by J. Daniels
CJ shakes his head.
“Anywhere else?”
“You’re blaming yourself for this. You need to stop,” he orders, reading my worry and ignoring my question. His face is serious now. “This wasn’t you, babe. You didn’t put me in here.”
“He didn’t want to go. I made him go,” I reply. “I . . . I begged him. I don’t know why it was so important to me. I should’ve just gone by myself. This never would’ve happened.”
“You get him the coke he snorted?” CJ asks, even though I think he knows this answer already.
I bite my lip and shake my head.
“You push me into that window? Was that you?”
“No, but I—”
“Wasn’t you, Riley,” CJ interrupts. “What he did, the drugs he took, those consequences are on him. You’re not taking the blame for this, babe. The only thing you did was ask your man to accompany you to shit he should’ve been going to in the first place. That’s it. Me being here is not on you. That’s on me and that’s on your man.”
“He’s not my man,” I rush out, watching CJ’s eyebrows raise. “I, uh, ended it.” I shrug. “When he got arrested, I ended it. It’s over.”
“You ended it `cause he got arrested?”
“We weren’t doing good,” I confess, and I see understanding flash in CJ’s eyes. “Richard getting arrested and everything else that happened that night, that was just the final push. I think I would’ve broken up with him even if that wouldn’t have happened. We just weren’t working anymore.” I sigh, shaking my head. “I was so stupid to think some concert he didn’t even want to go to would fix that.”
“You weren’t stupid,” CJ corrects me. “Wanting your man with you is not you being stupid, babe. So quit thinking that. Okay?”
I nod, letting CJ know I hear him. Then thinking back to his words from a minute ago, I tilt my head and ask, “What do you mean, this was on you? What did you do? It was all Richard.”
How can CJ think he was responsible for any of this? He was trying to protect me.
CJ stares at me for a breath, then he rubs at his mouth and scratches his jaw. His eyes cast down to a spot on the bed. “I wasn’t watching him like I should’ve been watching him,” he begins to explain. “I’m trained to look out for stuff like that. To be ready for it. I wasn’t. I was watching you.” CJ lets his hand drop to the bed. Our eyes meet. “I couldn’t brace when he hit me. I wasn’t ready for it.”
“He hit you really hard. I saw him.” My stomach drops at the memory. “I don’t think you could’ve braced for it. It was out of nowhere.”
CJ’s mouth twitches. He drops his head back, laughing a little. “Nice, babe. I’m already out for five months with the injuries I got. Are you trying to bruise my ego on top of it?”
I feel my eyes widen. Something sick twists in my gut.
Five months?
“Five months? You’re going to be laid up for five months?” I ask, leaning closer to the bed. “They said that?”
CJ lifts his head again and jerks his shoulder, answering, “Close to it, probably. Depending on how my PT goes. There’s potential nerve damage.”
I inhale sharply through my nose, feeling it tingle.
Nerve damage?
Oh, no. Nononono.
Oh, my God . . .
“Potential,” CJ repeats, watching me. “They’re not saying it’s definite. I’m not worried about it.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, emotion breaking in my voice.
CJ’s mouth goes tight. “Babe,” he starts, head tilting as he looks at me, wanting to shut me down again, I just know it, but I ignore him. I keep going.
“I hate that this happened. I know you were just trying to protect me. That’s why you got me away from him before we were separated, right? You knew Richard was on something.”
CJ nods.
“I should’ve stayed with you,” I continue. “I never should’ve let him take me outside. This is my fault. I’m so sorry, CJ.”
He pulls in a deep breath through his nose and exhales it noisily. His jaw is set. He looks ready to argue with me again, but a knock on the door turns his head and then mine.
I watch a nurse walk into the room. She’s holding a folder in her hand and smiling at CJ. She doesn’t even take notice of me.
“Hello. I just wanted to bring in the home nurse information I was telling you about. I went ahead and got it from your insurance company for you,” she informs him, sounding proud of herself. She sets the folder on his food tray that’s pulled up next to the bed.
“Thanks. Appreciate it,” CJ replies.
The nurse smiles bigger. I think I see her batting her lashes, but maybe it’s just the dry hospital air causing her to blink rapidly.
Or maybe she has a twitch she’s not aware of . . .
“Shall I change your linens while I’m in here?” she asks, looking eager for that possibility. “It’ll only take me a minute.”
I look at the linens on the bed. They appear freshly changed to me. The top sheet still has creases in it.
My gaze returns to the nurse and narrows.
What’s her deal?
Laughter rumbles in CJ’s chest. “I’m good,” he tells her, sounding polite. “Thanks. I’ll let you know if I need that.”
The nurse keeps her smile and fiddles with his IV, checking the line. Then after pressing a button on the monitor and messing with the leads on his chest, something I’m not sure needs to be done since his vitals seem to be registering just fine, she announces she’ll be back in to check on him later and leaves the room.
I watch this happen, feeling CJ’s eyes on my profile. And when I turn to look at him, at the bed he’s in and the hospital gown his chest seems too big for, that same guilt hits me. But before I can open my mouth to apologize again, CJ grabs the folder off the tray and drops it in his lap.
“Do you live with him?” he asks, meeting my eyes again.
My brows pull tight. “Richard?”
CJ jerks his chin.
“Yeah. I mean, I did,” I answer. “I need to move out. Even though he’ll probably be in jail for a while, I don’t want to live there.”
“Are you getting an apartment?”
“I can’t really afford one,” I reply. “I don’t work right now. I can’t with my school schedule. I have savings that pay for gas and groceries and stuff like that but I can’t really afford rent. I’ll probably just go live with my parents in Thomasville. It'll be a drive to school, but I don't have a lot of options.”
“You could move in with me,” CJ suggests.
My brows raise. “What?” I ask, voice quiet.
CJ taps the folder in his lap. “My insurance’ll cover a nurse to stop by once a week. You’re a nurse. Aside from making sure I’m healing properly, you could help me out around the house since I’m not going to be able to do much. They said I’ll be on crutches for a while. I can’t imagine keeping up with shit while I’m getting around on those. It’s probably going to be a pain in the ass.”
“But, I’m not a nurse,” I tell him. “Not yet anyway. I’m not qualified for that.”
“You’re training to be one, aren’t you?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting when I nod my head. His shoulder jerks. “Consider me practice. Hands on is the best way to learn, babe. And besides, Thomasville is over an hour away. That's really fucking far to be driving all the time.”
“I can’t afford rent though. I told you.”
“Did I say anything about charging you rent?”
I think for a beat—no, he didn’t—then I shake my head.
“You helping me out is your rent. You’re doing me a solid,” he explains.
I chew on my bottom lip, thinking on this.
Hmm. I’d be doing him a solid. He needs someone to help him. I can be that person. I should be that person. CJ wouldn’t need anyone if it wasn’t for me.
We can be roommates. We’re friends so, why not? Yeah. Totally. This will work
.
“Okay,” I decide. “But what about sleeping arrangements? We should probably work that out ahead of time.”
A slow, satisfied smile twists from one corner of CJ’s mouth to the other.
I sit up taller, blinking at him.
“I got two bedrooms. Relax,” he says, voice wrapped around a chuckle. He lets his smile settle into a smirk. “Though, I’m all for sharing and will absolutely not fight you on it if that’s something you’re feeling strongly about.”
“I think separate bedrooms is a good idea,” I share, ignoring his charm. Or, at least, trying to ignore it. “I want to do this right. This is a job. I want to look at it as a job. If I’m going to be helping you get better, I don’t want to be distracted.”
CJ grins.
Oh, boy.
“I’m not saying you’re distracting,” I tell him, smiling a little because I can’t help it.
And because he is a little distracting.
“That’s exactly what you’re saying,” he counters, keeping the grin. “So, it’s settled. You’re shackin’ up with me.” He grabs the folder off his lap and chucks it back onto the tray.
“I’m moving in to help you heal,” I correct him.
“Shackin’ up,” he reaffirms, giving me that grin again.
I shake my head, but let this argument go, mainly because I have something more important to discuss with CJ.
“I don’t think we should tell Reed,” I say, watching his grin slowly fade. “Not right away, anyway. He won’t understand why I’m doing it. It’ll just raise questions.”
Questions that could lead to my brother hating CJ. They’re friends. I would never want that.
“I’m not going to lie to him,” CJ informs me, pulling his arms across his chest and leaning back. “If he asks if you’re living with me, I’m giving him the truth.”
I nod, telling him, “I get that. I’m not asking you to lie, I just don’t think we should advertise it.”
“You don’t think he’s going to ask where you’re living now?”
“I’ll just tell him I’m living with one of my friends from class. He won’t question it.”
CJ shakes his head, face still tense. “He finds out the truth, either from asking me or on his own, how he reacts is on you,” he shares.
“I know,” I say, thinking about how angry Reed could possibly get after catching me in my lie. But as long as he’s angry at me and not CJ, I’m fine with that.
I push to my feet after checking the time on my FitBit.
“I should go. I need to check in with my supervisor before I’m marked as late,” I say, pulling the bottom of my scrub top down and smoothing it out. “Do you know when you’re getting released?”
“They’re saying tomorrow. Wednesday at the latest,” CJ says, looking at my scrubs and smiling. His eyes sparkle with mischief.
“What?” I ask slowly. Reluctantly. I’m not sure I want to know what CJ Tully has on his mind right now.
He lifts his gaze to my face. “Just thinking about how many times I would’ve had my linens changed if you were the one asking me,” he shares, smile growing into a grin.
My eyes widen. I immediately turn and start moving around the bed, heading for the door. And because I’m moving in that direction, CJ has no idea how big I’m smiling right now.
He’ll never know.
Two days later, I’m carrying two suitcases and straining under the weight of the duffle bag slung around my neck as I step up onto CJ’s porch.
His rancher style home is in the middle of nowhere, down a winding dirt road and set on a good amount of acreage, which I wasn’t expecting. For some reason, I figured CJ lived in a neighborhood like Reed and Beth, or like my parents. But this seems to fit him more. Surrounded by woods and set back far from the road, CJ Tully can totally pull off the lumberjack look living here.
He can totally pull off the lumberjack look living in New York City too. He’s got the build for it.
And the hands. I’m sure lumberjacks have big, rough hands.
I set one suitcase down in front of the door and knock, but only out of courtesy. I know CJ answering would require getting to his feet and using his crutches and I don’t want that. I just want him knowing that I’m here. Even though I am moving in, I’m still a guest in his house. After making my arrival known, I twist the doorknob, push the door open, pick up my other suitcase, and step inside the house.
I look around the space and am instantly reminded of a log cabin.
Dark atmosphere. Natural wood floors. A big stone fireplace and animal heads on the wall; two deer with large antlers and what looks like a boar, I think. I’ve never actually seen one. There’s also a gun rack and a crossbow mounted with arrows.
Sheesh. He really does eat what he kills.
Total lumberjack.
The foyer opens up to a large living room, decorated in oak and black furnishings, and this is where I find CJ.
Stretched out on the couch in a t-shirt and running shorts with a remote in his hand, his bandaged ankle is propped up on the arm rest.
“Hey,” he greets me, muting the TV he’s watching. He sets the remote down on the large trunk in front of the couch, which he uses as a coffee table, I’m assuming, then lifts his head from the cushion and begins to sit up.
“No, don’t. I got it,” I tell him, nudging the door shut with my hip. I step into the living room with my suitcases. “Just direct me where to go. I don’t have that much to bring in.”
CJ looks like he wants to argue with me after glancing at my suitcases, but drops his head back down instead and stays where he is. “Down the hallway, last bedroom on the right is yours,” he says.
“Cool.” I give him a smile. “Nice place. Very Daryl Dixon,” I tell him as I pad around the couch and head down the hallway.
“Who?” he calls out.
My brow furrows.
Who?
“Walking Dead. The show. You don’t watch it?” I yell, stepping inside the bedroom at the end of the hallway and setting my suitcases beside the bed. I lift my duffle bag off from around my neck and set that down as well, then I drop my head from side to side, stretching with my hands on my hips. I take a look around the room.
The bed is big, king-sized by the looks of it. And the room is fully furnished with a large dresser and two nightstands, both of which have framed pictures on them and a few books, along with some spare change, crumbled up dollar bills, and a pocket knife. As if someone emptied their pockets and placed the contents in this room, which would be strange . . .
Isn’t this the spare bedroom? Why wouldn’t CJ empty his pockets where he sleeps?
I exit the room and start to make my way back toward the living area, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I stop at the next bedroom door halfway down the hallway and push it open. I peer inside.
This bedroom is smaller, not just the room size but also the bed. It can’t be bigger than a full. The paint job is unfinished—one and a half walls a grey-blue color, and the rest is still that builder’s grade off-white. The only other furnishings in the room are a weight bench and a rack of dumbbells. That’s it.
No nightstand. No dresser. The bed doesn’t even have a comforter on it. There’s just a sheet and one pillow.
What the hell?
“You said last bedroom on the right, right?” I ask CJ, coming to a stop behind the couch and looking down at him.
He turns his head, dragging his eyes off the TV, and peers up at me. “That’s what I said.”
“You sleep in the bedroom with the weights?”
“Yeah.”
“That tiny bed. You sleep in that?”
“Wouldn’t say it’s tiny, but yeah,” he says, bending his arm and propping his head on his hand.
I bring my hands to my hips. “CJ.”
He smiles behind the scruff I’m used to seeing on him. He’s shaved since he left the hospital. He looks good.
CJ scruff is really good scruff.
“Yeah, darlin’?”
His voice draws my eyes up. I connect with his.
Darlin’.
There he goes again.
My gaze narrows. “Am I sleeping in your bed? Did you give me the master bedroom?”
He stares up at me, doing nothing but smiling.
Oh, my God . . .
“You did, didn’t you?”
Still, he doesn’t answer. Holding that smile for another breath, CJ finally turns his head and resumes watching the TV, informing me, “Technically both beds are mine. The room I got you in is bigger, yeah, but it’s not the master bedroom. I sleep in that.”
“The master bedroom is the smaller one that looks more like a workout room than a bedroom?” I ask, doing this while leaning over the couch. I watch the corner of his mouth twitch.
I knew it. He’s got me set up in the master.
That thoughtful jerk.
“Yep,” he answers, lies hiding behind that charm.
Exhaling heavily, I rock back onto my heels and shake my head. “Just so you know, I don’t believe you. But I don’t have time to keep arguing. I have other stuff to bring inside.”
“Anything heavy?” he asks.
“Not really,” I answer before moving with purpose toward the door.
“Oh, shit!” I cry out, slamming the box I’m carrying against the wall after barely making it inside. I ease it slowly to the floor, heart racing and breathing erratic. “Oh, my God,” I pant. “That was so close. My laptop is in there.”
I think I would’ve cried if I would’ve broken that.
“The fuck?”
“It’s fine. I got it,” I tell CJ, turning my head and watching over my shoulder as he gets up from the couch. “Don’t! You shouldn’t be on your feet.”
He grabs his crutch and starts hobbling toward me. “Babe, hate to tell you, but I’m not about to sit on my ass and watch you struggle bringing stuff in,” he says. “I wasn’t raised like that.”
God. He really is a . . .
My thoughts cut out as I watch CJ stumble after the foot of his crutch gets stuck on the throw rug. He puts weight on his injured leg.
I gasp.
“Fuck!” CJ roars, tossing the crutch, sending it sailing across the room toward the kitchen and then bending over to hold onto the armrest. He grits his teeth and hisses through them, dropping his blood-red face.