23. Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Remington
When I wake up, my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. My left arm is fixed at a ninety-degree angle in a cast that covers part of my hand and stops halfway up my bicep. A complex sling holds it tightly against my chest.
Even though I’m not military, I’m in a military hospital, although I’m not sure why.
Earlier, when I woke up in recovery, the surgeon told me he had to insert rods and pins to stabilize the bones in my arm.
He followed up that news with the possibility of having permanent nerve damage.
At least it’s my left arm and won’t affect my shutter finger, but getting through airport security is going to be hell now.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed with a low groan. Stabbing pain flares in my ribs. My face still throbs. My arm hurts too, but compared to what it was, it’s a dull ache now.
A nurse arrives to help me remove the sling and wrap my cast to keep it dry so I’m able to take a much-needed shower.
After I strip down, I gasp when I make the mistake of looking at my reflection in the mirror.
My face is swollen. My lips are dry and split.
My left eye is swollen shut and looks nasty.
Goliath’s fingerprints brand my throat. Turning sideways, I take in the bruises covering my legs, torso, and what I can see of my back.
Most of what I can see is covered in black, blue, and purple.
I step into the shower and turn it up as hot as I can handle it.
I stand under the spray, letting the water wash over me.
After a few minutes, I tackle the slow and difficult task of washing myself one-handed.
The weight of it all comes crashing in on me.
Tears come as I watch my blood and dirt swirl down the drain.
It’s more than a crying fit, it’s a full-body meltdown.
When I’m clean and there are no more tears to cry, I get out and dry off. The nurse helps me into a hospital gown, adjusts my sling, and combs through the rat’s nest masquerading as my hair.
I feel like I could sleep for a week. The adrenaline that kept me going in captivity has burned out, and I’m running on fumes. The drugs they’re giving me aren’t helping that situation either.
I ask my kindhearted nurse about Ricochet. She must know we came in together and assumes we’re friends. She tells me his wound is worse than they originally thought, and like me, he had to have surgery.
When I ask for his room number, she gives it to me without hesitation. She even hands me a book to pass the time. It’s a historical romance set in the Highlands of Scotland. Not my first choice, but it’s better than nothing.
I’m allowed to walk, as long as I drag around an IV pole with fluids, antibiotics, and whatever else they’re pumping into me.
I move gingerly, shuffling out into the hallway. Ignoring the looks from people passing by—some shocked, some full of pity—I go in search of Ricochet’s room.
I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around Colton being the one who rescued me. What are the odds of that? Seeing him again brought back all the memories of our night together—how he felt under my hands, his taste and scent, what he felt like inside me. How much I liked him.
But I lost my chance with him. He’s spoken for.
I don’t have the right to be jealous about Colton having a girlfriend.
I have no claim on him. I took him back to my hotel room after a few drinks and a short conversation, then hightailed it across the world the next day.
I can’t blame him for moving on. For more than three months he didn’t hear from me. Not exactly great dating behavior.
Still, I’m sad and disappointed. And yes, jealous of a woman I’ve never met. He’s the first man I’ve ever felt anything for, and I was looking forward to going on that date. Now I’ll never get to. I’ll never know what might have been.
I release a heavy sigh and scold myself over my romantic delusion.
Realistically, I know it wouldn’t have worked.
He’s a SEAL, someone who, like me, is constantly traveling around the globe.
How long could the odds have been stacked in our favor?
How could we have any sort of relationship if neither of us are ever around? It’s better this way.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Ricochet is sleeping when I enter his room. His leg doesn’t look good. It’s covered in a thick bandage and hanging in one of those hammock slings above the bed.
I don’t want him to be alone, so I settle into the uncomfortable plastic chair, reading my romance novel while I wait for him to wake.
“RJ?” His voice is groggy and confused when he stirs about an hour later.
“Hey, Ricochet.” I set my book aside, standing to help him adjust his bed so he can sit up and get a drink of water. “How’s the leg?”
He runs his palm gingerly over his bandaged thigh.
“Doctor says I damaged tendons and cut through the muscle. I have to stay off it for a while.” The look he gives me breaks my heart.
“I live on the second floor. I’m worried about the stairs.
I know I could stay with any of my teammates, but… ” His voice trails off.
He’s an alpha male. A SEAL. He doesn’t want to seem weak in front of his friends.
He won’t be able to drive for a while. If he needs crutches, someone will have to carry stuff for him. If he stays with one of the other SEALs, he might not admit he needs help, which could hinder his recovery.
“Why don’t you stay with me?” I blurt. “My condo’s on the ground floor, and I’ve got an extra room.” I hadn’t planned to offer, but saying it out loud feels right.
From his reaction, he’s as surprised as I am by the suggestion.
“You’ve got two good arms. I’ve got two good legs.” I smile at him. “Together, we’re practically a whole person.”
His brows pull together. “You don’t even know me.”
He’s right. But he risked his life to save me—a complete stranger. That says something about his character.
“I know enough. We’re both gonna need help.
The two of us have a slew of doctor appointments and rehab in our future.
It might be less frustrating if you stay with someone going through the same thing,” I tell him.
“If you don’t like it or it doesn’t work out, you can make other plans. No harm, no foul.”
“That wouldn’t be weird for you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. It might be fun. We can entertain each other.”
He studies me in a way that makes me want to squirm under the scrutiny. “What’s really going on, RJ?”
I don’t know how he’s able to read me so well. Sure, offering Ricochet my home is a nice thing—the right thing—to do after he and his team saved me. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be here. Everything I said is true…but I do have an ulterior motive.
I’m afraid. Afraid because of what I saw and what I know.
I’m terrified the Consortium won’t let me go so easily.
Ricochet is an armed and dangerous SEAL.
Even with his leg injury, he can probably still kick ass.
There’s no doubt he could bring in the full force of his team with a single phone call.
He was honest with me, the least I can do is be honest with him. “Between you and me, I’m jumpy. My nerves are raw and frayed. After everything, I’ve lost my sense of safety and I’m afraid of being alone.”
He doesn’t seem offended or make fun of me. He just nods and continues to study me for several long seconds. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. It’ll be nice to have company, and we can help each other while we recover.”
He bursts into a wide grin. “Okay, RJ. Let’s be roomies.”
With his agreement, it feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
Smiling, I pick up the TV remote and sit back in my chair. After propping my feet on the edge of his bed, careful not to jostle him, I point to the tray on his table and flash him a smile. “You gonna eat that Jell-O?”