8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Ryan
I eyed Marcus Branigan.
My very attractive and very straight physiotherapist stared back. Implacable. Unmoving. Most importantly, unmoved. His nearly black hair was a little shaggy, and his piercing dark-brown eyes showed more wisdom than I might have expected from a guy just a couple years older than me. Of course, by life experience, I likely had him beat by a mile, so where was my wisdom?
“I didn’t mean to…you know…”
He eyed me. “Whatever you did—which you won’t share with me—has exacerbated your injury. You’re worse than you were when I saw you Thursday morning. That was less than a week ago, Ryan. What did you do?”
I winced. “Put a dish in a dishwasher.”
“Oh. Well, it’s great that you’re using a dishwasher. Normally I’d say standing and doing dishes is good exercise—especially for balance—but with your—”
“Not my dishwasher.”
He snapped his jaw shut. Likely surprised I was using any tech. We’d had that conversation in the first five minutes. No TENS machines, no laptops, no tablets, no nothing. He’d understood. And had respected my wishes. After five sessions, he’d asked if I would consider seeing a counselor.
I admired his restraint in waiting until we had a therapeutic relationship before dropping that little bomb.
Wrong word. Wrong thought.
“Okay.” He gently probed my ribs. I’d removed my shirt, in this exam room, and he was the only person in the world—other than the doctors and nurses who’d patched me back up—who’d seen the mess. I’d once considered myself good looking. I was overweight and needing to build muscle, but with my golden-red chest hair, I rocked the grown-up look. If I sucked in my stomach, and at just the right angle, I was…decent looking.
Within six months of showing up on the front lines, I’d lost all the excess weight. Now I was nearly gaunt. With scars all over my chest.
Again, he pressed his hand to my side.
I hissed out a breath.
“Okay, well at least you didn’t do lasting damage.” He muttered, “I hope.”
Was I supposed to hear that? Well, I did.
“Be right back.” He left the room.
I glanced around. Pretty innocuous. The pale-gray walls felt soothing rather than drab. The gentle classical music—barely audible—spoke of elegance and relaxation.
The practice also employed a massage therapist.
Marcus had suggested that might be something to consider. Not for my chest, obviously, but to relax some of the other areas on my body which compensated for the injury. In relieving the strain on one body part, I created strain on another.
Truthfully, that all sounded very complicated.
Moments later, while my mind still wandered, Marcus returned. He held a cold pack in his hand.
I winced.
He frowned back. “I really want you to alternate heat and cold. Cold’s easy—”
“Because I can manage a refrigerator.”
“—right. Heat, though…” He cocked his head. “Easiest is a compress in the microwave.”
“Don’t have one.”
“Would you consider a heating pad? Yes, you plug it in…but it doesn’t use technology.”
I bit my lower lip.
He sat on the stool and advanced. He indicated my side.
I nodded.
He wrapped the cold pack in a small towel, then pressed it against my side.
For a moment, only the scratchy fabric of the towel registered. Then the cold seeped through and I drew in a sharp breath.
That my chest and lungs really didn’t like. I coughed.
“Sorry.” He didn’t appear the least bit repentant.
Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Yeah, thanks.” Deep breathing was apparently part of my recovery, and I just had to get used to it. I bit my lower lip again—something I rarely did, but seemed to do often here. “I suppose…”
He met my gaze.
“Yeah, I can do a heating pad.”
“Great.” He grinned. “I think that’ll ease a lot of your discomfort. Broken ribs are serious. You need to keep doing the coughing and deep breathing exercises to prevent pneumonia.”
I shook my head. “Pressure on my chest makes me feel like I can’t breathe.” I offered a rough smile. “Losing half a lung and having one’s heart nicked by shrapnel imbedded in one’s chest doesn’t lend itself to many options.” I drew in a breath. “But I can see the exercises are important, and I’ll try harder.”
He nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I know. Your ribs will heal in time, but that means moving them as little as possible, other than deep breaths. How’s the pain at night?”
“Uh…” I squinted. “As long as I sleep on my right side, I’m almost okay. I have a bunch of pillows to prevent me from rolling onto my back or, worse, my left side. Truthfully, I prefer sleeping in the recliner. Then I don’t shift at all.”
“That’s not great for your back.”
I just stared.
He chuckled. “I know…bigger problems. I really wish you’d let me use the ultrasound wand on your—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.” I glared. “We’ve talked about this.”
“I know.” He sort of shrugged. “But I want you to get better. I have a list of things I can use, and most involve some form of technology. Or manipulations that would cause damage—so obviously they’re out. I just…am struggling to help you.”
I hesitated. “Am I becoming a burden?”
His horrified expression, all wide eyes and raised eyebrows assured me that I’d missed the mark.
“Hell, no. I can slowly do small things to try to make your life easier. We can figure out how and when to increase your range of motion. We’ve got you driving. You’re able to stand longer, and your balance is better.”
“Are you selling me on your services? Because obviously I’ll keep coming back…”
He offered a small smile. “I just want it so you’re in less pain.”
““I’m not taking the heavy painkillers anymore.” As soon as I could stand the breathing exercises without them, I’d scaled back to over-the-counter drugs.
“That’s good. But you had two surgeries where they opened your chest. As you said, your heart got nicked, and you lost half a lung. You have broken ribs that are healing nicely.” He drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what you went through over there. Will never know. But I can see the wounds on your body and, more importantly, I can see them in your soul.”
I scoffed.
“Not like that.” He met my gaze. “Your body always has a lot of secrets to share. My profession involves interpreting those signals and figuring out how to fix what’s broken. To make the patient as whole as I can. Obviously that’s not always possible. Crap happens. Some injuries can never be overcome. So I help those patients adapt. When your ribs heal, I think there’s a chance you can have close-to-normal function back in your body. Do things you’ve not been able to do in a long time.”
“My cock’s still broken.”
Marcus sighed. “You always just have to go there. Have you discussed it with Justin?”
Ah…so Marcus was getting reports from Healing Horses. I’d authorized two-way communication. I had nothing to hide and if somehow my healthcare practitioners communicating helped…well, I had nothing to lose either.
“I don’t have anyone to get it up for.”
Except that wasn’t entirely true. A certain tall, muscular, blond-haired, hazel-eyed handyman came to mind.
From an objective standpoint, Gio would’ve been the more attractive. Strong body, chiseled jaw, hair that flopped in just that way. He resembled a European model who might strut down a catwalk in Milan.
Simeon was more…of a hometown boy. Someone comfortable. Easygoing. Happy. Not exotic at all. Not the kind of guy I’d have noticed in the past. If I followed my former patterns, I thought I’d be missing out on someone special. He felt like someone I could be friends with. And I hadn’t had many of those in my life.
Marcus waved his hand before me.
I straightened.
And winced.
And rolled my eyes.
He grinned. “Sorry about the pain, but I think you were thinking rather deeply. I asked if you’d mind if we switched to heat.”
“Heat’s fine.”
“Great. I’ve got a pad I think is just the right size. I’ll send you home with it.”
“How much does it cost?” A question I never asked before going overseas—because my dad paid off my credit card each month—and one I asked every single time the issue of money came up since I’d gone to Ukraine. Credit cards were useless on the front lines of a war. I’d managed to get my hands on some of the cash my dad sent, but there weren’t many places to spend it. We’d needed ammunition. That couldn’t be bought with a few dollars.
“I’ll add it to the cost of today’s session.”
Which my father would pay. That knowledge sat well with me. He had access to hundreds of millions of dollars. One of the richest men in Vancouver, in fact. He just didn’t advertise that fact. His real estate portfolio was staggering—and that wasn’t even how he made the bulk of his money.
“Be right back.”
Marcus rose and my gaze followed that fine ass as he left the room. He wore khakis and a pale-blue dress shirt with the clinic’s name. A clinic he owned. Pretty impressive, given he was only a few years older than me.
What have you done in those years?
Won a few gaming trophies.
Gone to war.
Neither of those felt particularly impressive. The first because any shmuck with decent reflexes and tons of hours to kill could achieve that. The second because it had almost killed me.
And we weren’t winning the war.
Not losing…but not winning.
I itched to be back with my friends on the front lines.
Then a pang of pain reverberated through my chest as I remembered the four men who died when the ordinance had exploded so damn close to us. We hadn’t had time to take shelter. One minute we’d been laughing, the next we’d had mere seconds to react. Those friends—to a man—had left behind wives and children. I’d been the only to survive. Me. The only person without any of those obligations.
The one thing I’d successfully managed to guilt my father into doing was sending money to those four families. I might’ve threatened to go public. To this point, I’d just been a brave Canadian who’d defied orders and had gone into a warzone. Canada wasn’t at war and couldn’t be seen to be sending troops. The handful of us who went were completely on our own. I’d been prepared to die and be buried over there. I might love my country, but she owed me nothing.
My father, upon hearing of my grievous injury, moved heaven and earth to get me from Kyiv to Toronto via Germany and a second round of surgery. I couldn’t calculate what it cost him—but I suspected in the millions of dollars.
I was supposed to feel gratitude.
And I did—for the people who risked their lives to get me out. For the doctors and nurses and hospital staff who cared for me. For the transport people who first got me to Toronto and then for the crew who got me safely back home to Vancouver. I’d tracked many of them down and had sent thank-you letters. That had been part of my recovery in Vancouver—finding ways to express gratitude at being alive when so many others had died.
Marcus returned with a box. He sat on his stool, opened the box, and pulled out a large, fluffy, pale-blue thing attached to a cord.
To my relief, I didn’t panic at the cord.
He handed me the instructions.
I rolled my eyes.
He shrugged. Then he plugged the thing in and showed me how to adjust the temperature. “Never on high. Not with your injuries. It has an auto shutoff at two hours but, to be safe, turn it off when you’re going to sleep—even for a nap.” Gently, he placed the heating pad against my side.
I secured it under my arm and wrapped my hand around it. Awkward as fuck.
“This will work better when you’re in your recliner. Or on your side. And don’t ever lie on it.”
I fingered the instructions. Amazingly, I’d never used a heating pad.
“Fifteen minutes and then you can go. Do you need help to put your shirt on?”
“Nah.” Since my hands and fingers worked as intended—and I could usually wrestle my arms into obeying—I’d manage.
“Great. Just signal me if you need anything.”
I waved him off. “Go heal someone else.”
He hesitated.
“Really…I’m going to be okay.”
“Yeah, I think you will.”
I sat with the heating pad until the fifteen minutes elapsed. I unplugged the thing, but wasn’t able to figure out how to get it back into the box. Fuck it. I managed to get into my shirt and do the buttons up. I wasn’t going to bother trying to tuck it in.
As I left, my gaze swept across the treatment area. I didn’t see anyone. The clock read ten past six. Damn. The clinic closed at six. I headed to Marcus’s office to apologize for keeping him late.
The door was ajar, and I almost knocked.
Marcus wasn’t alone.
Nope.
He was in the arms of someone.
A man.
A lithe man with gorgeous hair and a killer body.
They’d locked lips.
I slipped away with a grin on my face.
Okay, so maybe not so straight after all.