by JB Salsbury
“You guys ready?” Blake opens the door to the garage, ushering Layla and his son through. Once they’re gone, his eyes come to mine. “If I had given up, let myself continue to believe I wasn’t good enough for Layla, I wouldn’t have all this.”
The weight of his words sends my eyes to my coffee, and the door closes behind him.
~~~
I’m on the couch, my feet on the coffee table and a cold beer between my legs, perusing an online site that sells cars. The clock says two twelve p.m., and although I wouldn’t say I’ve had the most productive day, it’s been better than most.
By ten o’clock, I was convinced AJ wasn’t coming back.
Not that I blame her.
I pushed her away as much as I could yesterday, and when she left, I knew I finally hit a nerve. Rather than sit around and drink myself to naptime, I grabbed a beer and pulled the tarp off my GTO. The thing was beautiful, and eyeing it for too long hurt, but I made myself snap a few pics and upload them to sites that specialize in selling classic hot rods.
Scrolling through the ads, I think I should be able to pull in some decent cash, enough to get settled in my own place, and sooner or later, I’m going to have to get a job. But what kind of place could use a man with no use of his right arm?
My mind spins with all I need to do.
Ever since my stay at the all-inclusive Iraqi holding cell of horrors, my head hasn’t worked right. It’s like a cage that’s too small. I put one thought in and I can roll with it. Add another, then one more, and those fuckers start flapping against each other in full-blown panic, and I can’t sort them out.
I reach for my beer and distill my thoughts to focus on one thing at a time. First, the car. Then the job. Then I’ll have to—
“Knock, knock.”
The door was already open, so when I look up, I see AJ crossing the threshold. Something she sees in my expression stops her cold. “What. Is it okay if I come in?”
I blink, clearing my surprise. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
She takes that as an invitation and drops on the armrest of the couch.
I let my gaze linger along her body. She’s wearing a pair of shorts, nothing fancy, denim cutoffs that aren’t too short but showcase her legs, which seem to have filled out since the last time I had the privilege of touching them. The long firm muscles that used to rope up her thighs have now matured into something softer, more feminine, and equally sexy.
She drops her purse on the couch, officially cutting me off from the view. “Why are you inside? It’s beautiful today.”
I turn to the phone in my hand, and it takes me a second to remember what the fuck I was doing before she walked in and made everything in my world momentarily irrelevant.
“I’m selling the GTO.”
“What?! Why?”
As if it isn’t obvious? She’s gonna make me say it. “Because I can’t drive it. My arm . . . I-I can’t work the stick.”
“Are you sure?”
I allow my head to fall back to the couch and bite down on a nasty string of words that will surely send her away. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“So, what? You sell it and buy something else?”
“Eventually. I thought first I could use the money to get out of my brother’s hair.”
“Does he know you’re selling your car?”
My head lolls to the side to see her. “He’s my brother, AJ, not my fucking dad. I’m a grown man. Pretty sure that means I can do whatever I want with my car.”
I go back to staring up at the ceiling fan as silence stretches between us.
“That’s too bad.”
My eyes roll back in my head. Shit, just hours ago I thought I missed this girl, and now I’m thinking I must’ve been insane to.
“I have an idea.” She hops off the couch. “Come with me.”
“I don’t want to go jogging.”
She props her hands on her hips. “Braeden Daniels, are you scared?”
“No, I am not scared.” Shitless, actually. Of your effect on me, of how bad I want you, and how much I need you to walk away. Of you, AJ, I’m terrified.
“Then come on!” She grabs my arm, the one holding my phone, and tries to pull me up. When I hardly budge, she leans back, using her weight to try again. Her face gets red, and a tiny vein in her temple surfaces as she grunts to get me on my feet. “It’s like . . . trying to move . . . a mountain—ugh. You’re too big!” She gives up and huffs out a breath. “Just get up. Please?”
The way she says it reminds me of Jack this morning with his eggs, so I loop my fingers around the neck of my beer and shift up to my feet.
She looks me up and down. “Good. Now, you won’t need these.” She takes my phone and beer then places them on the table. “Okay, follow me.”
Half curious and half not having the energy for the back and forth, I move in the direction she’s pointing out the door. I step into the sun and squint, but feel she’s behind me.
“Hmm . . . how about over there.” She points to a couple of shaded lounge chairs, so I go that way when I’m suddenly shoved from the side.
“What the fu—” My words continue in a series of bubbles as pool water swallows me. My feet hit the deep end, and I shove to the surface to find AJ doubled over laughing. “You’re fucking hilarious.”
“I know, right?” She’s still laughing when I swim to the edge of the pool. “What are you doing? Don’t get out!”
With a quick crouch, she fires off the side of the pool, over my head, and dives in.
She surfaces close to me, her hair darker and slicked back from her face and a smile stretched between her rose-colored cheeks. “Hi.”
“You done?”
“Done what? Having fun?” She splashes me and swims to the shallow end where she can stand.
My shorts and T-shirt create a drag, which makes propelling me from one end to the other with one arm a little difficult. When I manage to get there, I find AJ with her elbows propped on the edge of the pool and her chin lifted toward the sun. “Perfect day for a swim.”
Water droplets drip from her jaw to her chest and then disappear between her breasts and—fuck me. My eyes widen at her white tank top now transparent to showcase a pair of round tits encased in lace. The white is such a contrast to her dark nipples that pebble against the fabric. I’m instantly reminded of how they felt as they’d rasp against my palms, how they tasted on my tongue. Before I realize what I’m doing, my foot brushes against hers under water.
Her eyes pop open, and she stares at me, our bodies less than a foot apart. God, I want to kiss her. I want to feel her warm body wrapped around me, lift her up, and carry her wet and needy back to my bed and sink between the healing embrace of her thighs.
“So . . . um . . .” She steps to the side and skirts away from me.
I run a hand through my hair, thrown from the moment, realizing how fucking close I was to messing everything up.
“I was at the library this morning, ya know, reading up on some PT stuff—”
“AJ, I can’t do this.”
“They say water is a great place to—”
“I’m sorry—”
“—zero resistance.”
“I can’t—”
“Stop saying that!”
My eyes snap to hers.
“One thing I can guarantee you is you absolutely will not succeed with that kind of attitude. Just try.”
I realize we’re talking about two different things, but I bite my tongue anyway. She has no idea what it feels like to be me, she’s never walked in my shoes, and as much as I’m ready to tell her just that, I know I’ll say something to hurt her, so I hold back.
When I don’t respond, she moves closer. The only sound between us is the breaking water as she reaches for my bad arm. Her fingers curl under the crook of my elbow, and she lifts my arm just inches from my body. I have to look away because I can’t risk the chance of seeing disgust in her eyes.
Gently
, she tests my flexibility, moving my arm through the water until she senses resistance then releasing it to move it in another way. I hiss as the muscles and skin protest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but doesn’t remove her touch.
Goosebumps race over my shoulder up to my neck. Her warm smooth skin against my damaged arm overloads me with sensations. When she’s satisfied, she moves to my hand, uncurling my fingers from their white-knuckled fist. She runs the palm of her hand along the underside of my arm then interweaves our fingers and squeezes.
“Does this hurt?”
“No.” That one word carries so much yearning, hunger for her to continue, desire for her to touch the rest of me, to bring feeling back to the other parts of my body that have felt dead for too long.
“How about this?” She continues to manipulate my arm under the water.
“A little.” I grind my molars through the pain.
“You have mobility, see? I think you’re crippling yourself by not using it.”
I pull free of her hold and step back. “And why would I do that?”
She sighs and moves to the pool’s steps and sits. “I don’t mean you’re doing it on purpose. Listen. I’m no doctor, but I know what the human body is capable of. It’s like . . .” She brings all her long hair over her shoulder and squeezes out the water. “No one walks into a gym for the first time, able to do the splits or a backbend on command. It’s a process of stretching the muscles and building strength. Your bones are good, it doesn’t seem like you lost a ton of muscle mass, and the skin can be stretched, maybe not by a lot but more than you’re allowing it now.”
“You think I’ll be able to use my hand and arm like . . . normal again?”
“I do.” She smiles, and that fucker is so bright I’d believe Bigfoot and mermaids spawned unicorns if she told me it were so. “Think you could hold off on selling the GTO and we could work on that arm? Maybe get you back into the driver’s seat?”
I shrug one shoulder, feeling for the first time that there’s hope for me after all. “What do I have to lose?”
“Exactly.”
Twenty-eight
Braeden
It’s been days since I’ve seen AJ.
For the first couple of days, I waited around at home, hoping she’d show up. I even got up early to work my arm in the pool the way she showed me. On the third day with no word from her, I ended up diving to the bottom of a bottle. Unable to stomach the way my brother would look at me or the way Layla seemed to avoid looking at me, I picked my pathetic ass off the floor and sobered up. When and if I see AJ again, I don’t want her to find me in a useless drunken heap of human. I sobered up and agreed to hit the gym with my brother.
“Whoa . . .” Blake comes up to the weight stack where I’m gearin’ up to pull a forty-pound dumbbell from the rack with my bad arm. “What are you doing?”
“Curls.”
He places a hand on the weight then eyes my fucked-up appendage. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“No, but I’ll never know unless I try. Besides, it’s not like I could mess it up any worse than it already is.”
“I beg to fucking differ.” He looks outraged, and I know it’s only because he cares about me, but AJ was right. I’ll never get any better if I keep listening to the voice in my head that tells me I can’t.
I reach for the dumbbell again only to have Blake lock it in place with one hand.
“Look, man,” I say quietly so only he can hear. “I know you’re worried about me.” I shake my head. “But you were right, ya know? I can’t keep living like this. I’ll never be the man I was before, but, if I don’t try, if I give up, I’m already dead.”
“I just wanted you to get up and start doing something, not push yourself so hard you get injured.”
“I know. I don’t want to get hurt either, but I have to give it a shot.”
He stares at me, a million emotions passing behind his eyes: worry, fear, pride . . . they’re all there and more. “This AJ’s influence?”
I don’t answer, but just continue to hold his gaze, which is answer enough.
“Fuck.” He runs a hand over his cropped hair. “In that case”—he leans over and grabs a ten-pound weight— “start with something a little lighter, see how it feels, and work your way up.”
I take the offered weight, the muscles in my hand refusing to obey my brain’s command to grip. The weight slips and hits the floor. “Fuck! My hand, it’s—”
“Try again.” My brother places the weight back in my hand then helps to curl my fingers around it. “That good?”
“Yeah, I think . . .” I grit my teeth and force my hand to hold tight. “I got it.”
I have a moment of panic when I feel the eyes of the other fighters in the room on me, but Blake shields me with his body to keep me from becoming a side-show freak.
I allow the weight to pull my forearm from my body. When my elbow opens, the skin pulls tight and my muscles shake. I hammer-curl the weight up, and fuck me, but it feels like I’m lifting fifty pounds. I repeat the motion, unable to fully extend my arm at the bottom, but it seems to drop a fraction lower with each rep.
When I’m at my limit, my muscles quivering with fatigue, I’m proud to see my arm more extended than before I started. I think that pool shit might be working.
AJ’s a damn genius.
“Nice job.” I glance up to see Rex and Killian walk over. They must’ve been tucked away in the back, spying on me like a couple of creepers.
Rex flicks a hand toward my right arm. “This is the first time you’ve worked that side.”
“Didn’t realize you’d paid that much attention.” I restack the weight. “Not gonna lie, it’s”—I grin at him over my shoulder— “kinda freaky.”
“I didn’t think you could even move that arm,” Killian says without a hint of humor or teasing in his tone.
“Yeah, well . . .” I drop my hand and again get almost a full extension. “I didn’t either.” I open and close my fingers, my grip strength totally depleted and the skin tight, but I’m able to open it enough to see my palm.
“Brae’s picked up his own personal PT girl.”
I slide my gaze to my brother with his big fucking mouth and scowl, not at all liking what he’s implying.
As always, he ignores my non-verbal threat. “She makes house calls.”
“Is that right?” Rex crosses his colorful arms over his chest and grins like he’s just heard a dirty little secret.
“Is this the chick from the Injured Heroes thing?” Killian snaps his head back at my answering glare. “What? Axelle told me what happened.”
I drop my chin and rub my head with my good arm, sliding my hand back to my neck to rub the muscles as the reminder of that night makes me tense. “Nice to know my life has become hot gossip.”
“Hold up.” Rex moves in as if trying to avoid being overheard. “The girl you were drunk and slurring about when the Kairos’s security dragged you out by your balls?”
Now it’s Blake’s turn to scowl, all the humor in his voice gone as he blurts, “Fuckin’ hell, Brae.”
“Don’t get all worked up.” I decide that giving them the info they’re interested in is my best option next to allowing them to draw their own conclusions and spread gossip like the little bitches they are. “Her name is AJ. She was an acrobat in that show Eros. I hadn’t seen her since before I was deployed, and . . . I don’t know . . . I wanted to see her again; that’s all.”
Those green eyes that match mine spark with irritation. “You could’ve called her, not shown up shitfaced at her work.”
“Blake. Her number was in my phone, and unfortunately the device had a nasty blind date with an RPG.”
He braces his hands on the weight stack and drops his head between his shoulders. “Right. Sorry.”
“Anyway, I guess I could’ve called the phone company and asked for the call records for my old phone, but at the time, dropping in on her seemed
easier. I agree, not my proudest moment, but it didn’t matter because she doesn’t do the shows anymore. Nope. Now she’s shacked up with Andre Mon-fucking-roe in his penthouse and living off all the piles of money he throws at her.”
“That sucks.” Killer frowns.
“I like AJ, but I’m not trying to win her over. I told her when I left for Iraq that I didn’t want her waiting for me. Someone better came along and she did the right thing. I mean”—I hold out my arm, and when the underside of my bicep flashes, the guys collectively cringe— “look at me.”
“That’s bullshit, Brae, and you know it,” Blake grumbles.
“It is what it is.” Feeling a heaviness in my chest and an urge for a drink riding me hard, I grab my towel and water. “I’ll see you at home.”
I push through the doors, shoving them harder than I need to, and speed-walk through the expansive UFL gymnasium. I’m craving a shot of whiskey more than my next breath and can’t get to Layla’s car fast enough when something catches my eye.
It’s a man in a wheelchair, but not the kind you see in a hospital. This thing is a more compact version. He appears to be in his twenties, and he’s fit, his shoulders and arms matching the size of the fighter he’s smiling up at.
“Oh, come on,” the guy says. “Don’t tell me that the UFL heavyweight champion of the world is afraid to race a guy with no legs.”
The couple of men surrounding them laugh and clap Jonah’s back.
I step closer, and fuck me . . . the guy really has no legs. His shorts are empty from mid-thigh down.
“I’m a professional fighter, Zach, which means I’m competitive as fuck. You’re gonna make me look like a dick for racing you and winning.” Jonah’s grinning so hard those pretty-boy dimples drill holes in his cheeks.
“You’re so sure you’ll beat me.” Zach does a quick spin in his chair and faces the long expanse of the room. “Let’s see if you’re right.”
“Fuck, are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. I may make you look bad but only because I’m about to beat you in a foot race without using my feet.”
Jonah chuckles. “You sure you don’t have a motor on that thing?”