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She holds out her hand, and I take it in mine, noting how soft and warm her skin is. “Yeah, we have a deal.”CHAPTER 12
PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME
Bishop
Apparently Stevie is super serious about starting PT right away. As soon as we get in the elevator, she’s on me. “The first thing we’ll do when we get upstairs is go through some range-of-motion tests. Then you’ll soak in a hot bath, and depending on how you’re feeling after that, we’ll follow it up with a few more range-of-motion tests and a cold compress. Sound good?”
“Uh, sure?”
“Great.” She taps her bottom lip. “What did they give you to manage the pain and swelling?”
“An anti-inflammatory-based painkiller.”
“Okay, that’s what I figured. Obviously it’s nonsteroidal. When was the last time you took it?”
“Around lunch.”
She frowns. “That was seven hours ago. How’s your pain right now?”
“High.”
“On a scale of one to ten, what would you rate it?”
“Like, an eleven.”
She makes a disapproving face. “You have to take the medication.”
“I don’t know how bad the injury is if I can’t feel it.”
“You also can’t control the swelling, or heal or function, if you’re not taking the medication. New plan. Gentle heat therapy before anything else.” The elevator doors slide open, and she motions for me to go ahead of her. “Your place or mine?”
My doorknob isn’t decorated with a sock tonight. “Mine, I guess?”
“Lead the way.”
She’s oddly all business, like some professional switch has been flipped. She holds the door open, allowing me to go first. Design- and layout-wise, my place is the same as hers—the kitchen is modern, with dark wood cabinets and black granite countertops—but that’s where the similarities end. My place looks like two guys live in it. A black leather couch, dual leather recliners, and a seventy-inch flat-screen TV take up the majority of the living room. A large table that never actually gets used is set up close to the kitchen in what’s supposed to be the formal dining space.
I haven’t bothered with art yet, aware that I’ll only be here for a year, and then my brother and I will likely need to find a new place, unless we decide to take over the lease or buy the place outright, which is an option.
A low thud comes from the cat tree across the room, and Dicken waddles over to rub himself on my leg, meowing loudly.
“Look at you . . . what a sweet chonky kitty!” Stevie drops into a crouch. “Is he friendly?”
“Exceedingly.”
He abandons me and rubs himself across Stevie’s legs. He circles her and purrs when she scratches under his chin. “We used to have barn cats when I was growing up. What’s his name?”
“Dicken.”
“Like the author?”
“That’s one interpretation.” That’s not at all why we named him that. “But his middle name is Balls.”
Her nose scrunches up. “That’s not a very nice name for your cat.” She takes a closer look at him, and then her eyes go wide. She gestures to his face, which is decorated in a white pattern. “Oh my God. He has—”
“A dick and balls on his face. Hence the name Dicken Balls.”
She bites her lip as if she’s trying to decide whether she wants to laugh. She rubs between his eyes, where the figurative shaft is. “That’s a horribly awful and perfect name for you, little Dicken.” She gives him one more affectionate scratch under the chin and rises. “Let’s get some medication into you and get you in the tub.”
She follows me down the hall to my bedroom. So does Dicken, meowing loudly behind us. I didn’t bother making my bed, since I spent the majority of the day lying in it. Three ice packs are scattered over the comforter, and my clothes from yesterday are lying in a heap in the middle of the floor, but it’s not too much of a shit sty otherwise.
It’s odd to have a woman in my bedroom for nonrecreational purposes. And it’s been a damn long time since that’s happened. Based on the state of my groin, my unapproachableness, and my lack of finesse with women in general, it’s probably going to be a damn long time before it happens again. I’m lucky I’m decent looking or I’d be totally fucked. Or not fucked. Ever.
“The layout is exactly the same as my bedroom. Is the bathroom through there?” Stevie points to the mostly closed door.
“Yeah. Just let me check and make sure it’s safe.” I hobble past her and stick my head in. The towels on the rack are askew, and a couple litter the floor, but like my bedroom, it’s not bad. “Okay, good to go.”
“Great.” She claps her hands and rubs them together. “Bath time! In you go!”
She prods me forward and slips around me. It’s a fairly spacious bathroom—a lot bigger than the one she found me in this morning. I flip the lid down on the toilet and take a seat. My prescription is sitting on the counter, so I fill the glass sitting on the vanity and pop the cap. I’m supposed to take two every four hours, so I shake out three pills and down them with some water to partially make up for the missed dose.
