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He takes a breath and then turns to lean against the wall and face me. Red rims his eyes, and he blinks a few times, swallowing hard. “I haven’t shaved because I can’t.”
“You can’t shave?” I don’t understand at all.
A fair amount of belligerence colors his gaze, but it doesn’t seem directed at me. “It’s my hands. They…they don’t fucking work right.” A small click sounds at the back of his throat when he swallows. “I move them a certain way and they seize up into this.”
Rye lifts a shaking hand. His fingers are curled into a painful-looking claw, the tendons sticking out in sharp relief. Bleakly he stares at me. “Hands, wrists, forearms…It’s fucking agony. And I…I can’t play, Bren.” His voice cracks. “I can’t play.”
The truth surges through me in a horrible rush. The way he’s been evading texting, the missed band meetings, the wariness that lives on the edges of his smile.
I go ice-cold, all his pain and fear flowing in my veins. My lips part, but I don’t know what to say, and he’s all but glaring at me as if he’s terrified I’ll pity him.
Silently, I shake my head, trying to tell him without words that it isn’t like that. Never pity. When he tenses further, his body recoiling, I can’t stop from reaching for him. My fingers close around his fist. I cradle it in my hands.
Rye barely breathes as he blinks down at me. Gently, I run my fingers over his stiff ones, easing my thumb beneath them to rub his palm. “Rye, honey…”
His chest hitches, and I draw his hand up to kiss his knuckles. He lets me. He seems incapable of doing anything more than watching me carefully massage his hand.
“Have you seen a doctor?” I ask.
Another flinch. He makes a furtive attempt to pull his hand from mine. I don’t let go, and he sighs, relenting. “No.”
My gaze flicks to his. “Why not?”
Rye tilts his head back and blinks up at the ceiling. “Don’t yell at me, all right?”
“All right.”
Licking his lips, he meets my eyes. “I’m afraid.”
Understanding flows over me. If he goes, it will be real. He might learn the worst. His entire life revolves around his hands.
I lean into him and wrap my arms around his waist. He stiffens for a second but then, with a choked sound, ducks his head and rests his cheek against my temple. I hug him close, smoothing my hands up and down his back.
My lips brush his chest. “You can’t go on like this. It’s tearing you up.”
“I know,” he says after a moment. He trembles then seems to fight it.
I kiss him again before stepping back. “Come on. Let’s get you out of those jeans and we’ll relax.”
Rye narrows his eyes. “Don’t baby me, Bren. I can’t handle your pity.”
I’m already pulling down his half-open zipper. “I’m not going to baby you. I’m going to wrap your hands in a heating pad, then I’m going to trim that damn scraggly beard. After that, I might sit on that massive dick of yours and ride it for my pleasure, but we’ll have to see if you’re still being a grumpy ass.”
A reluctant smile lights his eyes and spreads over his face. “Massive, eh?”
“Enormous, even. The best dick ever.”
Rye snorts, but he lets me help him out of the wet jeans. “Well, when you put it like that.”
It’s only when I have him back in my bathroom, one clenched fist wrapped up and warming, that he catches my free hand with his own. “Brenna.” He pauses, his gaze darting over my face with a pained intensity, as though he can’t find the right words. Or maybe he has and doesn’t know if he should utter them.
Either way, I cup his cheek. Tenderness and a fierce need to protect him turn my voice thick. “I know.” I press a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose. “I know.”
RYE
Emotionally drained, I sit on the little bench in Brenna’s bathroom. My hands have been tucked into a pair of heated mitts that she uses for her mani-pedi days to get her skin soft—something I find unduly cute. But they work well. She’s wrapped me back up in a terry cloth robe that’s way too small, gaping at my chest and barely reaching my knees. I’d rather go naked, but she’d primly told me to put my dick away while she’s working because it distracts her.
Frankly, I could use a good distraction. Brenna scraped me raw in a way only she can, pushing and prodding at my weakness until there’s nowhere to hide. As usual, I lashed out then tried to run. Only this time, she didn’t let me. This time, she put her hand on me, asked me to stay. This time, she showed me something I’d never seen before when we fought: her concern. Her care.
