by L. A. Witt
God. I couldn’t believe I’d done this. I didn’t even know how to explain it to him without sounding like the inconsiderate jackass I was. I’d seen an opportunity to talk to someone who might understand, to maybe straighten out all this shit in my head, and completely blew Michael’s trust in the process. Fuck my life.
How I was going to atone for this, I didn’t know, but for the sake of both his sanity and mine, it was a good thing he was leaving. Hopefully sooner than later.
All I knew was, I couldn’t keep living with him now that we’d been there, stopped that.
Chapter 18
FUCK. NOT tonight. Please, please, not tonight.
I stared at the ceiling in the darkness as I reached up to rub my shoulder. I had no idea what time it was, and the tightness in my neck dared me to turn my head to look at the clock. Probably one or two in the morning, since I doubted I’d been asleep long.
I should’ve known this would happen. I’d been restless last night, desperate for something to occupy my hands and mind at work, and I’d unloaded a shipment of booze with the other guys. And rearranged the back room. And generally done way more than I had any business doing.
I closed my eyes and took slow, deep breaths as I rubbed my shoulder gingerly. The pain was deep, as if someone had shoved a knife behind my collarbone and down into my rib cage. Even breathing hurt.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The empty shower called to me from the master bathroom. So did the pain pills downstairs in the drawer beside the refrigerator. Every corner in the house beckoned, promising that euphoric relief that only sufferers of chronic pain could understand.
But if I moved, if I made a sound, I risked waking Michael up. And he’d find me, and he’d insist on treating me, and I wouldn’t be able to turn him down because anything would be better than nothing, even if Michael’s very presence would make me tense up all over again.
I kneaded my neck and shoulder until my hand ached, but it didn’t do a damned bit of good. Branches of bright, sharp-edged red fanned out from the first spasm, coiling around my spine, crawling up my neck, creeping toward my other shoulder. Nausea made my mouth water, and I clenched my jaw.
I didn’t move. I didn’t go get a shower. No pills, no seeking that irrational momentary release from digging my shoulder into a sharp corner.
I’d regret it in a few hours, but I couldn’t face Michael.
Not tonight.
All I could do was beg the fucking pain to stop, because God knew that had been effective in the past.
It occurred to me that if willing away the pain had ever worked, I never would have met Michael in the first place. Would that have been a good thing? These days, I didn’t know. He’d alleviated both my physical and financial pain, but had me lying awake at night for very different reasons, and those reasons were out of his hands and mine. I wanted this. He wanted this. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be so goddamned hard for us to stay away from each other.
And now here I was. There he was, at the other end of the house, probably sound asleep behind his closed door across the hall from his son.
“If it’s that bad again,” he’d said, “don’t hesitate to wake me up.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I doubt I’d ever actually pester you in the middle of the night unless the house was on fire.”
“Well, the offer’s open. Better that than spending the night bruising the hell out of yourself with a sharp corner.”
The offer was there.
And I was in pain.
But I didn’t disturb him.
I was still awake when Michael left for work around seven thirty. Now that he was gone, it was safe to put a little more effort into getting rid of this pain than simply wishing it would vacate my muscles.
Drugs. Hot shower. Hot pack. Sitting up. Lying down. More drugs. Another shower. Reheated hot pack. Even the corner didn’t help this time; it only made the pain worse without that blissful moment of short-lived relief. Nothing helped.
How the fuck was I going to go to work tonight? Shit. I couldn’t do my job. I couldn’t live with my roommate. I couldn’t fucking breathe because of the pain, and the stress, and the… Jesus, every goddamned thing in my life.
“Fuck,” I muttered, pressing the lukewarm hot pack against my shoulder. This wasn’t good, and if Michael came home, there was no hiding any of it. If he caught on, he’d ask why I was tense, and I’d either have to slip a bullshit excuse by him or fess up, and that wasn’t happening. I just needed to lay low between the time he came home and the time I had to leave for the club. Totally doable. I hoped.
I had just finished with my hundredth hot pack since this morning and was nearing the end of the effective zone for my third painkiller when he arrived. I made a quick escape to my bedroom before he and Dylan came inside.
By nine thirty, I was getting stir-crazy. I needed to get to the club before my employees destroyed the place.
The house had been dead silent for a good hour now. Dylan had gone to bed a little while ago, and Michael hadn’t made a sound. I waited as long as I could, making sure they were both settled in for the evening or at least out of sight long enough for me to make a quick escape, and then I left my bedroom.
Stepping carefully and quietly, I went downstairs. A lamp still glowed in the living room, but otherwise this part of the house was dark. I flicked on the kitchen light, grabbed my keys, and—
“Jason.”
I damn near jumped out of my skin, which sent pain shooting up my neck and down my arm. Wincing, I turned around to face him as he followed me into the kitchen.
“Michael.” I exhaled. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
Arms folded across his chest, he eyed me. “You’re in pain, aren’t you?”
I gritted my teeth. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
I should have known I couldn’t hide anything from him.
Avoiding his eyes, I said, “My shoulder’s sore. It happens. Don’t worry about it.”
“Is that—” He paused. “Holy fuck, Jason. You’re a wreck, aren’t you?”
I resisted the urge to rub my neck. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are. I can see it from here.” He lowered his chin, eyeing me in that way that told me I wasn’t getting away with it. “The only time you keep your arm that protectively against your side is when you’re really hurting.” He furrowed his brow, shifting his gaze toward my shoulder. “Did you aggravate it somehow?”
Besides stressing myself out? Over physical activity I wish I could be doing but can’t?
I cleared my throat. “Define aggravating it.”
I thought he might read me the riot act for doing something I shouldn’t have when I damn well knew better, but he just chuckled and shook his head.
“And I thought I was stubborn,” he said. “All right, what did you do?”
Grinning sheepishly, I said, “Helped unload a shipment of booze at the club.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Really?”
I nodded.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
I swallowed. “It’s… pretty bad.”
He pointed sharply at the living room. “You know the drill. I’ll go get my stuff.”
I planted my feet. “I appreciate it, Michael, I really do, but I have to get to work.” And I can’t do this. Not now.
“You have a shift manager?”
“Well, sort of. The bartenders who’ve been there awhile are unofficial supervisors.”
“Call in sick.” His expression hardened. “Doctor’s orders.”
“I seem to recall I canceled my appointments, so that’s—”
“You want to be in pain all night again?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Again?”
“You don’t think I know you didn’t sleep last night?” He inclined his head, staring me down.
Swallowing hard, I looked away and shifted my weight. “Sorry if I kept you awake.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his tone gentle. “But don’t be a martyr when we both know I can help you.” He paused. “Maybe having me as your acupuncturist isn’t good for the long term, but tonight….”
Closing my eyes, I released a long breath through my nose. Damn my shoulder. At this point, the pain was worse than the tension between us, and even letting him touch me wouldn’t wind me up enough to counter the relief the acupuncture would give me.
Desperate times, desperate measures.
I took out my phone and speed-dialed the club.
“Lights Out, Brenda speaking.”
“Brenda, it’s Jason.”
“Oh, hey, boss. What’s up?”
I glanced at Michael and cleared my throat. “Listen, would you mind locking up for me tonight and keeping everyone in line? I need to—”
“Need a night off?”
“I… well, I’m—”
“I’ve got it,” she said. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
I exhaled. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”
“G’night, boss. Hope you feel better.”
“Thanks.” It wasn’t until after I’d hung up that I realized I hadn’t told her why I wasn’t coming in. Even my damn employees knew when I was in too much pain to function. Probably because that was the only reason I ever called out.
No, my shoulder wasn’t running my life. Not at all.
To Michael, I said, “All right. I’m off the hook for the night.”
“Good. Shirt off, shoes off, on the couch. I’ll go get my stuff.”
I removed my shoes and, with some effort, my shirt. Like the first time he’d treated me at home, I lay on the couch on my stomach, resting my head on my good arm and keeping the other at my side.
Michael came back with his stuff and sat beside me.
I shivered when his hand made contact with my skin, but he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t react, anyway. No, he was 100 percent professional tonight. Dr. Whitman, not Michael. How he could switch back and forth, acting as if we had never been anything except doctor and patient, I’d never understand. We lived together (for now), we were friends (hopefully), and we’d fucked (unfortunately).
But apparently Dr. Whitman had never slept with me.
He tapped a needle into my skin.
I jumped, sucking in a breath. They usually didn’t hurt much, but this one stung. “Fuck….”
“Sorry. Is it getting better?”
The initial sting was intense, as was the ache that followed, but after a moment, it eased. “Yeah, it’s getting better.” I released a long breath.
“Good.” He lined up another needle near my neck. “Why didn’t you wake me up last night?” He tapped it into place. “No sense being miserable the entire day if you don’t have to be.”
“You had to work today. I couldn’t do that to you.”
“But if you’re in this much pain….” Michael clicked his tongue. “My God, Jason, I can’t let you suffer this way if there’s something I can do about it.”
I said nothing and let him put the needles in. Some of them hurt, some didn’t. Crazy as it was, I didn’t mind the sting; it gave me something to think about besides his fingers on my skin. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Once the needles were in place, Michael left me to relax for a while. In a masochistic, pride-driven kind of way, I almost hoped the pain wouldn’t decrease. I didn’t want him to be right and for this to be the solution since it was also, indirectly, the cause.
But in spite of my stubborn thoughts, the muscles gradually relaxed. They ached, almost burning in some places, but the bright red claws slowly loosened their grip. By the time he came back, my shoulder was bearably uncomfortable and my neck wasn’t full of steel cables anymore. Only the fiercest knots remained, like tiny bullet holes in the center of the muscles.
“The needles will stay in for a few more minutes, but I’m going to try a different technique this time.”
“Waterboarding to go with the car battery?”
“Only if this doesn’t work.” He reached for something on the coffee table. “Besides, I don’t have the car battery here, so you’re stuck with this.”
I glanced back, turning my head as much as my position and the stiffness would allow. In one hand, he had a lighter. In the other, what suspiciously resembled a very large blunt: thin white paper wrapped around some herbs, twisted on one end, but about seven or eight inches long. Had it actually been a blunt—I assumed it wasn’t, but what did I know?—it would have made every college kid in town weep with envy.
“I’m not going to touch your skin with it.” He flicked the lighter and held it to the open end. “You’ll feel some heat, but I won’t burn you.”
“That’s good to—” I sniffed the air and then rested my head on my arm again. “Is that what I think it is?”
Michael laughed as he set the lighter on the coffee table with a quiet click. “No, it’s not marijuana.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. And you’re not the first to think it, I assure you.”
“Does it have any of the same effects?”
“I wish.”
You and me both.
“As I said, I’m only going to hold it close to your skin. It won’t touch you, so it won’t burn.” He rested one hand on my other shoulder, and a second later, intense heat warmed the center of the worst muscle spasm.
Instinctively, I tried to draw away from the heat, but Michael’s hand kept me still.
“I won’t burn you, I promise. Relax.”
Closing my eyes, I exhaled and resisted the urge to draw away again as the warmth moved closer to my skin. The heat wasn’t unpleasant, but it was close. Similar to the hot showers I took to alleviate the pain—right on the edge of too hot.
But relax? Not happening. And it had nothing to do with the smoldering quasi blunt being held dangerously close to my skin. I couldn’t draw a comfortable breath with Michael in the room.
The tension in my shoulder started to build again, so I forced myself not to think about the man sitting next to me. I cleared my throat. “So what exactly does this do?”
“It’s called moxibustion.” His hand moved from my injured shoulder to the side of my neck, and although he continued speaking, the only part of his explanation I caught was something about the heat drawing out toxins. The rest faded into the background, stopping short of my synapses as I focused on the moving, not-quite-burning heat and the comparatively cool presence of his hand on my skin. His voice added to the soothing, almost mesmerizing effect. I might not have understood what he was saying, but Michael’s tone kneaded away the tension in my neck and shoulder just like the heat, the needles, and his hand.
Then the heat stopped. Michael’s hand left my skin. I blinked a few times, slowly returning to earth.
He took out the needles, dabbing one or two that must have been bleeding a little. When he was finished, he said, “How do you feel?”
“A lot better.” I sat up slowly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Any time you need it, all you have to do is ask.”
“Thanks.” I lowered my gaze and reached for my shirt.
“You all right?” he asked. “Besides your shoulder, I mean?”
I closed my eyes. Even thinking about answering sent renewed tension creeping into my muscles. I tilted my head to stretch my neck and shrugged a few times to loosen my shoulders.
“Jason?”
Sighing, I reached up and rubbed my temples. “I’m frustrated.” I laughed humorlessly. “Kind of my natural state the last year or two, I guess.”
“Anything in particular?” His tone was guarded.
“Just the usual shit. Nothing out of the ordinary.” I sighed and pulled on my shirt. “Anyway, thanks again.” I started to get up.
“Jason, wait.”
His soft voice stopped me in my tracks, and I sank back to the couch.
“Hmm?”
“Is there… anything I can do?”
I chewed my lip. Was this his way of kick-starting the conversation I hadn’t had the balls to initiate? The “we’re both going to go insane, so to hell with giving me notice—just get the fuck out now so we can move on with our lives” discussion?
“Any ideas?” I asked. Ball’s in your court.
“I can think of a few.” Back in yours.
“Such as?” Nope, your turn.
“You tell me.” Yours.
I scowled. So he’d kicked off the conversation, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for me. Big surprise.
“I don’t know if there’s anything anyone can do as long as we’re both still living here. Myself included.” I exhaled hard, and the words started coming, fast and furious, on their own. “This is where I get frustrated as fuck. I mean, it’s not like I want the whole world, you know? I only want a few simple things that really shouldn’t be too much to ask for, and….” I rubbed my hands over my face. “God, I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated. I want….”
Denim whispered across upholstery as Michael shifted on the couch beside me. “What do you want?”
Closing my eyes, I rubbed my temples. “Just, you know, a little bit of stability. A little bit of peace. I want my shoulder to stop making my life hell, and I want—” I cut myself off, literally biting my tongue to keep the thought to myself.
His voice was soft as he said, “And what, Jason?”
“Nothing.” I lowered my hands and shook my head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Jason. Tell me the rest. What was it? What else do you want?”
God damn it, Michael, you know exactly what I want.
I didn’t look at him. “You.”
He sat up straighter, and though I couldn’t face him, I swore I could feel his eyes widening. “What?”
“Are you really surprised?”
He exhaled.
“Not that it matters. Now it’s out there.” Swallowing hard, I made myself turn to him. “I want you. And I can’t bring myself to give a fuck about why I shouldn’t. This, what we’re doing or not doing or what the fuck ever we’re doing, it’s driving me insane.”