3. Laramie
CHAPTER THREE
laramie
Dallas, Texas
December
A very unladylike grunt slips between my lips as I glare at the five-pound dumbbell acting as the bane of my existence. How something so small, so inconsequential, can reduce me to such failure is baffling. When I try—and again fail—to lift the weight higher than ninety degrees, I drop it with a curse. Then kick it further away for good measure.
It only hurts a lot. “Stupid motherfu?—”
“What did that weight ever do to you?”
My eyes dart to the handsome man using the little arm bike thing. He shoots me a smile that would have a nun loosening her habit and I duck my head, looking away. This is the second physical therapy session he and I have shared, and while we spent the last one eye-flirting, I don’t have time for distractions today. Not when my entire career hangs by a thread.
He is an excellent distraction, though. Especially the way his biceps tighten and the veins in his forearms flex… Nope. Stop that right now.
Shaking off my lust-fueled haze, I grumble, “Why don’t you peddle yourself right on outta here, Pretty Boy?”
“Pretty Boy?” He arches an eyebrow and rubs the stubble along his chiseled jawline. Not that I’m staring or anything.
“I can see it, Mr. Phillips. Now move those arms.” Dr. Panter startles me; I’m so busy drowning in honey-brown eyes that I don’t notice her until she’s right next to me. And considering the reindeer antlers on her head, that’s saying something.
“War, Dr. Panter. Please call me War. Mr. Phillips is absolutely my father.” His deep tenor sours. Part of me wants to be nosy and ask what that’s about, but I have bigger things going on than prying into some random hottie’s business.
Dr. Panter waves at the man, War, and directs him back to his slow hand peddling. To me, she pats the padded therapy table.
Like a good patient, I hop up, mainly because I know I’m about to get scolded.
“Why are the free weights already out, Ms. Larson?”
I roll my shoulder as Dr. Panter watches, waiting. The dull throb I’ve learned to live with since October is there, a persistent reminder of my dumbassery.
Why did I pick up the weight first? Because it’s nothing. It’s five pounds. I’ve spent my life hauling bags of feed, saddles, and tack, shoveling out stalls, climbing fences and trees, and riding nine-hundred-pound animals. All of which require way more strength than simply lifting a five-fucking-pound weight.
“Oh, I got those out,” War says, still peddling his way to nowhere with his arms.
“You didn’t, but it’s admirable of you to lie for Ms. Larson.” Dr. Panter doesn’t take her discerning stare off me .
A smile tugs at my lips. “Thanks for trying to cover for me, Pretty Boy.” Louder, I add, “Laramie. Please call me Laramie.”
While I say the words to Dr. Panter, she rolls her eyes and smiles. “Yes, I’m aware, Laramie, given I’ve been seeing you every Tuesday and Thursday for the past three weeks. Now, let’s get you warmed up. Then you can work on lifts.”
She moves me through a series of steady, slow, smooth movements. Only when I’m panting through gritted teeth and my shoulder burns does Dr. Panter offer me the tiny purple weight.
With all the determination I possess, I grip the weight, the small item deceptively heavy in my fist. My arm trembles as I raise it, not even making it to shoulder height. The pulling, twisting sensation makes my teeth clench. Tension pulls the muscles like rubber bands stretched too tight. It’s not just painful—it’s wrong. This isn’t the burn of a challenging workout; it’s the bite of overexertion, the wrench of scar tissue, and it’s almost enough to make me quit.
I lower the weight and repeat, but this time, I rotate my arm before slowly moving it outward. It hurts. There’s no other way to say it. Each tiny motion sends waves of agony through my shoulder, pulling at the place where the surgery stitched me back together. My muscles spasm in revolt, and my arm falls limp.
A dark, angry part of me relishes the burn. Yes, being able to do these movements at all is a good thing, but I deserve the hurt that comes with it.
It’s been seven weeks since the minor surgery to repair the minor tear in my rotator cuff, and I’m itching to get back in Xpresso’s saddle. But given I can’t even lift a five-pound weight higher than ninety degrees, the chance of my being able to ride my horse with the precision I expect is slim to none. So, instead of celebrating in Vegas, I’m stuck in Dallas.
The finals. My finals. I should be there. I was there . Everything I wanted was in my hands, and like a reckless idiot, I threw it away to prove a point to Cyrus fucking McClain.
Another groan of pain and frustration fills the open therapy room. Other PT patients, including War, give me a side-eye. If I weren’t trying to pretend that this minuscule hand weight wasn’t Sisyphus’ stone, I’d flip them off. Or, in War’s case, maybe blow a kiss.
He really is good-looking. Tall, trim, a little too clean-cut. His reddish-brown hair and those warm eyes—not unlike a chestnut stallion—definitely have appeal. Yes, that man would look mighty fine grazing in my pasture.
Biting my lip, I shake the image of War’s broad shoulders between my thighs from my head and refocus on lifting the weight. Refocus on why I’m here.
Turning my attention to the large whiteboard, I search until I find my initials written in neat handwriting with a list of goals. Sitting at number one? Compete in the High Plains Stampede. Slightly lower on the list—pat the top of my head. Dr. Panter says it’s important to have a wide range of objectives.
High Plains isn’t a huge event, but it’s big enough to make a statement. Most of the circuit will be there, thick in the swing of things. I picked it purposefully. When I return, I want everyone to remember why they should be worried.
The petty side of me refuses to watch the finals. It’s too tender a wound. When Dad asked if I wanted updates, I threatened to eat the stuffing from his Oreos if he spilled a word about it. I’ll find out soon enough, anyway.
My competition is out there now, either shining under the bright Vegas lights or resting and regrouping, mentally planning how to take the buckle, the crown, the title. Meanwhile, I’m struggling to lift the same weight my Memaw uses in her seventies-plus aerobics class. The thought of missing out on the finals—again—gnaws at my stomach, leaving a gaping hollow. What if I can’t come back from this? What if this is the new me? A weak, broken version of myself?
Lost in my thoughts, I lift my arm too high, twist it too fast, and the ache in my shoulder grows into a white-hot flare that shoots down my arm. My entire shoulder spasms and the weight falls to the ground. If I was a crier, I’d be fighting tears. Instead, I cuss a storm of words that would’ve had my mom washing my mouth out with soap.
War lurches forward as if coming my way, but before he can untangle himself from the pulley he’s currently working at, Dr. Panter’s cool hands settle on my shoulder.
“Laramie, breathe. It’s okay to take it down a notch,” she says as she kneads the muscle. “This isn’t about pushing as hard as you can. It’s about getting to where you were safely. Progress, even if it feels slow, is progress.”
Sighing, I say, “I wish it wasn’t so out of my control. My mind says I can, but my body…”
“In this case, listen to your body.” Dr. Panter works my arm, stretching and tugging. With each pass, she pulls my hand higher and higher. We’re at ninety degrees, and I know what’s coming. Biting the inside of my cheek to keep from making a noise, I prepare myself for the discomfort at the incision site—the pull deep in my shoulder blade.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I’m somewhere else—in a bar kissing the corded muscles of War’s neck, maybe—as she pushes my arm to the side. My wrist is almost even with my ear when I can’t take anymore, and I jerk away from her grip.
“Easy, Laramie. You did great. I know you’re frustrated, but you’re making remarkable progress. Now, I want you to do wall presses and scapular retractions, then hit the hot tub. ”
As much as I don’t want to do any more exercises, I’m totally on board with the hot tub. “No ice bath?”
Dr. Panter’s lips quirk. “Nope, you’re spared the trauma of the ice today. I’ll see you Thursday.”
Giving my thanks, I set to it. Warm, bubbly water and a chance to unwind are calling my name.
By the time I finish the last set of scapular retractions, aka squeezing my shoulder blades together until I want to cry, the PT room is empty except for War and Dr. Panter. Nodding my goodbye to them, I push into the small changing room and slip into the functional one-piece I bought for aqua therapy. Doesn’t matter if it’s flattering, Laramie. Does a piece of me wish it was a cute bikini? And that a certain someone was joining me in the water?
Giving myself a mental slap, I push War and his handsome face from my mind. I swear my hormones are out of whack. I haven’t had a satisfying orgasm since before my accident. That’s all this crush is—the need to get laid.
Tinkling holiday music plays over the speakers, mixing with the bubbling of the jets and swishing of the lap pool. The sun sets behind the Dallas skyline, leaving the room bathed in soft shades. The faint scent of chlorine tickles my nose when I step into the hot tub, and I sigh as the warm water and pulse of the jets work my sore muscles. The heat wraps around my aching shoulder, and while it dulls the persistent throb, it does nothing to quiet my restless mind.
The memory of my last race replays in my head in hi-def: the high is intoxicating as X and I race, rounding each barrel so perfectly—the promise of a win in my grasp. Then, the scene changes, and I’m on my back in a red clay arena, staring up at the sky, unable to breathe. I rub my hand over my shoulder, the small scar hidden by my swimsuit a reminder of all I lost. Of my mistakes.
Regret and anger—at myself, at Cyrus, at the universe—knot together in a tangle of frustration inside me. I sink lower in the water until my ears are submerged, muffling the holiday music. Then deeper, until the entire world disappears. If I stay submerged long enough, can I drown the what-ifs swirling in my head?
Suddenly, a large hand yanks me upward, and I jolt, sputtering and coughing.
“Are you okay? Jesus, Trouble, you scared me.”
“Wh-what?” I swipe away the stinging water blurring everything around me. A shape shifts in front of me. Blinking harder, I focus on the figure until it crystalizes into the bare chest of a man. A bare broad chest with a smattering of reddish-brown hair that tapers off before picking up below his navel. Shit, Laramie, stop ogling the man. I force my eyes upward.
War leans over me, concern etched on his brow. “You were under the water when I came in.”
“Did you call me Trouble?” I ask, not sure what I’m saying.
“I did. You’ve got it written all over you.” War smiles. “Mind if I join you?” When I don’t immediately answer him, his grin falters. “Or not.”
I grab his hand, shuddering at the spark my skin against his generates. “No, I mean, yes. Join me.”
“What were you doing underwater?” War asks, sliding into the hot tub. He’s close enough that our knees touch.
What was I doing? Reliving one of the stupidest decisions I’ve ever made. Remembering how I couldn’t catch my breath. “Meditation.”
He purses his lips. “You don’t seem like the meditating type.”
“I’m totally Zen. Plus, it’s not like you know me.” I nudge his shoulder with mine, ducking my head when we both wince.
“The way you kicked that weight earlier and cussed like a sailor says otherwise.”
“Okay, maybe I’m still mastering the art of tranquility.” He shoots me a devastating smile before we fall into silence. The quiet between us shifts from comfortable to awkward, and I can’t help but break it. “So, what’re you in for?” Ugh, nice, Laramie. You make it sound like we’re doing time, not soaking in a hot tub at a bespoke physical therapy center.
If War is put off by my phrasing, he doesn’t show it. “Swimming injury. Or maybe a being-over-thirty injury.”
“Ah, so you’re an old man.”
He arches one eyebrow. “Thirty-three isn’t old.”
“If you’re telling me in six years I’ll be back here because of swimming, I have to disagree with you.”
“You’re a little bit of a smartass, aren’t you?” His words are softened by his teasing grin.
I pinch my fingers together. ”A little.”
The back and forth comes naturally, and I can’t help but notice War’s gaze lingering on my lips a fraction too long to be innocent. A shiver of lust licks down my spine.
Shaking his head, War clears his throat, then asks, “What about you? How’d you end up here? Pilates?”
My nose wrinkles. “Pilates? That’s the vibe I give off?”
“Okay.” He lets out a rumbly laugh. “Not pilates. So what then?”
“Got bucked off a bronco.”
“You’re kidding?” His eyes widen.
“Nope.”
“Damn, you really are trouble, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea, Pretty Boy.”
War inches closer, his fingers brushing against my thigh. “You’ re right, I don’t. But that sounds like a fixable problem.” His voice is soft but sure, and for a split second, I wonder what his lips would feel like on mine.
I let out a low, throaty laugh. “Good luck with that.”
We lean in as if drawn by some unseen force, but whatever might happen comes to a screeching halt as the door swings open, shattering the moment.
“Hey, folks, we’re closing.” The staff member in her crisp polo looks at us expectantly.
War rises, and I stare a little too long at the water sluicing down his torso. His hand reaching for mine breaks me out of my stupor. He helps me out of the hot tub and snags a towel, gently wrapping it around my shoulders. Leaning forward, his lips graze my ear. “I’m a problem solver, Laramie, and learning more about you is on my list now.”
I gulp, tingles of desire coursing through me.
With a knowing smirk, War winks. “See you Thursday, Trouble.”