Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
J enna takes a moment to change out of her scrubs. Now in a pair of black leggings and purple tunic top, she drives us to a tiny café about fifteen minutes from her clinic. It has a contemporary vibe. I open the menu and am surprised by the unique offerings. “I almost feel as if I’m back in California. This menu is rad.”
“This place never disappoints.” She plays with the silverware, switching the fork and knife, and depositing the white paper napkin onto her lap.
I follow suit, then we give our orders to the server. “I think I’m making progress. The pull still bothers me, don’t get me wrong, but it’s less pronounced.” I consider. “Less growly.”
“Exactly what your therapist wants to hear.”
“Especially with less than a week to get me fully functional.” I want to talk about something other than my rehab. I want to get to know her . “So, tell me Jenna, did you always plan on being such a business mogul?”
She chuckles. “Business mogul? Hardly.”
The server drops off our drinks—a diet soda for Jenna and a bottle of water for me. When she doesn’t continue, I say, “I think owning two physical therapy clinics—and opening one more—qualifies. Was that always your goal? To move on from working directly with patients to overseeing a number of clinics?” When she doesn’t speak, I add, “I can attest to how awesome you are with patients.”
Her hand goes to the back of her head, and she tightens her ponytail. “Well, no. I never thought I’d be an administrator. I love working with patients, one on one.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Loved,” she amends.
I tilt my head. “You don’t enjoy working with me?”
Her head shakes. “I do. I really do.” Her finger runs over the top of her glass. “Perhaps I should’ve listened to Austin when he reminded me it’s best not to fraternize with patients.”
I may only have my GED, but you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know where she’s coming from. “Because of Darren.”
“We didn’t date until he was no longer a patient. But, yes, because of him.”
An awkward silence descends. I remember how chuffed Darren was to have her on his arm. How he turned all the other chicks away and bragged about Jenna. Spending time with her now, I’m starting to understand his fascination.
The fact she treats me like a normal guy is a massive turn-on. She doesn’t get caught up in the trappings around me. Maybe I should let her be, as I don’t have anything other than my rock star status—and a GED—under the hood. On the other hand, she’s a warm and wonderful human being who has advanced degrees and two clinics under her belt. What do I bring to the table?
Maybe I could help her loosen up a bit and enjoy her life? Because I can’t control my imagination, I ask, “Do you miss working with patients? I mean, the threat of not going on tour as we planned is enough to make me do all sorts of weird exercises. Like standing on a towel and doing squats. I can’t imagine not doing what I love.” How else could I mask all my faults ?
“Being an administrator is related to the field, you know. I advise therapists who work directly with patients. I’m still sort of hands-on.”
“Once removed.”
“Well, yeah.”
The server chooses this moment to deliver our meals, so we dig in. I place the sweet potato fries into my meatloaf sandwich and cut it in half. The mere aroma makes my mouth water.
Glancing across the table, Jenna’s picking up her tuna melt. She takes a big bite, and cheese oozes out of the side. I like the fact she’s eating real food. Not a lettuce-fest in sight.
I taste my lunch and it’s like heaven in between bread. After I swallow, I remark, “Damn. This is fantastic.”
She grins. “I know. We were lucky to get a table, but a late lunch like this is usually okay. Dinner always requires a reservation.”
“I can see why.” I insert more of the sandwich into my mouth. When it’s gone—and she still has a half to go—I drink my water and contemplate what she told me. My finger traces the condensation rolling down the bottle.
After Jenna wipes her hands and tosses the napkin onto her plate, I ask the question that’s been running around my mind. “You do know Darren raved about you as his therapist, right? You got him back up and running in no time.”
“Thanks. Except for the fact the pain meds did a lot of the heavy lifting.” Her lips curl downward.
“Hey, your physical therapy got him back in the game. You can’t blame yourself for his addiction.” Hell, I’ve heard this platitude innumerable times.
“Kinda hard to avoid it.”
“I understand. I really do.” Her grey eyes zing into mine. “UC was with him every day and we didn’t know the extent of his addiction.”
She swallows. “I knew he had prescriptions. I always warned him not to mix them with alcohol. I never thought—” She stops talking.
“None of us did. ”
Once again, silence descends. This time, without the awkwardness. Only sadness.
Jenna picks up the conversation. “I told him, you know. I told him to take his meds before your concert that night. I also warned him not to drink.”
For like the hundredth time, I think back to that night. I didn’t know he took the oxy before our gig, but I did know he was drinking afterwards. Still, it’s not what killed him. “The alcohol didn’t cause his overdose.”
Her head hangs. “I know. When we were on the phone that night, he was pretty wasted. Loud and funny, but wasted. He kept asking,” she pauses, and her throat constricts as if she were trying to swallow over a boulder. “Darren asked me about three times if he took his meds that evening. I told him he had before the concert, and he’d feel better in the morning. We were on FaceTime, so we could see each other. It was late. He started taking off his clothes to go to sleep. When his hands landed on the waistband of his boxers, I told him not to take them off.”
She swipes her palm across her eyes. “I was thinking he’d be more comfortable wearing them if he had to run to the bathroom to throw up.”
“Mystery solved.” My comment brings her gaze back to me. “You mentioned you told him to keep them on, but never gave an explanation. Makes total sense. Who wants to be butt naked on their knees in front of the porcelain god?”
“Exactly.” A single tear floats down her cheek, which she swipes away. “I should’ve called you or someone else in the band. Pierce. Anyone. I should’ve asked you to check up on him.”
I shake my head. “It wouldn’t have mattered unless we caught him in the act of taking more oxy. You said it. He didn’t remember if he took an earlier dose. He probably thought he was doing something good by taking another one.” I fiddle with the fork on my empty plate. “And another.”
“I bear the brunt of blame here. I knew oxy is highly addictive but still encouraged him to take them because of the pain.” She turns her head and looks at the wall.
“Hey, Jenna.” My hand lands on top of hers. “You can’t blame yourself. Ultimately, it was Darren who took the pills. Don’t forget, they helped him heal, too. They served their purpose. He abused them.”
I needed to say this as much for her as for me. Only Darren is to blame for his decisions that evening. If only I could live this truth. From the looks of it, Jenna needs to embrace it as well.
She removes her hand and touches her cheek. “When did you get so smart?”
I shrug. “Born that way?” As if. Wanting to put the issue of Darren’s death behind us for now, I press, “You decided to stop seeing patients after he?—”
“Yup.”
“It’s a big loss to the public.”
She tilts her head but conversation stops when the server appears and clears our dirty plates. We decline anything further, but compliment the chef. She tells us she’ll be right back with our bill.
I press, “How do you manage to oversee two different locations?”
“Not alone.” A small smile plays across her face. “Court—Courtney—and I went to physical therapy school together, and I trust her implicitly. I tapped her to run the clinic we meet at, while Felipe is in charge of the other one. At Darren’s funeral, I promised him and myself I would open ten clinics in five years as my way to honor him.” She bites her lip. “Ten was a special number to him.”
Was it? Without remembering, I nod. “Already well on your way.” What fraction is she at? One-third? One-quarter? Never was any good at math.
“Working on raising the capital for a third.”
I connect the dots. “Which is where I come in and why you’re back to seeing patients? Or at least me.”
“Well, yeah.” Her chin juts up. “My clinics are in the black, and I’m turning a profit. We provide a much-needed service in the Hamptons.” She crosses her arms.
Her determination is commendable. She has confidence in her therapists and clinics. “Is that why the Assh—I mean Austin, was asking for your opinion about his services this afternoon?”
“I have an open-door policy for all my physical therapists. It’s as much for them as it is for me, you know. Keeps me involved.”
Something tells me she knows more about physical therapy than the Asshole ever will. “Don’t you miss it, though? Being hands-on?”
“Seems like I’m pretty hands on with you.”
Other ways she could be hands on with me flit through my brain. Whoa. “Guess it falls on me to keep you on your toes. Can’t rely on Austin for everything.”
“I probably should see some patients now and then. To keep my skills sharp.”
The server comes and I pay for our meal, as promised. This interlude has made me see Jenna as more than my physical therapist—or Darren’s ex. She’s quiet, yet vivacious when talking about something that stirs her soul. Outgoing in a reserved kind of way. Her inner strength is captivating.
And still on the Do Not Fuck list. Perhaps it’s not as ironclad as I once believed?
I stand up from the table, only to have my bad leg hip checked. Pain shoots throughout my body. “Holy fuck!”
My yelp could be heard throughout the restaurant. The perpetrator—Michelle—caresses my mid-thigh. “Oh my God, Bennett. I didn’t realize you were there.”
Jenna rushes to my side. “Get your hand off him. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
I’m ushered into my chair, stars tangoing before my eyes. The server returns to see if she can do anything, and Jenna orders an ice pack. Oh joy.
Hovering, Michelle now strokes my shoulder. “I’m so very sorry. What can I do to make you feel better? ”
A frown mars Jenna’s face. “Seriously, Michelle?” she snaps. “Haven’t you done enough already?”
In a saccharine voice, the bitchy chick replies, “If he were getting the therapy he deserves, I’m sure he would’ve taken my little mistaken tap in stride.”
The server returns with some ice in a baggie, which Jenna places onto my thigh. My physical therapist then steps between Michelle and an empty chair, positioned in front of me.
Jenna directs me to elevate my leg, which I do. She returns her attention to Michelle. “How do you know I’m working with Bennett?”
A smirk crosses Michelle’s face, her glossy lips twisting. “He told me.”
Jenna stands to her full height, a couple of inches shorter than Michelle. “Then let me do my job.”
“Like you did with your other boyfriend?”
This ramps down from entertaining to downright nasty. “Ladies. I’ll be fine in a few minutes. I was surprised, that’s all.” The throbbing has dropped from a twelve down to a ten. Bordering on nine.
Michelle tosses her long brunette locks and points at Jenna. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and get this poor guy a drink?” Her fingers swoop in to stroke the hair on the back of my neck. I move away.
“We were finished and about to return to my clinic before you got here.” Jenna stands her ground.
I can’t help but notice the way she used the word “my” before clinic. My palm moves and some ice falls over the side of my thigh, causing me to hiss.
Michelle bends down to check out what’s wrong, her lips inches away from my junk. Jenna places her hands on her hips. “Seriously. Are you going to massage his pulled muscle or give him a blow job?”
The last two words out of Jenna’s mouth are so unexpected, my lips drop open. Michelle’s not distracted by them, though. “At least he’d enjoy it. ”
I address the annoying Michelle. “All right, I can handle this from here. Jenna’s doing the right thing by icing and elevating my leg. Why don’t you go on your way?”
Michelle licks her plump, glossy lips. “You can’t mean it.”
The way the woman’s acting is nuts. We’ve met a grand total of two whole times. Plus, she insulted Jenna, who’s standing behind her, her eyes spitting fire. I know where my loyalties lie.
“I do, Michelle. Why don’t you find some other guy who’s receptive?” I’m not. And after today, I’ll never be.
“Well.” She huffs as she stands, towering above me in the chair. “Good luck with this...ice queen.” She flounces away.
My gaze meets Jenna’s, and—despite the pain—I laugh. “She’s quite overdramatic, right ice queen?”
Jenna’s hand goes in front of her mouth. “I’ve never seen anyone handle her quite so effectively. Even Darren was taken by her, ah, décor.”
“Oh, she’s hot enough. But an ugly piece of work.”
Jenna moves the ice pack over my thigh. “How’s this feeling?”
“It’s still throbbing,” I confess.
“Maybe Michelle was right about one thing. I’ll order us another round of drinks while the muscle calms down.”
“Thanks.”
She leaves to get our beverages while I rub my angry groin muscle. This sucks. I thought I was making much better progress. Although, our lunch provided much more insights into my physical therapist. Ones I really want to explore, despite all the reasons why we shouldn’t.
Jenna returns with two glasses of water. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted alcohol.”
“Water’s fine.”
She takes a sip from her glass, then removes the ice pack from my thigh. Her fingers trace the muscle, causing me to inhale through my nose. Her gaze bounces up to me and returns to my leg. “It’s tight.”
No shit. “I know. ”
She continues to massage the muscle. She does a funky maneuver and the contraction subsides. My eyebrows fly to my hairline. “What did you do there?”
She half-smiles. “Therapist trick.”
“I’ll say.” My fists unclench. “My pain level dropped to a six.” My whole body relaxes and my eyes drift shut. A vision of my therapist floats before me.
When my eyelids open again, Jenna replaces the ice pack and retakes her seat across from me. “I’m glad I could help.”
“You’re a miracle worker, Miss Westfield.”
She giggles before her lips close around the straw. Damn. Even her giggle is sexy. “I wish. But my degree did give me some insider knowledge that helps from time to time.”
I drain the rest of my water as the pain continues to subside. “I think I’m going to stick with miracle worker.” I can think of a few other descriptions I’d like to add. “Are you ready to go back to work?”
The moment hangs, filled with possibilities, which end when she says, “Let me help you walk to the entrance, and I’ll bring the car to the front.” She pushes away from the table.
“I’m sure I won’t need help to the front door. It hurts but it’s manageable. I need to learn how to handle this pain in the future, just in case.” Tossing the baggie of ice onto the table, I get to my feet. The first few steps are pretty horrible, but then I get my “sea legs” and walk, albeit a bit unsteadily, to the front door. I don’t fight with her when she leaves to get her car, though.
To distract me from my wayward thoughts, on the ride to the clinic, I ask, “So tell me more. How many therapists work for you?”
“All told, ten. I’ll add another five when I get the third building.” She makes a left turn. “I loathe the hiring process, but it’s a necessary evil.”
“I hear you. I’m involved in hiring roadies and techs for our tours more often than I care to be. The other guys in the band don’t like to be bothered, so I get to represent UC in the interviews. At least the candidates are screened before I’m part of the process. ”
“Lucky you.”
Something in the tone of her voice speaks to me, perhaps determination or hope? “You said you want ten clinics?”
“Yes, ten is my goal.” She turns her head toward me, her ponytail swinging. “I want At Your Service PT to become a household name around here. Not because I’m looking to increase the bottom line, but rather to help people after surgery or who get injured, like you.”
Her generosity of spirit shines. “A worthy goal.”
She pulls into an empty parking spot. “Are you sure you want to do more therapy now? You could wait and come back tonight. Or, after the incident at lunch, perhaps even tomorrow?”
“With only a few more days, I think I need all the pointers I can get. I’ll take this session slower, if you don’t mind.” I join her in front of her car, my pain level settled around a five.
We wait for the elevator. Emptying my thoughts of everything—and everyone, living and dead—except for the beautiful woman next to me, I turn toward her and cup her smooth cheek. “I’m so impressed with you, Jenna. I have faith you’ll reach, and even surpass, your dreams.”
Her head tilts upward.
Filled with unavoidable desire, I’m drawn to this intriguing woman.
My mouth descends toward hers.
We share a breath.
The elevator pings its arrival and she rushes into it.