by Claire Adams
I can’t help but laugh a little.
Ash pulls away enough to look into my eyes, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s just a little strange to hear someone say that and know they’re not joking. It’s the sort of thing people talk about in mafia flicks.”
“I guess,” she says, resting her head back against my shoulder. “I just know they’re going to try something stupid while they’re down there and they’re not going to be able to play the system the way they can here. I’m starting to think the best thing to do for them is to rat them out.”
“Why did you agree to go out with me that first time?” I blurt.
“What?” she asks, pulling away again. “Where did that come from?”
“Nowhere,” I answer honestly. “I don’t know. It’s just something that’s been on my mind for a while. Even before I got to know you, it was pretty clear you weren’t the type that’s into fighting and when we first met I wasn’t exactly in a position to make a great impression. We don’t have to talk about this right now.” He repeats, “It’s just something that’s been on my mind.”
“At first I was just screwing with Jana,” Ash says. “Then you were kind of charming and I thought that was rather off-putting, if we’re being honest here. After that, I don’t know. It just seemed like there was more to you than the troglodyte you looked like.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’ll take it as a compliment,” I tell her.
“We’ve really got to get you a dictionary,” she says. With that, she lets her arms drop and we release the embrace. “I’ve got to make a phone call,” she says.
“Who are you calling?” I ask.
She already has her phone out, and she doesn’t look up at me when she says, “I’m calling the police. I don’t know if they’re actually planning on scapegoating me or not, but I’m not going to take the chance.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “Do what you think is right.”
She puts the phone to her ear and I get an idea.
I may not know anyone as high up on the legal food chain as Ash’s parents have, but I do know a guy. Okay, so he’s not really the kind of lawyer I’d hire if I knew anyone else, but he did help a few club owners get out of charges for holding our matches in their buildings.
That was back when we didn’t have to look so hard for a place to fight. Come to think of it, I’m not sure the guy’s still around, but the number’s still in my phone.
I press call.
“Yes, I have information about an investigation currently underway regarding Chuck Butcher and Gertrude Shecklemeyer,” Ash says into her phone.
I’m about to ask her who Gertrude Shecklemeyer is when my own call is answered.
“You’ve reached the offices of Blake T. Millhouse and Associates,” a man’s voice says. “Millhouse speaking; what kind of mess did you get into this time?”
“Mr. Millhouse,” I say. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I get a lot of repeat business you know, so I guess I just assume… Anyway, how can I help you?”
I give him the basic idea and, by the time Ash is done with her phone call, he’s ready to talk to her.
“Who is it?” she asks as I hand her the phone.
“It’s your new lawyer,” I tell her. “That is, unless you had someone in mind.”
She shrugs and takes the phone. Before she starts talking, though, I try to squeeze in a quick question. “Who’s Gertrude Sheckler or whoever?” I ask.
“Shecklemeyer,” Ash says covering the phone with her hand. “You didn’t think my mother’s name was really May Weese, did you?” I ask. “That’s just as close as she could come to calling herself Mae West as she thought people would let her get away with.” She uncovers the phone and puts it to her ear. “This is Ashley Butcher,” she says.
What a strange life I’ve made for myself.
* * *
The FBI showed up before Ash was finished talking to Millhouse. She spoke to them for a while. Then they tried to speak to me, only I didn’t have much to add but the bits and pieces Ash forgot to mention.
For a while, my house was a pretty popular scene. Everyone was respectful enough, I guess, but the cops acted more like fans wanting an autograph than they did officers of the law.
They didn’t take Ash away, though. That was the big thing I was worried about, but they seemed to believe her.
When I left the house, she’d decided to take a quick nap. I waited about two hours before leaving to come here, to the gym.
After her ordeal, Ash needs her rest. Me, on the other hand, I’ve got a fight coming up soon and I’m still not where I want to be in my training for it.
It’s late. I’m the only one here. Logan was nice enough to make me a copy of his key to the place. He and the owner go back quite a ways, though Logan’s still never deigned to introduce me to the guy.
I’m getting tired, but I’ve got to keep going. I’m only on my first circuit and I’m seeing spots. This can’t happen when I get in front of Furyk. My body needs to be at its peak.
Even with the added adrenaline that comes from knowing I’m screwed if I don’t start picking it up, though, it’s all I can do to make it through a set with my lats.
I keep eyeing the water fountain on the far wall of the gym, but I can’t overload myself on fluid right now. Gotta keep going.
There’s no doubt I’m slowing down when I start my second set on the bench. I can’t even make it through the whole set before I’m putting the bar back in its cradle.
I sit up slowly, trying to breathe through it. My body’s not that sore, it just has nothing left to give.
This is what separates the fighters from the spectators. The guy in the crowd is going to stop right here every single time. I don’t have that luxury.
My next stop is the squat rack, but I stop to chalk my hands. They’re sweating even more than normal. I’ve already decided to call it a night after this set, but I may as well make it a good one.
I take twenty pounds off the bar before I get into position. Twelve reps and then I can hit the shower and head home. I’m disappointed, but a body needs rest just like it needs exercise. The key is in knowing how to keep that balance just right.
By my fifth rep, I’m seeing spots again. By the sixth, I really have to focus on metering my breath. By the ninth rep, I’m pretty sure I’m just going to keel over right here and now. By the tenth I’m wondering if I already have.
I straighten my knees on the tenth rep and I’m resolved to finish this set out, no matter what. Two reps is doable.
Bending my knees again, I slowly drop into a full squat, making sure I’m getting everything I need to be getting out of the motion. As my vision goes black and I feel my sense of balance turning into a practical joke, I think I may have gotten a little bit too much.
Chapter Twenty
Le Grand Réveil
Ash
“I know I don’t have my license yet or anything, but I am fantastic at what I do,” I tell Mason, admiring my textbook bandage work on his forehead. “You know, with you being in fights a lot and passing out at the gym and everything, I bet I’m going to get more real world experience than anyone else in my class.”
Mason’s lying in bed, his eyes still closed, though I know he’s awake.
“How long do I have to stay in bed?” he asks.
“Until you’ve given your body enough time to recover from the enormous strain you’ve been putting it under,” I answer.
He groans, wincing either from a throbbing head or my unwelcome glee.
This is day three. His sense of humor ran out some time ago.
“My muscles are going to atrophy if I don’t get up and do something,” he says.
“No, you passed out from exhaustion all without anyone around. It’s a miracle you didn’t get more than a goose egg,” I tell him.
Based on his spotty recollection of wh
at happened, I’m surprised he was in good enough shape to call me after he came to. When I got there to pick him up, I didn’t have a key to get in, though I could see him lying there on the floor. I was well on my way toward panicking until I realized he had his phone out and was angling it toward his face.
His text came through a few seconds later, saying, “I’m going to have to let you in, but you’re going to have to give me a minute to get there.”
After seeing him basically crawl through that little window, I have no remorse keeping him bed-ridden. Well, there are a couple of exceptions. I don’t think either of us wants to have a bedpan enter into the relationship just yet.
“You know, when you said you didn’t want me doing anything, I didn’t think you actually meant it,” he says.
“The way you keep repeating that, I’m starting to think you might have conked your head a little harder than you thought you did,” I answer in my cheeriest nurse’s voice.
He groans again. “Just annoyed is all,” he says.
“Well, I’m going to be a nurse, and if I don’t sign off on your health, you’re not fighting,” I tell him.
I think I’m starting to appreciate the draw of having power over someone else. It hasn’t gotten to the point where I’m willing to abuse it or anything, but it is kind of fun teasing him like this.
“I know,” he says. “You’ve done a solid job blackmailing me.”
“Actually, I think it’s extortion,” I tell him. “Then again, I’m not sure there’s a difference.”
“They’re similar enough that it can be easy to get the two confused,” he says, “but where you’re threatening to call the cops to shut down the tournament, exposing not only me, but a lot of people I’ve grown to tolerate over the years makes it blackmail.”
“Between your knowledge of the law and my knowledge of medicine, maybe we should start working toward being one of those doctor/lawyer power couples,” I tell him.
“What, like your parents?” he asks.
“Don’t think that just because you’re in bed at my urging that I’m above smacking you around,” I answer. “And no: If my parents are a power couple, it’s only due to all the money they’ve tucked away over the years. Neither one of them is actually good at anything.”
“You don’t really like your parents very much, do you?” he asks.
I know what he’s doing. He’s uncomfortable being confined to his bed, so he’s going to try to make me uncomfortable by talking about my parents. He tried this yesterday. It didn’t work then, but maybe he thinks my resolve has weakened since then.
Fortunately, I know just how to get out of this.
“You know, maybe we should use this time talking about our families,” I tell him. “Neither one of us is going too far for a while: You’re supposed to stay in bed until further notice, and I don’t trust you to do that unless I’m right here.”
“Don’t you have school or something?” he asks.
I feel as much of the unbandaged portion of his forehead as possible to see if he’s spiked a fever.
“Summer break started last week,” I tell him. “You don’t remember?”
He looks up at me, saying, “They have summer classes, you know. Don’t you want to get your degree already? I mean, why wait?”
“Because I have to work during the summer,” I tell him.
“Then isn’t there a job you should be getting to or something?” he asks.
I pat his chest. “It can wait,” I tell him. “Right now, I think maybe it’s time for your sponge bath.”
“I don’t know what your obsession is with wanting to do that,” he says, “but I really don’t want to have that be what you’re thinking about when you see me naked.”
“I’m a healthcare professional-ish,” I tell him.
He says, “That’s exactly the sort of thing you want to hear from—”
“Well, I’m not going down on you until you’re all nice and sparkly clean, so I’m open to suggestions,” I say and then turn away, trying to hide my face as I feel the hot blood rising toward the surface of my skin. I’m trying to play it cool.
The way things have been recently, it’s been a little while since either of us has gotten particularly flirty. I think it’s about time we change that.
“I can take a shower,” he says. “I’ll be in and out in five minutes.”
“Nope,” I tell him. “Hot water thins the blood and with you having a problem with lightheadedness because you didn’t stop when your body told you to stop, I really don’t want to risk you going in there and cracking your head worse than you already have.”
“I’ll take a cold shower then,” he says.
“No, from what I’ve heard from sitcoms and late-night talk shows, that’s kind of the opposite of what we’re shooting for,” I tell him.
Yeah, I could use the release, but that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for him.
“A bath then,” he says. “I’ll make the water warm, but not hot. I’ll get in, make sure I’m good and clean and then…”
He keeps going, but I just have to laugh. I could use the release, but I’d dare say that Mason here is flat-out horny.
There’s nothing medically wrong with him at this point, apart from some lingering exhaustion. He has some cuts and bruises, but they’re bandaged and healing. If we do have sex, I’m going to have to do all the work, but right now, I’m pretty okay with that.
The only problem is that he’s still trying to convince me.
“…one of those things that I think we can agree, I’m really good at,” he says. I don’t have any context. I wasn’t paying attention.
“Make it quick,” I tell him. “Momma’s gettin’ antsy.”
“Not gonna lie,” Mason says, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “that’s more than a little creepy.”
“Whatever,” I say, smacking his ass on his way past. “Just don’t get too worn out in there,” I tell him.
He gives me a sideways look, but doesn’t bother calling me on how quickly I made things awkward.
From a medical standpoint, Mason’s fine walking, though from the careful steps, I’d guess that he’s still pretty sore from the way he’s been hitting the gym.
It’s continued to surprise me how he can stay so lean with all the lifting he does. I would have expected that he’d be somewhere between bulky and musclebound by now, but he’s obviously learned how to stay at a given weight by now.
I follow Mason to the bathroom.
Exhaustion is simple enough to treat, but it’s not an instant cure type of thing. Even with nothing but solid rest, the body takes time to rebound. Mason knows this just as well as I do, but I still get the feeling he thinks the rules don’t apply to him the way they apply to everyone else.
It’s a good primer watching Mason get undressed as the tub is filling up with water.
I check the temperature just to make sure it’s not too hot or too cold.
If it was hot, it wouldn’t kill him or anything. He just wouldn’t be too steady on his feet for the walk back to his room, and after that, he’d probably just fall asleep. Too cold might not help him drift into a peaceful sleep, but it can kill a guy’s mood.
If it didn’t feel like eons since he and I have had a chance to connect physically, the temperature of the water might not be such a pressing concern for me, but at the moment…
“Leave the bandages on,” I tell him. “I’ll change those out later. Right now, I’m just going to need you clean from the mouth down.”
“That’s some pretty solid dirty talk,” he laughs.
“Need any help?” I ask.
“No thanks,” he says. “I’m just barely on the right side of weird with you standing there watching me. Maybe if you’d played down the nurse thing a little, I could relax, but oh well.”
I give him my most inviting smile, saying, “Well, you’re a reasonably attractive man. You can’t blame a girl for wanting to cat
ch an eyeful now and then, can you?”
He chuckles softly through his nose and continues to wash himself. After a minute, I do step out, not wanting to actually make him start associating my seeing him naked with him being uncomfortable, but I stay close.
After a few more minutes, I can hear the water splashing and I go back in as he’s getting out of the tub.
“Now, where were we?” he asks, grabbing a towel which I then grab from him.
“You were going to stand really still while I help you get dry,” I tell him. “You’re my patient, and it’s my duty to make sure that you’re well taken care of.”
Am I really going for the sexy nurse role play here? Am I so in need of a good lay that I’m willing to cheapen my profession by turning into a bedroom game?
“Yes, Nurse Butcher,” he says and before the next breath, he’s laughing.
“What?” I ask, feeling suddenly on the spot.
He tries to collect himself. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just—Nurse Butcher. You’ve got to think that’s going to make some people a little nervous.”
“Oh, ha-ha,” I moan, rolling my eyes. “Keep acting like you never put my last name and the profession I’m training for together before.”
I’m not going to tell him this, but I actually did consider changing my last name when I decided to go into nursing. People are jittery enough when they’re in the hospital, and having someone called Nurse Butcher coming in and out of the room isn’t going to make that any easier.
For now, though, I let the towel glide over Mason’s firm body. In the days since he passed out, we’ve really started getting closer than either of us would allow before then. I really don’t think it’s all because I’m taking care of him, either.
The last few days, things have just been easier. We’re talking without the awkward pauses; we’re joking and teasing each other. It’s the way our relationship started, and I’m just glad that part of it isn’t gone for good.
Mason is still and cooperative as I dry his body, spending a little bit more time than is strictly necessary around the more exciting parts of his anatomy. His response is what I’d definitely call a positive one.