Page 34 of Complications

“Yes, I know. Very self-sufficient. Very confident. Very injured with a goddamn dislocated shoulder.” The last part I nearly shouted, which I hated—I rarely raised my voice—but this man forced it out of me more often than I wanted to admit.

Before he found something else to argue about, I grabbed his duffel bag and scrambled up the embankment with it slung over my shoulder. Once I got it to the top, I dumped it on the front porch and headed back down to get him.

It was a little more difficult to help him out of the embankment while also doing my best not to jostle his injured shoulder, but Joey had no choice but to let me help. He draped his good arm over my shoulder while I used my own momentum to pull us back up. By the time we reached the road again, we were both dirty and sweaty, and my once-tamed hair had given up and flopped into my face like some sort of street urchin. I absolutely hated when it fell in my eyes. So annoying.

“Oh my God, why are you worried about your hair right now?”

“Why do you think I am?”

“Do you not think I can see you messing with it? I might be dumb, but I’m not blind.”

Rather than reply to that bit of nonsense, I grabbed my bag from the back of the SUV and indicated for him to go ahead into the house. I wasn’t going to take the chance of him falling back down again.

Joey rolled his eyes but headed to the house. If he was in pain—which I knew he was—he wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction of showing it. His one concession was to hold his arm in place, close to his chest. After a momentary detour to grab his duffel from the porch, I followed Joey into the cabin. Elio said not to expect much, and I supposed he was right compared to where he lived, but it was still nice. Almost cozy.

The living room and kitchen were combined, with a small table tucked into the corner. A short hallway led to a bathroom with what looked like a tub-shower combo and two doors that I assumed belonged to the bedrooms.

“Come sit at the table. I need to look at your shoulder,” I said, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

“I don’t need your fucking help. I can put it back together. I can do it myself.” The contempt in Joey’s voice dripped from every word, but now wasn’t the time to worry about offending him.

“You absolutely cannot get your shoulder back in its socket. Sit at the table and stop being stubborn.”

With Joey, it was easier to skip politeness and go straight to the point. If I tried to be nice, I couldn’t control him. We’d be here all evening, and he’d be in pain the entire damn time.

The stare I gave him was nothing short of a stonewall. He glared back at me before finally swearing under his breath and coming to sit in the chair I’d pulled out for him. I didn’t say thank you. In fact, I didn’t say anything because I knew the last thing he wanted to hear was the sound of my voice unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Can you take your shirt off?”

“Yeah, I can. I’m not helpless,” he growled.

“Wasn’t doubting it,” I answered blandly.

“Fine. I will.”

I forced myself not to roll my eyes as I watched him struggle to get his shirt off without any help. Dear God, this man was stubborn. He’d rather dislocate his other arm than admit he might need my assistance.

“Oh, for the love of God, let me do it.” I pushed his hand aside and took over, easing the shirt first off his good shoulder and then leaving it hanging from the elbow on the bad side.

Joey sucked in his breath when I gingerly touched the joint, the ball of it sitting at an awkward angle. It looked like a simple dislocation, nothing broken, just knocked out of alignment.

I grasped his wrist in one hand and braced the heel of my palm against his shoulder with the other.

“I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to put it back into place, okay? I don’t need to tell you it’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

“It already hurts like a bitch, so get on with it,” Joey said, rolling his eyes and trying to control his pained breathing.

I tightened my grip on his wrist.

“One—”

Pop.

“Motherfucking goddamn shit. You fucking asshole, you said you were going to count to three!” he shouted, followed by a string of curses.

I didn’t know why he thought my mother needed to fuck a goat, but if it made him feel better, I supposed I’d let it go. She’d been dead for close to ten years, so I doubted she cared one way or the other.

“The surprise is better. You’re not bracing for it.”