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“We’re not expecting him back in until he’s recovered,” pronounced Carla.
When Jason’s number two, Philip, called, Jason briefed him with a few immediate outstanding issues. Gemma listened in from the sidelines, her observational post on a nearby chair. Jason’s words were inarticulate and hesitant. Philip must have noticed the lack of clarity in his boss’s voice because he didn’t ring again.
At bedtime, she undressed Jason. His injuries shocked her, and she suppressed an exclamation. Gingerly, she eased the shirt off his swollen shoulder, her fingers dancing around the bruising. From his shoulder down to wrist was already black and blue and reddish purple in places. There were bruises on his waist and across his ribs, too. She stared at the collection, her mouth quivering.
“Seat belt,” he informed.
“The doctors said you were all right to come home?”
“Babe, I’ve been poked, prodded, x-rayed, ultrasound, the works. Nothing leaking inside or broken. I’ll work at home tomorrow.” He yawned.
She found her confidence, seeing him weaken. “No you bloody won’t. No work. Rest,” she snapped.
She smeared arnica cream into his arm and other marks. A somewhat strange scenario to find the tables turned and she giving him aftercare. She ensured there were painkillers and a glass of water on his bedside table, and a pillow under his arm. In her submissive world of kink, she offered to drink his pee if he couldn’t get out of bed in the night.
At her suggestion, Jason laughed. “Babe, you don’t have to break a hard limit for me. I’ll manage.”
“I’m just devoted to you, Sir,” she murmured, covering him with a duvet. She never really expected him to accept the offer, but she would help him get up in the night if he needed it.
The next day, he didn’t move from bed for most of the morning. He complained, in a distracted voice, of stiffness and the ache worsening. He didn’t mention work, laptops, or phone calls, and she brought him breakfast in bed. Later, when he awoke and refrained from taking his painkillers, Jason let Joshua sit on the bed with him, and the two talked. It meant Jason describing how drunken drivers need stringing up and disembowelling—all in a pleasant, calm tone of voice—and Joshua shrieking nonsensical agreement back at his father.
Flowers arrived from his PA team, and Gemma arranged them in a vase on top of the tallboy opposite the bed. By then, Jason was up and about, although his arm still hung unnaturally. She tried hard not to fuss about him too much. Instead, offered him food and drink, a book to read, or his own rarely-listened-to iPod. He came downstairs and watched Blu-rays in front of the TV for several hours. Very unlike her husband, but she accepted it helped him recover. Over the course of the day, he weaned himself off the painkillers and came back to life.
At the weekend, they went to Blythewood, as usual. Every now and again, Jason, with gritted teeth and a determined expression, flexed his arm up and down. The bruising had transformed from a rainbow of painful colours to yellow-tinged ones. The swelling about the elbow and shoulder diminished, too. She chopped up the food on his plate when he discovered he couldn’t move his arm up to table height.
“Fucking frozen solid,” he grimaced, in frustration, and ate with one hand.
“Patience, grasshopper.” She smothered a grin with a hand, trying hard not to make a disrespectful remark about his incompetence.
“Master, that should be Master,” he snapped, waving a fork at her. Pain made him bad tempered, and she ignored his mood swings.
For the duration of his recovery, Gemma endeavoured to be a perfect service slave. She waited on him, helped him dress, bathe, and shave. She brought Joshua to sit upon his knee or the telephone when one of his family rang to hear how he was doing.
The news of his crash had made it into the papers and, at first, it was all doom and gloom. The local newspaper’s banner reported inaccurately, City mogul rushed to hospital after major accident. None of the exaggerated bulletins helped keep friends and family at bay. The phone seemed to be constantly ringing. Gemma sent out an e-mail to as many as possible to allay their fears.
Contrary to the news, Jason is not critically injured, and certainly has both arms intact (where do people get their information from?). He is grumpy—some sympathy for me, please! Not working—that should be the shocking part to you all—and enjoying some quality father-son time. Much as we appreciate the thought, no more flowers. We’re both sneezing with pollen and, regardless of my opinion, he insists he will be at his desk on Monday morning.
“Why were you seated in the front of the car?” she asked him on Sunday morning as they lounged in bed with a playful Joshua rolling between them.
“Getting to be a habit on short trips. I’m so used to you being in the back with Joshua and me up front, I supposed I did it without thinking.” He shrugged then winced at his absent-minded physical reaction. “Jeez, fucking shoulder.”
“Master, if I whinged this much about my bruises, you wouldn’t tolerate that language, not in front of the baby.”
“You’re the masochist, Gem, not me. In any case, your son doesn’t understand a word.”
“Yes, I’m a
masochist, but I don’t get a thrill out of all types of pain, as you well know. And our son understands the tone of your voice, not the words.” Gemma couldn’t resist making an aside. “I always suspected you’re a wimp.”
His eyes sprung open. “What was that?” He leant over Joshua and pinched her chin. “A wimp? I can’t recollect ramming a Land Rover into your side in the recent past, can you?”
“A Land Rover?”
“Doing fifty. It shoved the car several metres sideways, good job nobody was on the other side of the road.”
“Oh, crikey. Martinson didn’t tell me that!”
Jason had given his security chief a few days off also. “He may be accustomed to tanks and armoured vehicles, but it shook him up.”
