by Jean Stokes
I don't need to be inebriated around Dwane, though. I don't need my inhibitions lowered.
I can't deny it, though. Part of me is excited at the idea of seeing more of Dwane—of him sticking around for a while.
Chapter 8 - SADIE
I drive Dwane and Aaron home at the end of the night, and then return to my house. I check my alarm and pull my clothes off, sighing and looking down at my fingers, grinning loopy at the little tingles I feel.
I fall into bed with a huff, not even bothering to take off my makeup or undo my hair—both of which I will regret in the morning, but again, that's a problem for future Sadie.
Current Sadie wants to think about Dwane. His big smile, his bellowing laughter. His sarcastic quips and the way his voice had morphed a little into a Louisianan accent when he'd gone from tipsy to drunk.
The way he'd put a hand on my back, guiding me out of the bar at the end of the night. A purely gentlemanly act, and a little ridiculous considering his limp, but wow, I can still feel the heat of his hand on my lower back.
I roll over and bite my lower lip, staring at the ceiling and keep my hands exactly where they are. I need to ignore the frantic fluttering in my stomach and the tempting heat between my legs. I am absolutely not going to do anything about my desires when Dwane is potentially going to be my coworker for the foreseeable future.
I sigh, and close my eyes, willing myself to go to sleep.
*
Thunderstruck rouses me from sleep, and I sit up with a groan, feeling like I'd been hit with a truck. I hadn't even had that much to drink, but my head hurts from sleeping with my hair up, and a wipe across my eyes tells me I've smeared my mascara during sleep.
"Great," I mutter, and haul myself out of bed, plodding along to the shower. I let down my hair and step under the hot spray with a sigh of relief, scrubbing my face and body clean.
I braid my hair in an effort to save my head from any further abuse and dress back in my uniform. I stuff a granola bar in my mouth as I locate Dwane's file and flip through it to refresh myself.
He's going to need some help getting his thigh muscles back into shape, and I noticed stiffness in his hip when he sat. He seems more comfortable standing, which points to some strain on his hip that's exacerbated by pressure. The notes don't say his knee took any damage, but if he's overcompensating then it's likely that the tendons are strained. A quick examination will tell me what I need to know.
I flush, thinking of actually touching Dwane, of massaging his leg and finding out where the knots and strains are. I forcibly put the thought out of my mind.
I'm a professional and I'm going to act like it, damn it.
I'm running late, so I jump in my car and speed over to Fort Bliss, driving through the gate and parking in my usual spot. I frown as I spot Dwane speaking with the General next to the training field. They're shaking hands, and Dwane is smiling.
Looks like his request to transfer was granted.
Great.
I approach, trying to think of a way of getting out of working with him, or at least arrange our positions so that we're not in close proximity all the time. I can handle the occasional night out with the guys, but working together day in and day out is going to really test my self-control.
"Holloway," the General greets when I approach.
"Sir," I say, standing at attention.
"Private Foster here has just transferred permanently to Fort Bliss," he tells me. I nod, and force myself not to look at Dwane. "I am putting you personally in charge of his recovery. He's a good soldier and I want him in top shape as soon as possible."
I frown. "Sir?"
"You'll be giving him private strength training, assessments, whatever he needs. I trust Sergeant Monroe gave you his medical file?"
I cringe when Dwane looks at me curiously. "Yes, sir."
"You have special training with wounded soldiers. I'm putting you in charge of his training. The rest of your team will be given to another trainer in the meantime. He's your top and only priority."
I swallow, and nod. "Understood."
"Excellent." The general grins. "Good luck, Private. You'll be outrunning the rest of 'em in no time. Holloway's our best."
"I have no doubt, sir,." Dwane replies with one of his big smiles. I notice his attention stance is a little lopsided, confirming my theory about his knee.
"I'll leave you to it," General says. I salute, and Dwane does as well. He nods to us, returning the salute, and walks away.
I exhale slowly. How the Hell am I supposed to avoid Dwane now? He's literally going to be my only job for the foreseeable future. Suddenly, I regret not taking matters into my own hands last night. I wouldn't be so on edge.
"So," Dwane says, and when I look at him, he's grinning. He's wearing his uniform today, and just as I suspected, he fills it out wonderfully. It makes his shoulders look even broader and the bagginess of the trousers does nothing to hide how thick and strong his thighs are.
I clear my throat, and nod. "We'd best get started," I say, and start walking towards the training field. I walk slowly so he can keep up with his limp.
"So, you have my medical records, huh?"
"It's part of my job," I say defensively. "I need to know what happened to you so I don't mess you up more."
"Hey, I'm not mad about it," he says, lifting his hands. "But it doesn't exactly say what happened to me. Just the effects of it."
I consider that. "What did happen?" I ask. I can't help myself.
He sighs. "I was stupid, got myself clipped by some shrapnel," he replies with a wave of his hand. I arch a brow.
"From what I read, that's not all that happened," I say.
"It's the long and short of it," he replies gruffly. It's clear he doesn't want to go into detail, which is strange, considering he's the one who brought it up first. I shrug—soldiers get injured all the time and not all of them want to talk about it. Doesn't matter to me, it's not my business.
I lead him over to a bench on the side of the training field, watching my usual team march out under the command of another drill sergeant. I sigh to myself, wishing I'd been given more warning than just having this man I'm insanely attracted to dumped in my lap.
"Alright," I murmur, when he sits next to me. "So first of all, I want to see how you move around. Can you jog or run at all?"
"Not without falling flat on my face," Dwane mutters.
I expected as much.
"Get up and walk around for me," I say, gesturing to a small spot of pavement in front. He nods, and stands, grimacing as he limps over to the spot. He turns and walks, keeping his back as straight as he can. He kicks his foot out to the side to compensate for his limp and his knee keeps looking like it tries to buckle whenever he puts his weight on it.
I purse my lips, watching him. "Turn around and walk back," I say, and he obeys. I can see a tightness around his eyes that tells me he's in more pain than he wants to show. "Stop." He stops. "How long can you usually go for without pain?"
He tilts his head. "Honestly, I'm kind of in pain all the time," he replies, shrugging. "Sitting makes it worse. I need to stretch my leg out otherwise I get shooting pains up and down my leg."
I nod. "And when you're sitting, does your knee or hip hurt worse?"
He considers it. "Hip," he finally says.
"Okay, that's enough for me to go on," I reply, and offer him an encouraging smile. "It's going to be a huge pain and you're probably going to hate me, but I can help you out if you promise not to be whiny about it. Deal?"
He laughs, and shakes my offered hand. "Deal. I throw myself at your mercy."
"Careful," I warn playfully. "You'll eat your words. Or asphalt."
*
It's really difficult not to be around Dwane and keep my thoughts from wandering. Not only is he gorgeous, but he's charming and funny too. He makes a lot of jokes and seems not to mind when they get a little past the line of professional.
I can tell he's trying, b
ut it's frustrating when even after some stretching exercises, I can't get him to loosen up his hip any. I sigh to myself and stand, dusting my hands.
"We'll call it a day," I tell him. He's sweating from exertion, and frowns at me. "You need to rest. That night at the bar won't have done you any favors and you're not giving me what I'm asking for."
"I'm trying," he grits out, breathing hard.
"I believe you think you are, but the fact of the matter is that you're not actually doing it. So, we'll call it a day. Go home and do those stretches and we'll start fresh tomorrow."
He glares down at his feet, and then sighs. "Yes, ma'am," he mutters.
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow, Dwane. We'll get you there. I never give up on a project."
Chapter 9 - DWANE
Damn, Sadie Holloway certainly doesn't pull any punches.
I go home feeling aggravated and like a failure. It's not her fault—her job is to make sure I get better, and my half-hearted attempts at physical therapy thus far have certainly left a lot to be desired. But I'm trying!
I don't appreciate her insisting that I'm not.
I have to admit myself, after shedding my uniform, changing into a fresh t-shirt and underwear so that I can ice my leg, that maybe part of the reason I'm so annoyed is that I . . . like her.
She's a ball buster for sure, and she takes no crap from me—or, I sense, anyone. She gives off this energy that reminds me of a drill sergeant for certain. But she's also drop-dead gorgeous, and I want to do well. I want to make her proud, and earn her smile and laughter.
She's also funny and sarcastic. She can keep up with me, which isn't something I've come across all that often. Not since . . .
Well, not for a long time.
I want to get better. I want to be able to jog again. I want to be strong enough to show her that I'm strong, and maybe how strong I can be. Strong enough to kiss her and steal her breath away. Strong enough to lift her up and have those long legs wrapped around my waist. To hold her completely off the ground and see if I can make her eyes roll back in her head for an entirely different reason.
I shift my weight, wincing as the ice burns my injured skin. I look down and grimace at the sight. The doctors that had patched me up would be better as a makeup artist on Frankenstein or something. There's a deep scar on the outside of my thigh that curls above my knee like someone tried to slice it off. It's knotted and raised and a more purple shade than the rest of my skin.
Chicks dig scars, that's what my dad always said, but there are limits. Would she even be attracted to me once she saw it? Would she look at it with disgust—or worse, pity?
I don't want her pity. I want her hands on my shoulders and her body hot and wet around me.
I grunt, and shift my weight again. I'm not going to start touching myself to the thought of my personal trainer and physical therapist, no matter what the ache in my groin demands.
Still, thoughts are just thoughts, right? I'm certainly not going to act on them. I can't, at this rate, if I get a stabbing pain in my hip, if I twist it the wrong way. That is not a good quality in a lover. A woman like that deserves to be made love to all night long.
I shift the ice pack to another sore spot, gritting my teeth at the sensation. My phone goes off, and I frown at it on the coffee table. I bend forward, huffing, and grab my phone.
I don't recognize the number. It's a text message, and I open it.
"Hey Dwane, it's Sadie. Got your number from your personnel file. I want you to ice down your leg tonight and then put a warm pack on. If you don't have one, some oats in a sock microwaved will do the trick. Sleep with it elevated. I'm coming over tomorrow morning and we'll begin round two. Be ready at 0600."
My eyebrows lift at the last part. She's going to come here? Why would she do that?
I don't ask in my reply. I simply text her "Yes, ma'am", and set an alarm for five so that I have enough time to shower, eat, and get ready. I don't have anything for heat, not even oats to stuff in a sock like she said, and I'm in no mood to go to the store this late and get some.
I shrug it off. What could it hurt to miss some warming? I'll make sure to take an extra-long and hot shower tomorrow morning. It'll do the same thing.
*
She pulls up at exactly 0600, and I smile to myself at her punctuality. She gets out of the car, and my eyes widen.
She's not wearing her uniform, and she hasn't tied her hair up in a severe look like protocol demands. Instead, her hair is in a ponytail, hanging thick and long down her back, and she's wearing a tank top and leggings that hug her figure so tight it immediately throws all those inappropriate thoughts right to the front of my head.
I suddenly regret wearing sweatpants.
I clench my fists and force myself not to react, and open the door and step outside.
She takes one look at me and arches a brow, hands on her hips. "You didn't warm up last night, did you?" When I can only blink at her in surprise, she gestures to me. "You're locked up tighter than the Pentagon." She sighs, shakes her head, and folds her arms across her chest. "This isn't going to work if you don't do what I tell you, Dwane."
I smile sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck as she walks up the driveway. "I didn't have anything to use," I tell her. "And no oats, or whatever."
She hums. "Well then, I suggest you get some tonight. For now, you're just going to have to bite the bullet and deal with being extra stiff this morning. Come on." She pushes past me and right into my house like she owns the place. I can only stare after her and follow.
"Mind telling me why we're doing this here and not on the base?" I ask.
She is standing in the living room, eyeing the space. A moment later, she bends down—Christ Almighty, she looks good in those leggings—and puts her shoulder against the couch, shoving it towards the television stand and clearing a spot on the floor.
"I have a theory that you're not going to make good progress in a public space," she says, flipping her hair back. Didn't even break a sweat moving the couch. My fingers clench and I try not to stare at her cleavage in her tank top or the curves on the rest of her body. "Too many eyes, and honestly there's no point continuing to try if you're going to be affected by people watching."
I frown. I hadn't thought about it like that. I suppose I had been a little reluctant, yesterday. But, I'm sure that it was because I wanted to impress her, not because I cared about who might be watching me.
Still, that reason is easier to explain away and certainly more professional, so I don't protest.
She meets my eyes, and beckons me over. I go to her, and she gestures to the space she cleared. "Sit down, and put your feet as far apart as you can get them," she commands. I look down, and carefully kneel, bracing myself on the arm of the couch. The impact of my knee on the ground, even with how slow and gentle I go, makes pain lace right up my thigh and makes my hip feel like it's made of fiberglass.
She smirks at me. "See? That's why we warm up."
"Duly noted," I reply through clenched teeth. I manage to get myself in a sitting position, and spread my feet. I can barely get my bad one out, but the other one spreads easily.
She hums, and kneels between my feet. My eyes widen and I really regret wearing sweatpants. She comes any closer and they're not going to hide anything, and with her bent over like that I can see right down her top.
Damn it.
She meets my eyes, and grins. "Feel free to look," she says. I swallow, embarrassed to be caught. "Just don't tense up."
"I didn't mean—"
"Listen, Dwane, your leg and I are about to get to know each other real well in the next few weeks. Least I can do is let you look down my top," she replies, arching a brow.
I laugh weakly. "Not very professional, Holloway."
"Well, we'll see if you still want to look after I've worked the crap out of your leg. You might start cursing my name and wish I'd never touch you again." She winks at me, which makes my stomach heat up again, and I try
to cover up my reaction by clearing my throat.
"Alright," she says, tucking her feet beneath her. "This is going to hurt. You ready?"
"You know, I've seen live combat and you're scarin' me worse than that," I try to joke. She merely grins at me, and then crouches next to my ankle, and puts a hand above and below my knee.
She pushes, gently but firmly, not letting me put my leg back in place. Immediately, my hip screams in protest and I grit my teeth, tipping my head back and groaning in pain. I curse, clenching my fists tightly against the floor.
"Oh my God, Sadie," I hiss, when she stops actively pushing and lets me rest. I'm breathing hard and glare at her with narrowed eyes.
She arches a brow. "I told you it was going to be rough," she says unapologetically. "Your hip is causing a lot of additional tension and you're overcompensating for it, which puts additional strain on your thigh and knee. We need to loosen it up."
"Yeah, loosen it up, not break it," I grit out. "Feels like you're trying to snap it right out of place."
She grins. "You drawl when you're in pain, too. Interesting." I blink at her, surprised when she presses her lips together, and a light blush colors her cheeks. She swallows. "I'm counting to five and moving it again. Don't tense up."
Now that I know what her intentions are and how it's going to feel, I can't help but tense when she puts her hands around my knee again. She gives me an expectant look, and I can only huff and glare down at my leg, as though it's tensing up all on its own.
She sighs, and presses her lips together again. I'm startled when she puts a hand on my shoulder and forces me to meet her eyes. "Dwane," she murmurs. "No healing journey is painless. The harder you push yourself now, the easier the rest will be. I'll have you skipping and singing showtunes in no time, but you have to trust me."
I can't help laughing. "You'll get show tunes out of me when I'm dead. Or very drunk." Her eyes flash brightly with mirth, that gorgeous grassy green. She pats my shoulder while I'm still laughing.