. Way. “Grade three is worse than grade two?” This can’t be right. My gaze sears into Luke’s before returning to the doctor.
“Yes. For you to heal fully, you’ll need three to six months to recover.”
His statement hangs in the air.
“MONTHS?” I leap to my feet, instantly regretting my fast action as my grade three pull protests. I slump back down.
“I understand you need to get out on the road sooner.”
“We leave in two weeks,” Luke mutters. I can tell he’s calculating how to reorder the tour to accommodate my stupid injury.
The doctor places his clipboard onto the desk. “The timeframe I gave you is to be back to full capability. However, you don’t need to be one hundred percent to perform so long as you take extra precautions, modify your choreography, and don’t aggravate the injury any further. ”
I sit up. “I’ll do anything. How long?”
“I’m not going to say you won’t have pain, but I predict you’ll not have to move any tour dates so long as you work harder than you’ve ever worked before to rehab your injury.”
Next to me, Luke exhales a long breath.
My fingers flex. I can do this. “What do I have to do?”
The doctor stares at me. “I’m not saying this will be easy. In fact, you’re going to curse every second of your rehab, but if you want to meet your deadline, this is what you have to do. Put ice on your inner thigh for thirty minutes every three to four hours for the next two or three days.”
He hands me a packet of information. “Then, do these exercises at least twice a day, more if you can handle it.”
I open the folder and flip through a few pages. They don’t seem too difficult. I nod.
Without waiting for me to speak, the doctor continues, “Many of the exercises require someone to spot you. For best results, and by ‘best’ I mean fastest, I suggest you work with a licensed physical therapist. You mentioned this Jenna who diagnosed you last night.”
My stomach cramps and displaces the pain from my groin pull.
“No,” I respond at the same time Luke says, “Good idea.”
My hand goes to my good thigh and squeezes. Through clenched teeth, I mutter, “Not her.”
Luke lowers his head. “We’ll discuss this later, B.”
Then he returns his attention to the doctor, who has a blue pad in his hand. My neck snaps. “What are you doing?”
“I’m writing you a prescription for a muscle relaxant. If you’re going to be working as hard as I think you will, you’re going to need them.”
The doctor rips off a sheet of paper and extends it toward me. I remain immobile. I’d rather writhe in pain than get addicted like Darren did. Luke takes the prescription and pockets it.
The rest of the appointment continues, but two things play on repeat. One, no way am I taking any pills. And two, and equally as unshakeable, no fucking way is Jenna going to be involved with my recovery.
When we’re in the car being driven back to the hotel, with my next doctor’s appointment scheduled for two days before our tour starts, I express my absolute no-gos to Luke. Tapping the armrest, he says, “I get it about the pain meds. We don’t have to fill the prescription, it’ll just be in my back pocket if you need it.”
“I won’t.”
“Fine. We’ll stick with over-the-counter meds.”
“Damn straight.” I stare out the side window.
“As for Jenna?—”
“Listen, Luke. I let her check me out last night because I didn’t have any other options.”
“The doctor did recommend you work with a physical therapist, and she’s the only one we know.” He pauses. “She did a great job on Darren’s wrist.”
“Before he died.”
Boom. No arguing with me here.
Luke clears his throat. “Yes. Before he overdosed, B. He overdosed . That wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own. Certainly not Jenna’s. She wasn’t even in the state.”
The sunroof provides a much-needed glimpse of the sky. “Fine. I agree Jenna had nothing to do with his death.”
We ride in silence for a full minute. The vehicle turns right, and he asks, “Do you know another physical therapist? Cause I don’t.”
My mind races. “No, but there has to be some website we can check out.” I fumble with my phone. “Here’s one: At Your Service PT. It has great reviews. Sounds good to me.” I flip through the website, clicking on About Us. “Fuck. This is Jenna’s company.” I toss my phone
“It’s the universe telling us something.”
A factoid niggles in the back of my mind. “Didn’t Jenna say she’s an administrator now?” I retrieve my phone and read, “‘Founded by Jenna Westfield, At Your Service PT aims to help you recover from surgery or injury...’ Blah, blah, blah. Here it is: ‘Ms. Westfield is the administrator for the company, now in two locations.’ See, I was right. She doesn’t do therapy anymore.”
Luke shakes his head, causing his hair to brush against his shoulders. “How about this. We call”—he notices my stiffening posture—“ I call Jenna and tell her your diagnosis. Perhaps she can recommend one of her therapists to work with you?”
My cheeks pull inward. “I don’t think we should have anything to do with her, out of respect for Darren.”
Now my manager’s cheeks suck inward. “Do you really think Darren wouldn’t want UC to associate with his girlfriend?”
My eyes slam shut. “No,” I whisper. “He was proud of her, both as his girlfriend and as a professional. My guess is he’d be super pissed at us for not wanting to use her services.” I watch featureless scenery pass.
Silence rings out for the remainder of our trip back to the hotel. I consider various pros and cons of working with Jenna. Pros: she’s damn good at what she does, witnessed by the undeniable fact she rehabbed Darren in record time. Cons: she’s local to New York City and my main base is in LA; she’s now an administrator and doesn’t practice anymore; she was Darren’s girlfriend. Perhaps overriding everything, she was the first—and only—woman to make me rethink my no girlfriend policy, instituted after Lissa’s betrayal in high school.
Somewhere deep inside, Darren gives me the stink eye.
Walking toward the elevators, I stop, causing Luke to halt his progress too. I take a deep breath. “If Jenna agrees to work with me herself, I’ll do it.”
Please, let her say no.