Rowdy: A Scorched Souls Spinoff

by C. L. Riley

  I won’t be thanking her anytime soon, not a chance in hell.

  Death by exercise doesn’t seem farfetched at this point. She’s had me working at a wicked pace for the past sixty-plus minutes, doing drills I have never thought of.

  I’ve been hitting the weights for years, pretty hardcore, or so I thought, and I foolishly believed the physical therapists at the rehab center were overzealous ass kickers. Now I know the truth. They were tame in comparison to Trina. As a trainer, she’s a tiger.

  “Three more. You got this, Rowdy.”

  I allow myself a quick glance her direction. I wish she would trade her sloppy grey sweats for some skin-hugging spandex. That would make up for her tough-talking, ball-breaking approach to my recovery. At least then I could more easily revisit the picture of her naked in the tub before things got weird and she decided to chuck a bar of soap at me.

  “Great job. Grab a mat. We’re moving on to yoga.”

  I start to protest. There is no fucking way I’m doing some sissy-ass yoga routine. She has to be kidding.

  Her expression says the opposite, and her words confirm her hard stance on the subject. “I can see what you’re thinking, tough guy. May I remind you, we made a deal? You gave me total control over your recovery process, both physical and mental. You agreed to trust my experience and skills to get you back on your bike. I promise, yoga has benefits that will not only help your body heal, but it will also provide healing for your mind.

  “As you achieve each yoga pose, you’ll discover the slow, deep stretching opens up your muscles, allowing for increased blood flow and detoxification. The poses I’ve selected for you will address your specific injuries and strengthen the supporting musculature.”

  “Yoga it is then,” I grind out, grabbing my towel and wiping the sweat from my forehead, all the while wondering, when was she able to find the time, overnight, to come up with this whole regimen.

  Oblivious to my silent question, she cues up some mystical sounding music and plops down on a mat. Following her example, I lower my aching body onto my own mat, wishing for added cushion.

  In hopes of delaying what will more than likely be a series of stretches that hurt like hell, I nod at her music player. It’s a hot pink pig that serves as a dock for her iPod. “Never seen a speaker system like that one.”

  “And...? Does that mean you like it or don’t?” She tightens her ponytail on top of her head and shoots me a look that showcases her impatience.

  It seems nothing gets by my new drill sergeant.

  “I like it. It’s cute, like you.”

  Even with her caramel coloring, there is no hiding the sudden splash of pink across her cheeks. They almost match the musical pig. My top lip curls up, and I gift her with the smirk I reserve for times like this. Times when I want to let my more dominant side out to play.

  Seeing her blush so fiercely reminds me of last night, when the repeated vision of her naked body played havoc with my mind and my cock. Her attempts to hide herself were in vain.

  During our evening meal, subsequent discussion about her job duties, and later, when I was trying to sleep, that image continued to harass me. Even now, with her drowning in her oversized sweatsuit, I want to plunder her pussy until she screams for me all over again.

  She might not realize it, but I heard her cry out my name when she came. She was imagining me fucking her, me touching her hot little body, and that knowledge alone has me fighting not to think about what I witnessed and doing something about my twitching cock.

  Trina’s silhouette, visible behind the sheer shower curtain, had provided me with a shadowy view of her in action, head thrown back and hips undulating while she made perfect use of the detachable showerhead I’d installed as a last minute addition to the guest bathroom. I’ve never been happier about a purchase.

  It would make me truly happy to forget this fucking yoga shit, stretch her out on that silly, neon-purple mat, and give her the tongue-lashing I’ve been envisioning since she sashayed into my house with that damn cat of hers, just twenty-four hours ago.

  But I know better.

  Mixing business, and in this case, very important business that involves my future, with pleasure, could seriously fuck things up. I might not like how hard she’s working me this morning, but I’m not so dense I don’t appreciate the benefits I’ll reap if I stick with it.

  Trina Templeton knows her stuff. Sex could very easily disrupt the tentative rapport we’ve started to build.

  Maybe the ill-fitted sweatsuit is a good choice after all. If she wears things like that all the time, maybe I can forget the sexy, curvy body she’s hiding underneath all the unnecessary fabric.

  Yeah, right.

  She’s the first woman since Olympia Olsen to catch my attention, the first female, post-injury, to awaken my slumbering cock. Now that it’s been revived and no longer dormant, I can’t think of anyone I want riding it more than Trina. But since cock-riding is not listed on our mutually agreed upon contract, I’ll need to find ways to keep myself focussed on recovering.

  No distractions. No fuck ups. No Trina Templeton. Not the way I want her.

  I can’t risk screwing up the one professional relationship that has the potential to change everything for me. I’m not looking for a serious relationship anyway, and I’m too fucked up for a woman like Trina. She’s a nurse. She helps heal people. I, on the other hand, along with my club, spend more time acting as jury, judge, and executioner. Dragging her into the biker lifestyle would be beyond selfish. It would be unpardonable.

  Closing my eyes, I take slow, deep breaths, releasing the idea anything more than friendship can transpire with Trina Templeton. I intend to do what’s right, for once.

  “Great!” she chirps, with feigned enthusiasm. “I see you’ve already started the breathing exercise. Keep your eyes closed for a few minutes, and continue with slow, steady breaths. Let me guide you through the routine.”

  I tune in to her voice, letting it wrap around me like a soft blanket. It is no longer commanding like during the intense workout phase. Instead it’s taken on a soothing quality, a perfect companion to the strange but hypnotic music.

  After what feels like forever, my cock gets the message sex is off the menu.

  It seems yoga has some fairly significant side effects. For one...it cock-blocks.

  Trina

  With my hip nagging from the slip in the tub and my mind wandering all over the place, it’s a good thing I could lead yoga in my sleep. Even a specialized routine, like the one I devised for Rowdy, is easy enough I can mentally multitask at the same time.

  I should be practicing my own mindfulness techniques, but there’s so much to mull over.

  After listening to him highlight the extent of his injuries, during last night’s dinner, I have mega respect for the biker stretching on the mat in front of me, his muscles straining as he perfects the poses.

  My new patient is in serious pain.

  He might hide it from the average person, but I know different. In addition to receiving numerous abrasions and bruises, his knees were shattered, his arms broken, a lung punctured, three ribs cracked, and as if all that wasn’t enough, his skull had been fractured, requiring more surgery. The fact he survived the explosion is a miracle.

  Sadly, not everyone received a miracle.

  From what he shared, Leg, another biker friend, wasn’t so lucky, and Rowdy’s real father, Bones, is in the midst of his own intensive convalescing. He will never walk again, let alone ride a motorcycle, something akin to death for a diehard biker.

  Because of my own past, I understand all too well Rowdy doesn’t need or want my pity, but there is no way to shut off my empathetic side altogether. It’s just not possible. I’m human, and our tragedies might be very different in scope, but we share similar emotional scars that result from being victimized and feeling utterly powerless, and we both had our minds messed with; in my case, it was due to the drugs Dr. Martin administered, Rowdy because of
a steel beam.

  Over all, I now have a far better understanding of his mood swings. There is no denying he’s made huge strides towards healing, but my experiences and training at Brain Matters will serve him well. If he sticks to our agreement, I will have him on his Harley by summer, perhaps sooner, if we can rehab his hand enough to grip the handle and get his worst knee to cooperate.

  The TBI supports will be trickier. The brain is complex and unpredictable, and so much is unknown in spite of treatment advancements. There’s always the threat of seizures, though Rowdy hasn’t suffered any since immediately following surgery.

  For now, I am starting off with a few simple tools that will help him with memory issues, headaches, and the depression he won’t acknowledge. I’ll apply more advanced techniques as he progresses and I have time to observe his specific challenges.

  “Uh...how much longer, doc?” he hisses through clenched teeth.

  Crap! I guess I do need to pay better attention. I can’t remember how long he’s been holding the pose.

  “Go ahead and relax back into a Bound Angle.”

  “What the fuck is a Bound Angle? It sounds kind of kinky.” His eyes twinkle with mischief, catching me off guard.

  I have to choke back a giggle.

  The part of me that used to enjoy flirty banter wants out of her cage. She’s rattling the bars, ready to break free.

  No way. Bad idea. It’s a good thing the key to unlock that piece of my personality has been tossed out with the trash.

  Even if I could flirt, I won’t. The list of reasons why is extensive.

  The first is obvious: I’m a nurse. Rowdy is my patient.

  There are ethical standards involved that can’t be ignored. The situation is already strange enough without blurring the lines further.

  He is going to pay me a million dollars for my services. Adhering to my professional role is imperative no matter how sexy said patient appears with his shirt off, his hair mussed, and sweat glistening across his pectoral muscles.

  Not that I noticed.

  “Can you refresh me, please? I don’t remember the pose. What did you call it again, a bound ankle?”

  I can’t help it. I’m going to laugh at his audacity.

  “Go on, Trina. You’re allowed to smile. We’ve worked our asses off, and it’s not even 10:00am. Not to mention, it’s Sunday. Isn’t there something somewhere about taking a day of rest? And let’s not forget, you just got here yesterday.”

  Ignoring his most recent attempt to goad me into a more playful mood, I correct him instead. “It’s a Bound Angle. Let me remind you how it’s done.”

  “I think it would be best if you show me. You know my memory isn’t what it used to be.” He has the nerve to wink.

  A swarm of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.

  Damn him!

  It would have been so much easier to work with the old greasy biker I imagined as my patient before meeting Rowdy. But n-o-o-o, I end up with a man that is everything I’ve never been attracted to, but a man who flashes a wink and smirk that have already made me hot and ready for another round with the showerhead.

  I’d rather it was a round with him.

  Angry at my reaction, I offer a tight smile. “Fine. You can follow my example.”

  Settling onto my rump, I bend my knees and bring the soles of my feet together and allow my legs to fall open like a book.

  With surprising ease, Rowdy mimics my latest pose, sitting taller and stretching his spine.

  My eyes are drawn to his cut abdomen and the delicious man-V that is impossible to ignore as it tempts my gaze lower.

  He might not have been doing the perfect workout for his injuries before, but he sure as hell was able to stay in excellent shape despite them. It seems his former physical therapist wasn’t completely inept, or maybe it was Rowdy’s determination to excel; whatever the reason, I’m well aware he doesn’t look anything like someone at this stage of recovery normally would.

  It is clearly the mental aspect of his healing process that needs greater attention and what’s holding him back the most.

  Clearing my throat, I tear my betraying gaze from the bulge between his legs, only to find his eyes boring into mine with renewed intensity.

  “I’m guessing I found the right position. You don’t seem to have any objections.”

  “Um, yes...indeed you did. Now hold your ankles and hinge forward at the hips. You’ll find the forward bend creates a calming, cooling effect.”

  “I must be doing it wrong, because I’m feeling the opposite of cool.”

  Not going to bite. Not going to giggle. Not going to climb onto his lap and see just how hot and hard he is.

  What I am going to do is cut our yoga segment short, something I never do.

  “You did a great job this morning. I recommend a relaxed swim in the lap pool to conclude your workout.” My tight lipped smile is back, making my praise ring false.

  The gleam in Rowdy’s eyes fades, replaced by an expression of disappointment. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” I don’t mean to sound snippy, but I do. I’m trying so hard not to be unprofessional that I am acting like a sarcastic bitch.

  “Nope. I get it. A million dollars is a good motivator. I just thought you might like to have a laugh or two while you’re earning it. I thought wrong, again. I need to get to the pool. Wouldn’t want to screw up my first day as your patient.”

  He’s on his feet and headed to the door before I can reply. His limp is more pronounced after our strenuous activity. The water will do him good.

  What isn’t good is how dejected I feel, watching him walk away.

  “Rowdy...”

  He keeps going, right out of his private gym, leaving me on my mat, deservingly shunned.

  Dr. Martin

  I’ve wasted years, and wasting anything pisses me off.

  Time is a treasure that cannot be returned, making it all the more valuable. Once it’s gone, it is just that—gone for good—an opportunity lost forever.

  What this means for me, on a personal level...I’ve allowed twenty-three opportunities to enjoy my playthings alert and awake slip through my fingers. I was so obsessed with creating the ideal chemical cocktail I missed a critical truth.

  Contrary to everything I believed for so long about myself, I prefer the women I play with to be conscious and able to participate in playtime.

  Trina Templeton deserves my thanks. Her potential betrayal is what led to this stunning revelation.

  Glancing down, I admire my latest photos.

  Plaything 24’s distorted features. How she looked writhing in pain, her mouth clamped open and accepting the gift only I can produce fills me with pride. It was all captured digitally and added to the file...a file that was nearly confiscated if my instincts prove correct.

  I’ll have my answer soon enough.

  I’ve been up since Friday playing. It’s a good thing I keep a stash of pills handy for most any occasion. Adderall is my favorite. I discovered the magic pill when I was playing college football. Talk about an ability enhancer.

  Over the weekend it’s allowed me to experience the thrills that can only be found with a clear mind, a hard cock, and a set of sharp tools.

  It never ceases to amaze me what I’m able to learn about the human brain during playtime.

  At heart, I’m a researcher, always seeking untried ways to improve brain functioning, which means, satisfying my inner animal’s carnal appetite is not the only benefit I gain from playtime. I truly am an altruistic man, eager to advance medical science and help men and women like myself whose brains were battered by unexpected trauma.

  If I could get 23-Trina Templeton out of my head, I could accomplish so much more. She’s like a nagging hangnail I want pick at until it bleeds. I need to cut her off and be done with her once and for all.

  But there’s still a part of me that hopes I’m wrong about her. I can’t discount the way my body
comes alive at the thought of how she felt beneath me. Bathing her after using her was a spiritual experience. Her skin, soft like silk, felt like heaven.

  Imagining her blue and cold does nothing for my insatiable libido.

  I want her alive. I want her to desire me like she used to, before I played with her.

  Tomorrow is Monday, and it can’t get here soon enough.

  I’ll know then if Trina Templeton lives or dies.

  Rowdy

  I’m burning.

  Fire rages and blistering heat licks at my skin, making it sizzle and spark. My clothes are soaked with sweat, and every breath is torture as I gasp for air not polluted by smoke, desperate to fill my lungs.

  The moment before I combust, something cool and wet combats the flames, smothering the inferno and driving me closer to consciousness.

  After a lengthy and brutal battle between the scorching fire and the soothing water, I shiver so violently my teeth chatter and my body convulses. It’s like I’ve been transported from a fiery pier and tossed into a tub of ice. That sensation lasts only seconds before I am cloaked in warmth, no longer too hot or freezing to death.

  “Rowdy, your fever broke. Can you hear me? Is that blanket enough?”

  I recognize the voice, but I can’t get my mouth to work. My eyes don’t want to open either.

  Water! Bring me fucking water! I shout silently, aware enough to understand there are no mind readers rushing to fulfil my request. But before I can dwell on the lack of liquid, my overpowering thirst is cast aside by a feathery touch.

  Without seeing, I know Trina is the one at my side, tracing my jaw line with just her fingertips. Her gentle caresses border on divine.

  The fire...the fever, whatever the fuck I just survived, was pure hell; torture devised for people like me who have made a mockery of death too many times to call it luck.