by RC Boldt
She falters as she enters, and for a quick moment, I wonder if maybe she’s taken by my looks—at least, the right side of my face. I can still pass as decent looking when someone focuses on that side only.
The other side, however, is a totally different story.
I’m still fit because, at this rate, it’s the one thing I’ve got going for me. And women usually dig the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing. Since I’m well over six feet tall and darker skinned, thanks to my father’s Latino ancestry, ladies have always flocked to me.
I should say they had always flocked to me. With an emphasis on had, past tense. Now, though, it’s touch and go. With more emphasis on the go.
“Hello, Mr. Hendrixson. I’m Dr. Presley Cole, but my patients normally call me Presley.” As soon as she reaches out, I grasp her smaller, petite hand with my larger one, engulfing it in size, and I’m simultaneously blasted with the force of her smile.
The crazy thing is I find myself not wanting to release her hand. Like a fucking creeper.
Jesus. Maybe I really do need to get out of the house more like Dr. Givens, the psychiatrist I’ve been seeing, has been preaching—er, telling me. Because I’ve never been the guy who holds someone’s handshake longer than is socially acceptable.
Great first impression, dude. Just fucking great.
Offering her a smile in return, I force myself to release her hand when her fingers loosen.
And damn if I don’t feel bereft afterward; as if her touch alone had made me feel a little less empty and lot more human.
Sweet Jesus. Clue: A bellyacher, whiner, sissy, or wimp.
The answer to that would normally be “What is a wuss?” but in this case, the answer is far more specific.
Who is Hendy?
Chapter Four
Presley
My initial reaction is to look for cameras because I was certainly not expecting this—him. I must be getting Punk’d. Or I’m being featured in some sort of Candid Camera skit because this man is unbelievably alluring—by his looks alone.
His firm, solid muscles are evident beneath the soft, cotton T-shirt, which emphasizes his pectorals and stretches across each of his large biceps. The dark khaki cargo shorts do nothing to hide his muscled thighs. He’s tall—I recall his file listing him at six-foot-four. His skin is darker, and based on his first name of Cristiano, I’m assuming he has Latino ancestry.
But the moment he raises his head, drawing his downcast eyes up to meet mine, he sends me reeling. The wariness in his gaze is more than apparent, and I can’t help but notice he’s chosen the chair that would place his right side toward me instead of the more scarred left.
His ball cap’s seen better days. Part of the brim is worn and frayed, and I can tell it isn’t because he bought it that way. When his large hand rises, long fingers grasp the brim of his ball cap and pull it down as if he’s trying to disguise his face more and not allow me an unencumbered view of his face—and it tugs at my heart.
From what I can see of the short hair at the nape of his neck, it’s almost black in color, and his jawline is strong and square with a nose that’s far from straight. But that’s not what holds my attention. It’s his eyes, which remind me of smooth, dark chocolate, that appear to hold so much depth.
I’ve always believed that eyes are the gateway to the soul, and in this instance, it seems so incredibly true. Because Mr. Hendrixson’s eyes hold a myriad of emotions brimming at the surface—pain, anxiety, and…embarrassment.
Mentally shaking off the slight stupor brought on by my new patient, I reach out a hand, greeting him.
“Hello, Mr. Hendrixson. I’m Dr. Presley Cole, but my patients call me Presley.” As soon as he reaches out and his large hand grasps mine, I find myself a bit dazed by the force of his smile.
My God, his smile. Lucia would be Ay, Dios mío’ing from here to kingdom come if she were here to witness this. It’s just…wow.
“Nice to meet you.” His grin is slightly lopsided yet somehow endearing, the left side of it not lifting as much as the other, likely due to the scar tissue.
Returning his smile, I regretfully release his hand, slide his file onto the desk, and take a seat.
“I’ve gone over your file, and I figure you’d prefer to cut to the chase since you’re here because your recovery wasn’t progressing as intended or desired. I see you’ve been prescribed quite a few different pharmaceuticals. How have they been working for you?”
His stare darts over to take in one of the framed diplomas on the wall. Not meeting my eyes, he says, “They’re working well enough, ma’am.”
I count to ten silently, bracing my palms on my pant-clad legs. “Mr. Hendrix—”
“Hendy,” he interjects, his brown eyes meeting mine before tacking on the ever polite, “ma’am.”
“Hendy,” I repeat. “Can I be frank with you?”
His lips quirk up at the corners. “I thought you were Presley.”
Ah, we’ve got a joker on our hands, do we? “Nice try deflecting.” Pinning him with my stare, I continue. “Let me guess. You’re not taking them except for maybe the”—I turn, flipping to the page in his file where I’d marked the list of prescriptions he’s currently on—“hydrocodone when the pain gets to be too much and you need rest?”
His lips flatten into a straight line as if he’s upset that I called him out. Or maybe it’s that he’s one of those He-Man types who figures admitting pain shows weakness. Those are the worst.
“Possibly.”
That’s a yes in my book.
Folding my hands, I offer, “What would you say to me guiding you through the process of weaning you off those medications?” Glancing over, I note his current temperature, height, weight, and blood pressure readings recorded by Clara. “And instead, put you on cleaner, herbal options?”
There’s that lip quirk again. “I’d say there wouldn’t necessarily be any weaning involved.”
“You haven’t been taking them at all? None of the antidepressants?”
His jaw clenches slightly. “No, ma’am.”
“Would you be opposed to trying some natural, herbal options?”
“I’m not depressed, ma’am.”
Baby steps, Presley. Baby steps. “Okay. How about an anti-inflammatory enzyme? No fillers or chemicals and nothing that disrupts your body’s chemistry or messes with your brain.”
He holds my eyes for a beat before nodding slowly. “I’d be okay with that.”
“Good. They’re not as toxic overall, especially for your kidneys and liver. Now”—turning to wake up my computer, I move the mouse to log in—“I’m going to ask you to remove your shirt and ball cap for me. Put on the gown and leave it open to the back so I can do the non-invasive thermography scan of your entire spine.” Gesturing to his hat, I clarify, “The reason I need you to remove that as well is because I’d also like to feel around to see how out of alignment your upper vertebrae are.”
My words are met with silence as I get the program set up. Turning to face him, I notice he appears nervous.
“It’s non-invasive,” I repeat. “I’ll be using this”—I show him the thermal scanner with the rolling wheels which are placed on each side of the vertebra—“along your spine, and it tells me the amount of stress each vertebra is experiencing and what we’re dealing with from the start.”
I shift attention to his X-rays displayed on the light box, pointing at certain areas. “While you do have a slight curvature here, it’s not something I can’t work with. It is correctable. And your spine looks good, considering all the impact I’m sure it’s endured in such an active career as yours.
“I’ll step outside while you remove your shirt—”
Exhaling loudly, he rises from his chair. “That’s not necessary. I know I’m not the first guy you’ve treated nor the first you’ll see shirtless but…” He trails off, a heavy cloud of hesitance in his tone. “Well, you’d better brace yourself for the freak show ahead.”
After tugging off his ball cap and setting it on the now vacant seat, he reaches for the hem of his T-shirt and quickly removes it, dropping it to join his hat on the chair.
My stomach sinks, lungs feeling as though they’re collapsing—as all the air is sucked from the room.
Oh, dear God in heaven.
Chapter Five
Hendy
The silence is the worst. Without meeting her eyes, I gingerly situate myself on the exam table. Waiting for her to begin, I pray she hurries the fuck up so I can put my shirt and hat back on.
Look at me; I’m a fucking pansy—like Linus with his blanket. Because my shirt and hat serve as my security blanket of sorts. I don’t like exposing anyone to my fucked-up body.
“Mr. Hendri—”
“Hendy.” My tone is short, and instantly, I feel like an ass. It’s not her fault I look like this. “Ma’am.”
“Hendy.” Her tone is gentle, understanding. “Your file says you don’t have any pain in the areas on your back where the wounds have healed, but I want you to tell me if you experience any pain or discomfort. You shouldn’t, as I’ll be touching each section briefly, but please tell me if you do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She begins, and I hear the faint clicking of the thermography scanner as it records readings for each section of my spine. Her voice is comforting as she continues. “So, tell me. How are you really dealing with everything?”
Huffing out a laugh, I twist my lips in a humorless grin. “Honest, no-shit answer?”
“Honest, no-shit answer.”
“Some days are decent. Others, not so much.”
“Can you tell me what makes the decent days differ from the bad ones? Is there anything outright that makes it different?”
Presley’s voice is solid gold. This woman has gone into the right profession because it has a comforting quality and instantly puts me at ease—even when, in this case, I feel the furthest from that.
Blowing out a breath, I subdue my tone, and it’s quieter than normal. “I fucking hate my face and back. Hate that I make people cringe in horror. Hell, I can’t blame them because it makes me cringe in horror.
“Most of all, I hate that I feel the need to wear a ball cap to hide when I go out in public. Because of the stares…the gawking.” I pause. “And the questions.”
“Questions?”
Blowing out a long breath, I roll my lips inward before answering. “Some people are assholes. They want to know what it was like to be tortured, to be declared dead. Others are different—they mean well—and want to shake my hand and thank me for my service. But I want to be able to go out in public and not have anyone stop me. I want to move past it but…”
“But it’s hard when so many things—people—aren’t letting you,” she finishes softly.
My muscles relax infinitesimally at the understanding in her tone. “Exactly.” Then after a pause, I add, “And what you see right now doesn’t help.”
“I can understand why you hate it because of what it might represent to you. Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t have to call me ma’am, Hendy. We’re going to be working together for the next six months.” I hear the smile in her voice before she changes the subject. “Do you enjoy sports?”
“Love playing pretty much any sport. But I enjoy running more than anything.”
“But lately, you’ve been unable to do much of that?”
“I went for a run on the beach one day.” My body tenses, recalling the memory. “Not thinking, I took off my shirt because it was getting hot. I tucked it into the waistband of my shorts, and, uh, that was short lived.” Trying to play it off, I add, “Guess Halloween came early for some kids on Fernandina Beach.”
She falls silent for a moment. “I have a lame chiropractic joke for you.”
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. More and more, I get the feeling that being treated by Presley Cole is going to be like no other experience I’ve had.
“Okay, hit me.”
“What did the chiropractor say to the one guy about to get into a bar brawl?”
Furrowing my brows, I think for a moment but come up empty. “I don’t know. What?”
“Don’t worry, man. I’ve got your back.”
A small laugh bursts forth at Presley’s joke. She’s quirky, no doubt about it, but adorable as hell.
Finally, she moves away, taps the computer’s keyboard, and then swivels her chair to face me.
“If you’d like to look at this scan with me, I can explain the readings.”
Shifting, I move toward her; she glances my way, and her eyes drift over my chest and down to my abs. I catch the appreciation in her eyes before she quickly wipes her expression clean.
That, right there, is what I relish, what I miss. Women’s appreciation of my body. Even if most of me is scarred to hell and back, at least I’ve still got my chest and abs, which are not nearly as marred with scars as the other areas.
Oh, and my dick. That sucker’s still very much intact.
Gazing at her profile while she records something in my file, I note her light brown hair, the subtle blond highlights, her straight nose, and a pair of lips just full enough to have me thinking things I have no business contemplating at a moment like this.
She’s slim and fit, but her ass could easily fit in my hands. Totally fuckable. Damn, it’s been far too long since I’ve gotten laid. Longer than ever before. I can almost picture it now. Stripping the sexy doctor of her clothes and shoving her legs apart as I fuck her on that chiropractic table, hearing her moan my name, clenching all around my cock as I thrust dee—
Fuck. Adjusting in my seat while willing my hard-on to deflate, I catch sight of it.
On her left hand, adorning her slim ring finger, is a fucking diamond ring.
She’s engaged.
I don’t mess with women spoken for in any way. Serious boyfriend, fiancé, or husband means I don’t get near them with a ten-foot pole.
Normally, once I realize a woman’s taken, I brush it off and don’t give it a second thought. But there’s something about her, something different about Presley Cole. She’s not easily fazed, nor did she shriek in fear and disgust at seeing my house-of-horrors appearance.
I sure as hell hope this dude’s good enough for her because I can already tell she’s one hell of a class act.
Throughout the first adjustment of my spine—with each exhibit of her quirkiness in the exaggerated fist pumps and exclamations of “Yessssss” after only what she deems a good, deep adjustment of my vertebrae—along with the initial supplements she gives me, I find myself doing something I never did before. Something I sure as hell didn’t expect.
I find myself looking forward to my next doctor’s appointment.
“Apply ice to those areas I mentioned, and if you see a strange number on your caller ID later tonight, it’s just me.” She smiles up at me as we walk down the hallway to the front desk. “I like to call my patients to check and see how their initial adjustment went.”
Grinning down at her, I swear I detect a faint flicker of something in her eyes, but it’s gone before I can think more of it. “Does that mean I can call you if I need you, Presley?”
“Noooo, but you can call meeee.” Lucia’s accented voice is full of flirtation. Smiling up at me, she winks before her eyes dart over my shoulder briefly. “Just don’t bring back that big, burly man with the strange accent, okay?”
“Now, darlin’.” Kane steps up, his Southern Texas drawl thicker than ever, sounding amused. “You know you love my accent.”
He’s come to pick me up and take me home, courtesy of Foster Kavanaugh. That fucker knew he was smart to send someone to escort me to this appointment. To ensure I would show up.
Not that I’ll ever admit to him I likely wouldn’t have, had Kane not been assigned to Hendy babysitting duty.
Leaning his thick forearms along the counter of the front desk, Kane fi
xes his megawatt smile on the saucy Colombian massage therapist. “Don’t you know that Southern men are sweeter than all the rest?”
Lucia waves a hand dismissively, but I don’t miss the way her eyes drift over him in quick appreciation. Kane’s built—and that’s saying something coming from me since SEALs don’t normally like to admit anything about other Special Forces guys. But Kane Windham, a former Green Beret, is built like a brick house—tall, sturdy, and muscular as hell.
He’s also damn formidable looking if you don’t know him. I have no doubt he’s intimidated many a guy—and many terrorists—with his mug, whereas the ladies and his friends are more familiar with his easy smile and copious Southern charm.
“Don’t you go trying to sweet talk me, buddy.”
I lay a hand on his shoulder. “Well, sounds to me like that’s our cue to head on home.” Winking at Lucia, I say, “Until next time, ma’am.”
My eyes dart over to Presley and I nod. “I’ll see you at my next appointment.” Taking a moment for her kind, easy smile to settle over me, I turn to exit the office with Kane trailing after me.
Of course, he can’t resist getting in the last word. “Adiós, my Colombian beauty!”
As the door falls closed behind us, we can hear Lucia muttering something in Spanish as Kane hits the key fob for his truck to unlock it.
Walking around to the passenger side door, he offers, “Need me to give you a boost, old man?”
Flipping him the bird, I open the door and gingerly seat myself, already feeling some achiness in my back from my adjustment. Presley warned me it would occur as my muscles protested their proper alignment.
“Need help getting buckled in, son?” Kane’s aquamarine eyes are alight with humor.
Tugging the seat belt across my chest and securing it, I shoot him a glare, but it lacks contempt. “That’s enough. Son.”
Shit talking is our forte—it’s a common ingredient among all us Special Forces guys. It’s how we got through shitty deployments and missions that sucked ass.
“So…” Kane starts, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road to head back to our place. “You think I have a chance with her?”