Page 63 of Rock Me

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jez

"You really should make up some new business cards. They should just say one word on them. SATAN. Glossy red on a pitch-black background. And flaming devil horns over the font. I'll hand them out for you."

"Are you done?" Brian, my PT, says, hands on his hips.

I think about it for a moment and then nod. "For now."

"Then hurry up with the bicep curls."

"See what I mean?" I say to Noémie, who's sitting next to the exercise station, stretching out one of the elastics between her hands. She's making it look so easy, it's making me almost regret asking her to come along.

This isn't the Jez I want her to see. I want her to see the Jez benching 300 at the gym and barely breaking a sweat, not one complaining about doing a simple bicep curl with something girls use to tie up their hair. But I did ask her. Surprising myself. I just didn’t want my time with her to end. Of course, I’d prefer it to be with us sweaty, naked, her legs around my waist and her calling my name in the absolute throes of passion. But considering where we are, having her here with me during torture hour is the next best thing.

"Not at all, I find Brian utterly charming."

"That's because he's not performing torture on you."

"Is he always like this?" Brian asks her.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, to put it in professional medical terms, a whiny baby."

"Oh that. Well," she touches her temple as if thinking, and I glare at her. "I can’t say I know him that well or for that long but, I would have to say, yes, yes he is." She nods her head up and down emphatically.

"What? Get out!" I say, pointing to the door, and then grimace as a sharp pain shoots up my arm.

She laughs, throwing me a wink, her eyes lighting up. "This one time, he came barging into my room and was like, ’Oh, why don't you remember me, how come you don't know who I am?"' And she faces Brian, pausing for effect before delivering the punchline, "I have amnesia!"

Brian looks at me, his jaw dropping open. "Dude. Nice going."

I growl at them both, should’ve known that they’d gang up on me. "I didn't know she had amnesia! She looks so normal and sweet. Who knew that she was in cahoots with THE DEVIL?!"

"Oh, hush and do your exercises," Noémie says, flicking the elastic band at my head.

"Ow!” I yelp, rubbing the back of my neck.

"Whiny baby,” she shoots at me, and sighs, shrugging her shoulders dramatically.

Brian gets up laughing and leads me over to sit a table. He hands me a small foam ball and I hesitate before taking it.

"Come on, Jez. You can do it. I know it's hard." He pushes his hand closer to me.

I lean away from it, like it’s made of cyanide. "It's not hard, mate, it's almost impossible."

"Yeah, almost. That's the difference."

I take the ball in my hand and stare at it, almost willing for it to squeeze itself instead of having to do it myself. My fingers slowly fold in around the ball, but they barely touch it before springing open again, sweat from the effort already dripping into my eyes.

Why is this so hard? And why does it have to be my arms, my hands… my livelihood. No, not my livelihood, my life. The thought that’s always lingering in the back of my brain, that I’ll never be able to go back to playing the cello like I used to do, bores into my skull and I can barely focus on anything else. I take a breath, and try to bend my fingers in again, the stiffness making it feel like trying to manipulate concrete poles. A strike of pain flashes up my wrist and the ball rolls out of my palm and onto the floor.

“Fuck!”

I lean over, to reach for it, my arm locking at the elbow and I can’t help but growl in pain.

“Goddamn it to hell!” I’m breathless from the effort of squeezing a ball and bending over to pick something up. Not to mention, my body is screaming with pain now.